Page 10 of Skotos
The Baroness cackled. “Still all about the food, I see. I should’ve known better than to smuggle trufflepâtéinto neutral Switzerland with you two. Do you remember the customs agent in Bern? The one with the eyebrows like angry hedgehogs?”
I grinned. “Didn’t he accuse you of transporting contraband lace?”
“And truffle oil!” she said proudly. “Though between us, I think he just wanted an excuse to smell my luggage. Men are so oddly predictable that way.”
“You know”—she leaned in conspiratorially—“it may surprise, but I was quite the popular girl in my youth. Noble houses across Europe sent their sons to our doors, hoping for a union between the Swiss and whoever won my hand.”
“Really?” Will was bewitched.
The Baroness nodded. “No one ever won it, though a few got to dip their quill in my ink as a consolation prize.”
Will’s eyes bugged so wide the actress sitting across from him spilled her champagne.
Never one to regret causing a stir, the Baroness barreled forward, “Being a slutty little noble in my youth was the best training I could have ever hoped for. It is all diplomacy and timing, darlings, such is sex. Learn which doors to open, which to kick shut, and when to simply cross your legs. The leaders in this room could learn a thing or two from a roll in my baronial hay.”
The actress laughed, while her “friend” gave the Baroness a long, appraising stare that ended in a coquettish smile.
“I once spent a month with an Italian count who thought Mussolini had lovely handwriting,” the Baroness continued, sipping her wine. “And then there was the Swedish prince who cried duringthunderstorms. I think it was a ploy to rest his head between my tits, but I didn’t mind. He had quite the tongue.”
I grabbed my napkin and pretended to wipe my mouth, just to have somewhere to hide my laughter.
Will rested his chin on his hand, smiling and batting his lashes like a lovesick puppy. “Tell us more, tawdry goddess. Let us worship at your naughty little feet.”
“Tawdry goddess!” The Baroness clapped her gloved hands, tossed her head back, and bellowed so loudly that heads turned at neighboring tables. Oblivious to the turbulence in her wake, she winked at Will. “Only after the fish course, darling. Scandal pairs best with citrus and a nice dry wine.”
We all chuckled, the tension of politics momentarily forgotten.
A gentle chime rang through the air—a delicate but unmistakable signal—as a man in a sharp black suit stepped forward near the center of the room and called for attention with a subtle flourish. Conversations dwindled and crystal clinked softly as glasses were set down. The orchestra paused on a note, strings vibrating faintly in the silence.
Then came the voice of the master of ceremonies, crisp and reverent.
“Mesdames et messieurs, it is my great honor to present the President of the French Republic and Madame Auriol, accompanied by His Excellency,the President of the Swiss Confederation, and Madame Petitpierre.”
All heads turned as the grand doors at the rear of the hall parted. A corridor of crimson carpet awaited the dignitaries, flanked by perfectly still honor guards in white dress uniforms whose golden buttons glittered in the lights. Down the center aisle strode the two presidential couples—elegant, confident, and glowing beneath the chandeliers.
President Vincent Auriol, in formal white tie and sash, walked with a stately grace, his arm linked with his wife’s, who wore sapphire silk and pearls that shimmered with every step. Beside them came President Max Petitpierre, younger, more reserved, with an understated air of command about him. His wife wore soft ivory and carried herself with quiet nobility.
Polite applause spread throughout the room. It wasn’t the wild cheer of adoring crowds, but the well-practiced acknowledgement of superiors by elites who treated the distance between political stations like battle lines on a map. Diplomats stood and bowed or curtsied, acknowledging the moment. Introduction complete, the orchestra’s harmonies returned with a flourish—a few bars of “The Marseillaise” followed by a hint of the Swiss national anthem.
I glanced at Will.
His expression had shifted.
His eyes were alert, his back straight.
It was that subtle shift from relaxed to ready, my doting better half slipping into his spy mode.
We both knew that beneath the glitter and speeches, the wheels of power ground on.
The Baroness clapped with languid grace, her gaze fixed not on the presidents but scanning the others in the room. When she caught me watching her, she smirked.
“Always watch the clappers, darling,” she whispered. “They reveal more than the crowned heads ever will.”
I smiled politely.
But I scanned the room, too.
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