Night at Versailles was a gilded masquerade. The chandeliers burned low, casting long shadows across the marble floors. The scent of wax, wine, and too many perfumes clung to the air. Behind closed doors, the nobles dropped their painted masks—but not their games.
In the salons, the plotting continued.
The Marquise de Villeneuve reclined on a velvet settee in the apartment of the Duchess d'Artois, sipping a cordial made of imported cherries and something far more bitter—envy.
"She is nothing," the Marquise hissed. "A ghost in the corridors. And yet he looks at her as though she were a queen."
The Duchess tapped her fan against her chin, her gaze cool. "Then make him look away."
"Ruining a girl like that? It would take so little," murmured the Marquise. "A misplaced letter. A scandalous accusation. Something to soil her, beyond repair."
A gentleman in the corner—thin, sharp-eyed, and always lurking—spoke up. "I've seen her. She delivers messages for the Queen's chamber. It wouldn't be hard to slip one into her basket… something incriminating."
The Duchess's smile never reached her eyes. "Do it. Quietly."
---
Elsewhere, in a room lined with velvet drapes and flickering sconces, the Comte d'Artois penned a letter.
Not to the King.
Not to the Queen.
But to someone far more dangerous: the Chief Minister's aide. The man whose loyalty was as cold and calculated as the gold embroidery on his cuffs.
The letter read:
> A servant's name may not weigh much in court, but the Duke's reputation does. If one were to prove he was fraternizing with a commoner in the Queen's inner circle… imagine the leverage it would provide.
The Comte sealed it with wax and a smirk. "Let us see how deeply Montmorency's affections truly run."
---
Unseen by them all, a shadow slipped away from the door where she had been listening—barefoot, breathless.
It was Léonie.
And what she had just heard made her blood run cold.
...