The Duke of Montmorency was not a man easily rattled.
He had stood before cannons and courtiers, navigated duels with words and steel, and survived a dozen political storms. But the quiet distance of a chambermaid—the way she now moved past him like a ghost—unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He had seen her twice in the last week. Once in the Queen's gallery, where she passed him without a glance, and again in the garden, where she turned away before their eyes could meet.
At first, he thought it cleverness. A game.
Now, he knew it was fear.
And that disturbed him.
---
He stood by the window of his private chambers, overlooking the eastern garden. Dusk pooled like ink in the corners of Versailles, and somewhere in the hedges below, he knew, Marie had once walked alone beneath the moonlight.
He still remembered how her name had sounded on his lips.
"Marie," he murmured now, tasting it again.
There was a knock.
"Enter," he said, his voice low.
His steward, a man who knew when not to speak, stepped inside with a folded note and a slight bow.
"She burned it," he reported simply.
Montmorency's brow furrowed. "You're certain?"
"She read it. Twice. Then dropped it into the fire herself."
The Duke was silent for a long time. Then, softly: "They've gotten to her."
The steward hesitated. "Do you wish me to inquire further?"
"No." He turned from the window. "They will be watching. Let them think I've forgotten her."
"But you haven't," the steward said, quiet and knowing.
Montmorency's eyes darkened. "No. And I won't."
---
Later that night, he returned to the Hall of Mirrors, where music drifted like perfume and laughter veiled daggers. He danced with the Comte's sister, toasted with the Duchess d'Artois, and pretended not to notice the glances traded between them.
But inside, a plan was forming.
They had turned Marie into a pawn.
They had forgotten he was still the player.