Lola Montez Conquers the Spaniards (22 page)

Just as I was about to fall into a fresh bout of nerves and dismay, a knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” I said, thinking it would be Ventura, ready to unveil Grimaldi's latest anxiety-inducing scheme. Instead, the door burst open and a small, muscular military man stood in the frame, outlined from behind by the candelabra illuminating the hallway.

“Señorita Cupid?” he said. “May I enter?”

Jésu,
who was this? He was armed! Was there anyone else left in the theatre? A quick squirt of fear flashed through me and I leaned forwards, camouflaging my hand as it reached for my pistol. “Do I have a choice?”

He grinned as if he knew what I was doing and stepped into the room. As he moved into the increased light I noticed the man had the most decadent, glistening mustache I have ever seen, which also served to underscore both the whiteness of his teeth and the syrupy brown of his long-lashed eyes. “No need for that, I am not dangerous. Not yet, or not at this particular moment.”

“Who are you?” My tiny pistol was now in my hand and I brought it quietly into my lap.

“Ventura told me I would find you here.”

Did he now?

“My name is General Diego de León. Perhaps you've heard of me?”

My mind flipped rapidly through the many Spanish names I had heard over the past months, and then I had it. Grimaldi's voice, informing me of some of the secret Cristino operators I might be meeting: “Also two of the rebel generals, de la Concha and de León. Be advised not to fall in love with them.”

I looked this general up and down, and this made him smile even more broadly. He snapped his teeth together twice, looking me up and down as well, obviously appreciating what he was seeing. These
Spaniards, either they were lamenting and cursing their lot, or their minds were hot in pursuit of the next conquest.

“What is it you need to say to me?” I demanded.

“Ah, señorita, you were so beautiful tonight, so delicate,” and his eyes sparkled as he added, “So athletic.”

“You were there?” I was slightly mollified by his words. “And you thought I was good?”

“Indeed, the best. Most impressive. May I?” And he indicated his hat, which was part of his uniform—a large, barrel-shaped one with a peak over the brow and an enormous plume extending beyond the top of it. I inclined my head, then he removed it with a low bow and a smart click of the heels.

When he straightened again, having revealed a crown of thick, curly black hair, I saw that he was really quite short, at least two inches shorter than me. Still, there was quite a lot of man in that uniform. “Sit then,” I conceded.

“You can take your hand away from your pistol, señorita,” he said.

“I'll decide that,” I answered.

“Ah.”

We sat there in silence for a moment, de León still smiling and holding his ridiculously large hat in his lap. He sighed, as the silence continued, and began to play with the plume.

“Is Ventura coming? Is that why we're waiting?” I asked.

“When?”

“Now.”

“I don't believe so.”

“For heaven's sake,” I fumed, standing suddenly with pistol in hand, “tell me what you've come to say and let me get about my business. I have finished here for the evening—and not only for the evening, but for good! Forever! And I have no way home!” To my horror, tears suddenly sprang to my eyes.

“Oh, lady. Oh
dios mio,
don't cry.” He gently slipped the pistol from me and placed it on the table. “You'll go on to other triumphs, this is only the beginning.” And the mustache was against my upper lip and his mouth was kissing me. I'd had no idea that a mustache could be so soft, like a kitten, when—

“How dare you!” A resounding slap, his cheek flared crimson, and I had done it.

“Whoa!” He rubbed his face, syrupy eyes now suffering. “
Madonna.
What was that for?”

“You know what for. You took advantage.”

“Never. You were sad, I was trying to improve your condition.”

“Stand away from me. I don't trust you.”

He backed up, retrieved his hat from the chair, and sat down again. There was a welt on his cheek. “
Dios,
you pack a wallop. Very athletic indeed.”

Now I felt contrite. “Very sorry, I'm sure. And I didn't mean to cry. Too stupid and female of me. Tell me how you and Ventura are connected.”

He stroked his mustache thoughtfully, that kittenlike softness rasping as his fingers moved through it. The ends were twisted and curled upwards, again like a cat—the smile of a cat when it is pleased with itself for a belly full of milk or for finding a warm place in the sun to while away an afternoon. His white teeth gleamed, an occasional sparkle between his lips, his finger twisted and rasped. Like a siesta . . . Oh, what was wrong with me? I picked up a fan and flapped it vigorously. How absurd. It was the middle of the night, I was alone in the theatre, the theatre where someone had tried to kill me and almost succeeded. There was a possible assassin, one or more, out to get me. I'd just lost my job and had no idea what was ahead except the ongoing hideousness of trying to seduce an ugly tutor whose fantasies consisted of torture. The soft rasping suddenly stopped.

“Señorita Cupid,” he said.

“My name is Eliza Rosana Gilbert.”

“I know it is. You wish us to remain on a professional footing. I respect that, so let me tell you how I fit into the puzzle.” I put on a haughty glare as he continued, “I'm not sure Ventura de la Vega would agree, but I believe it best for you to know what is about to happen, not just your own role in it. There is a difference of opinion between Ventura and myself in this regard.” He grinned again with those strong, white teeth, and his finger returned to the mustache with a raspy twiddle and a twist. It was very distracting. “Please, may I?” he asked, indicating the door.

He wanted it closed. But, despite the charm, how was I to know he was not the shadowy demon who wanted me dead? Or if not, then in league with glass-eyed Pedro Coria, if it
was
Pedro Coria, up in the flies?

“Leave it,” I commanded, snatching up my pistol again and waving it.

He put the hat upon the floor, raised both hands in a placatory manner, and came towards me. “I must speak softly, then, as no one must hear. Our lives may depend on it. Please sit, and I'll draw closer.”

Diablo,
that hadn't been my intention.

“You know that Don Juan de Grimaldi and I are associates?”

“So you say.”

He brought the chair up close, indicating that I sit upon the settee. I did so, and he sat knee to knee with me. His knees were hot.

“You also know that de la Vega has been organizing a masked ball?”

I nodded.

“It is to happen in four weeks' time. The princesses have been invited, along with the other important people at court. If all goes well, there will be an enormous crowd, all disguised and enjoying themselves.”

“Ventura has told me he needs me for this event, yes,” I said. “More than that I don't yet know.” I was holding on to my dignity with all my might.

“You are very close to the princesses now, I believe?”

“I like to think so. They are sweet girls, like any children. Why is Ventura not telling me all this himself?”

“He's occupied tonight.”

My finger twitched on the pistol. Ventura was a cad. I'd have to be careful.

“Señorita, you'd best be careful,” he said, as if reading my mind, then glanced at the weapon. “We wouldn't want it to go off unexpectedly.”

“I'll be the judge of that,” I retorted, but realized something else. The metal cap, required for firing, was still on the end of my left nipple. Damnation. I removed my finger reluctantly from the trigger.

Diego de León leaned forwards from the waist, and now his sleepy-lidded eyes were only inches away, their irises boring into my own. “Dear Señorita Cupid, it is all very fine, this dance of ours, but we don't
have time to be coy. Listen to me carefully. You can trust me with your life. In fact, you must. Ventura de la Vega and I are avowed Cristinos, as is Don Juan de Grimaldi, who sent you. One other associate, General Manuel Gutérrez de la Concha e Irigoyen, is also deeply involved in the plan. He is known as to his friends as Concha. You will meet him shortly.” He placed a brown hand upon my knee and squeezed. “Everything depends upon the next few weeks. You must be strong, and brave, as you demonstrated tonight that you can be. And quick.”

And with that he seized the pistol in my lap and placed it behind himself on the floor. As I reacted and tried to jump up, his grip on my knee tightened. “Shh!” I could hear nothing, but he twirled, scooped up the pistol again, and, crouching, ran to the dressing room door. He certainly was lithe, like a small black cat, sure of its agility. He peered either way down the corridor, then turned back to me. “This time I must protest. Let me close this. Let me lock it?”

“Very well. For a minute or two.” Then, oh fool! I thought. He has your pistol!

He threw the bolt, returned swiftly to the chair, and sat, knees again touching mine. He kept hold of the pistol. My knees began to tremble. “Two things more. First . . .” He blinked, and those eyes again turned syrupy, dreamy. “
Madonna,
they never told me you were so beautiful. What is a man supposed to do—”

“Who do you think is out there?” I asked, terrified, and hoping to break the lock of his eyes upon mine—to no avail.

“Shadows. They're everywhere. Trust no one.” His other hand came up and began rasping through the mustache again, twirling, twiddling. “I've become jumpy as a cat these last few months. Forgive me, beautiful Cupid . . .”

We were both puffing up at shadows. What was the plan? Was he about to kill me? Why had I ever let go of my pistol?

“You were saying?”

“
Sí
.” He became brisk again, but his voice remained low. “First, there has been a change of plan. We shall be relying upon your intimate knowledge of the royal household. You must try to learn more about the palace guards, who and what they are, how they function. Where they
are stationed, at all hours, how they are deployed within the palace itself, as well as when they are out in public, accompanying the royal family.”

“I know one of them; he's undoubtedly waiting for me right now. He's been assigned to look after me.”

De León looked alarmed. “Outside, here?”

“As usual, I'm sure.” How could I have forgotten? I wondered whether I should scream for him, shout for help.

“Then we must hurry.” De León leaned even closer, moving his body forwards to the edge of the seat, his knees pressing at my own. The man exuded heat; I needed to fan myself desperately. How could such a small body be so crammed with muscle and energy? “The night of the ball is the night it shall happen. Nothing must be allowed to go wrong. Everything depends upon timing, cooperation, and luck.”

“And what exactly is supposed to happen?” I was getting lost in the cryptic murmurings and his alarming temperature. Or was it my own? His finger rasped on in his mustache, twisting, twiddling. The mustache was bewitching . . .

“My dear señorita. You breathtaking woman . . .” One knee was suddenly between mine, the other pressing the outside of my skirt. “The mission has changed. Señor de Grimaldi has affirmed, and now everything is moving, with the seal of approval from María Cristina of Bourbon-Two Sicilies, and—”

The pistol was on the floor again. How had that happened? The other hand now left his upper lip and was travelling south.

“And?” I whispered, blinking and breathing rapidly, a she fox cornered by a pack of hounds.

“In the excitement of the evening, taking advantage of the disguises and all of the comings and goings, under cover of that—” his face was so close I could feel the heat of it. “We will kidnap the princesses.”

I gasped and fell back upon the settee. Kidnap the princesses?

“And second, Señorita Cupid . . .” His breath at my ear was sweet and as hot as the rest of him. This was impossible, I couldn't take it in; that hand, where had it gone? Then I knew. I could feel heat upon my knee, then moving stealthily up my bare thigh. It was under my
skirts . . . how—? His voice murmured softly, “There is no longer any necessity for you to seduce the tutor.”

Oh! I understood that, and gave a cry of delight. “Oh
dios mio
! Oh, I'm so happy!” and I kissed him, his mustache at that moment the most compelling and amazing thing I had ever seen in the world, I, and it simply had to be experienced again. “The man is so obscene,” I gasped between explorations. “I had no idea how I could ever—”

“Shh, Cupid . . .” He kissed me silent. Somehow he had vacated the chair, which had fallen over with an unnoticed clatter. Our tongues were mingling; I was all of a melt. “No necessity to seduce Arguëlles. The plans have changed.” They certainly had, and I no longer cared that the door was locked, that the palace guard was waiting and likely wondering where I was, that any moment he might come looking. This stealthy, lithe cat of a man, this mustache-twirling dynamo, had captured all my attention.

De León had one finger up me when he added, “You must seduce General Espartero, the prime minister.”