Page 132 of The Boxing Baroness

“Come along where?”

“To Sweden, of course.”

Marianne gave a choked laugh, looking from the king’s furious face to Dominic’s smirking one. The baron shrugged slightly, his mocking expression telling her that he had no faith in the scheme and was only humoring the demented ex-monarch. Probably for money.

Why was she even a little surprised? It was pure Dominic—using somebody as a tool to reach his own ends.

“And what do you get out of this?” she demanded.

“The satisfaction of knowing that I have done the right and honorable thing,” Dominic said. His pious expression melted into a familiar wicked grin. “Oh, and a great deal of money from your mother.”

Her mind was reeling so wildly it was hard to assemble any words. “If you think that two miniatures and my presence will convince anyone of your wild story, you are both delusional. Even I don’t believe you.”

“You are forgetting the letter,” Dominic said, reaching into his coat pocket again.

“Something else of mine you stole?” she retorted.

“Think of it this way, my dear, if it had been up to Barnabas, you would never have learned the truth. He will insist that he kept you in ignorance of your birth because your mother requested his confidence, but I think we both know the real reason he kept his mouth shut was because of the money.” He smiled unpleasantly. “If not for me, you might have lived your entire life in ignorance. So, you should be thanking me.”

She snorted and reached out for the letter.

“Why are you giving that to her?” Gustav demanded petulantly.

“What harm can it do?” Dominic asked.

The king scowled. “And we are just to sit here and wait on her?”

“We are in no great hurry and the meal is not yet finished, Your Royal Highness.” Dominic cut an irritable glance at the table, which was still laden with the remains of their cooling dinner. “Where are the servants? Why haven’t they cleared the table? Is there no dessert tonight?”

“Ring the bell again,” the king ordered. “Frau Meyer said there was to be streusel.”

Marianne gave the two men a glare of loathing, blocked out their babbling, and unfolded the letter.

My Dearest Marianne:

I am writing this now, when you are only one month old, so that you may read it on your twenty-first birthday and know that your mother loves you.

It is my hope that you are a happy English girl who has grown to womanhood under the care of Sandrine Simpson, a woman who has always been as close to me as my own sister Julie.

Where to begin this story?

I suppose at the beginning.

I was born Désirée Clary.

Your father—who now goes by the name Napoleon Bonaparte—and I have known and loved one another for years. The love remained constant on my side but waned on his.

It was Napoleon who broke our engagement to marry another woman—she was called Rose then, but he never cared for the name and preferred to call her Joséphine. That is your father in a nutshell, Marianne: bold and fearless, but, I’m afraid, often insensitive and selfish.

I could see that he was truly in love with her in a way he’d never been with me—a passionate and consuming love.

Because my sister Julie—your aunt—married his brother Joseph, I was kept close to the family and moved with them to Paris.

Was I angry and hurt? My pride, I think, more than my heart.

Your father felt guilty for what he’d done to me and wished to see me married—to assuage his conscience. Because of him I was introduced to eligible men and encouraged to marry.

And so I married one of your father’s generals, a fine, noble man, although I cannot say that we have ever loved one another.