Page 53 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

“You are correct.” Pasca pushes to her feet, though still doesn’t look too sure about her movements—or much of anything around her. “But nothing about the situation with Lord Maximillian De Leon was ‘usual.’”

“Meaning what?” Rae is now more openly fascinated than freaked out.

“Meaning that Napoleon had a good reason to remain in good favor with the family. A new government does not negate the value of good politics, especially when one has plans to crown themselves emperor.”

Drue rocks her head back. “And the De Leons were going to stand in his way?”

“Perhaps.” Pasca’s expression is threaded with as much ambiguity as her tone. “If what was rumored about the family was true.”

“A secret?” Rae, now like a kid entranced by a fairy tale, follows the woman. “What kind? Were they spies or something, working with the resistance the whole time? Were they like the Scarlet Pimpernel? Did they send coded messages about the king?”

Pasca halts. Squares her shoulders. “Many thought…Maximillian himself should have had the throne.”

“Huh?” Rae gasps.

“Ditto,” Drue says. “How is that possible?”

“Holy shit.” I plunk down to the couch next to Drue, clutching a fist across the anxiety parfait I once called my guts.

“Ysabeau De Leon was a favored consort of King Louis and was often invited to his chambers,” the woman discloses. “It was rumored she became pregnant with his child during the court’s Yuletide festivities in seventeen fifty-nine.”

“She wasn’t yet married then?” Drue queries.

Pasca frowns. “Of course she was.”

My friend jolts away from her perch on the couch arm. “What the hell? So this guy—Christophe, right?—was fine with his woman sneaking off to consort with the king?”

“Most certainly.” The women is koi-garden calm about the pronouncement. “The king’s favor was like being touched by the sun. It meant monetary gain and prosperity for the entire De Leon family. And since Christophe was unable to bear a child with Ysabeau himself, he was joyous about her fertility with King Louis. Before she even began to show, Maximillian had the man’s unconditional love.”

Drue shakes her head. “In short, he was a saint.”

“But what about the second son?” Raegan inserts as her eyebrows nearly mesh together. “Was he also one of Louis’s bastards?”

“Bastien was legitimately of Christophe’s seed,” Pasca answers. “It happened very easily after Maximillian arrived.”

Drue nods. “The performance pressure was off, so the rockets started firing.”

If we were having a normal conversation after a day of adventures, my mind would be off and running down that tawdry subject path with Drue—but there’s nothing normal about this exchange. Not one damn thing. Not even if Pasca’s historical snippets are true—and that’s all before the outrageous claim still being considered here. The enormous possibility I still haven’t completely dismissed.

But to do that, I must forge on.

I haul in a deep breath and force my next question to spill out. “So what did the peasant mob do…to Lord Maximillian?”

Pascaline looks over, clearly sharing my blatant discomfort about the subject. But she nods, indicating she won’t insult me with a candy-coated truth. “The public accounts simply state he was executed,” she offers.

Drue frowns. “But not exactly how?”

“For the love of…” I glower. “Are specifics necessary?”

“Don’t,” Drue retaliates. “Executions were the YouTube of the eighteenth century.”

Rae sends over an apologetic wince. “She’s telling the truth, honey.”

“Can we stick to the subject?” I can’t help my prickly retort. We’re talking about how a person died. A real person. A man who feels more real than I want to admit.

Thank God Pasca seems to recognize that. I gratefully accept her empathetic look before she steels herself and goes on.

“Of course, there is an alternative version of what happened that day…when the mob stormed this place. Tales are passed along through the château staff and in lore told at the local taverns.” She stops, clearly debating whether to say more. “The tale is scoffed at by most,” she asserts. “It is…wild fiction. Insanity.”