with Newton’s method, I believe we shall see that tested.”
Before Franklin could ask what he meant, there came a rap at the door.
“Aye?” Franklin called.
“It’s me,” a woman’s voice answered. Pushing the already open door a bit EMPIRE OF UNREASON
wider, Lenka Franklin entered. She brushed back a lock of dark brown hair, which had escaped her lace bonnet and draped winsomely over one eye. Her blue eyes— the most intelligent sapphires that had ever been—lit on Voltaire.
“Lenka!” Franklin said. “Please, come in, meet an old friend of mine. Monsieur Voltaire, may I have the honor of presenting to you my wife, Lenka?”
“Oh, enchante, Madame,” Voltaire said, bowing deeply, and before she could react, stepping to her quickly and planting a kiss on her lips. Then she did step back, her face reddening. “I greet you in the English fashion,” Voltaire explained, “I find it preferable to the French kissing of hands.”
“I do not, sir,” Lenka replied, regaining her composure. “It is not a fashion I am acquainted or comfortable with.”
“Oh, dear, my pardon,” Voltaire said, grinning wolfishly. “Allow me then—” He reached for her hand.
“Now I see where you learned your manners with women, Benjamin,” Lenka said, deftly withdrawing her fingers from reach. She turned back to Voltaire.
“Sir, I must say you did your pupil proud. Benjamin treated me thus when we met the first time. It was a miracle that we met a second.”
“Again, your pardon, Madame, for I detect from your melodic accent you are neither English nor French.”
“Lenka is Bohemian, Voltaire. We met at the court of Karl VI.”
“That was a lucky court for you, then. I had no imagining that Holy Roman soil could bring forth such lovely roses.”
“You may stop seducing my wife, Monsieur,” Franklin cautioned.
“I am sorry,” Voltaire said, touching his fingers to his breast. “But what tragedy to be instantly smitten by the wife of a dear friend—”
“What tragedy,” Lenka interrupted in her lilting accent, “that I must be drowned in honey. Stop it, I beg you.”
EMPIRE OF UNREASON
Franklin thought he detected the faintest hint of disingenuousness in her protest.
“Beside the fact,” Lenka went on, “I have come to tell Benjamin that he is wanted down at the statehouse.”
“For what purpose?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Then you have not heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Ah!” Voltaire said, holding up a finger. “The thing I was about to tell you.”
“Well?” Franklin asked impatiently, looking from the Frenchman to his wife and back.
“Did you did not hear the great clamor a while ago?” Voltaire asked.
“I heard it. Did they ring the bells for you, Voltaire, when you stepped ashore?
Am I to be present at a ceremony celebrating French wits?”
“Not for me those bells and horns, but for a fellow passenger. James Francis Edward Stuart.”
“James—the Pretender?”
Voltaire nodded. “It seems,” he drawled, “you have a king again.”
5.
EMPIRE OF UNREASON
Snares
“Stand up,” Adrienne said, her voice harsh even in her own ears. “Identify yourself or die.”
An unsteady shadow rose. “It is me, Mademoiselle,” a female voice whispered.
“Please do not strike me down. I knew not where else to come.”
Adrienne uncovered the lanthorn near her bed, and light papered the room.
“Elizavet?” That made sense. She had a key, and the guards would not stop her.
The young woman collapsed to the floor. She still wore the red velvet gown from the ball, but it was stained, torn, and wet. Her black hair tumbled in disarray, her face was streaked with the tracks of tears.
“My God, girl, what brought you here? Without a coat, in that state? It must be almost a league to the palace.”
“I ran, lady. I could not—they will kill me or put me in a convent! Please, you must protect me!”
Adrienne rose and shrugged into the silk dressing gown that lay
Before Franklin could ask what he meant, there came a rap at the door.
“Aye?” Franklin called.
“It’s me,” a woman’s voice answered. Pushing the already open door a bit EMPIRE OF UNREASON
wider, Lenka Franklin entered. She brushed back a lock of dark brown hair, which had escaped her lace bonnet and draped winsomely over one eye. Her blue eyes— the most intelligent sapphires that had ever been—lit on Voltaire.
“Lenka!” Franklin said. “Please, come in, meet an old friend of mine. Monsieur Voltaire, may I have the honor of presenting to you my wife, Lenka?”
“Oh, enchante, Madame,” Voltaire said, bowing deeply, and before she could react, stepping to her quickly and planting a kiss on her lips. Then she did step back, her face reddening. “I greet you in the English fashion,” Voltaire explained, “I find it preferable to the French kissing of hands.”
“I do not, sir,” Lenka replied, regaining her composure. “It is not a fashion I am acquainted or comfortable with.”
“Oh, dear, my pardon,” Voltaire said, grinning wolfishly. “Allow me then—” He reached for her hand.
“Now I see where you learned your manners with women, Benjamin,” Lenka said, deftly withdrawing her fingers from reach. She turned back to Voltaire.
“Sir, I must say you did your pupil proud. Benjamin treated me thus when we met the first time. It was a miracle that we met a second.”
“Again, your pardon, Madame, for I detect from your melodic accent you are neither English nor French.”
“Lenka is Bohemian, Voltaire. We met at the court of Karl VI.”
“That was a lucky court for you, then. I had no imagining that Holy Roman soil could bring forth such lovely roses.”
“You may stop seducing my wife, Monsieur,” Franklin cautioned.
“I am sorry,” Voltaire said, touching his fingers to his breast. “But what tragedy to be instantly smitten by the wife of a dear friend—”
“What tragedy,” Lenka interrupted in her lilting accent, “that I must be drowned in honey. Stop it, I beg you.”
EMPIRE OF UNREASON
Franklin thought he detected the faintest hint of disingenuousness in her protest.
“Beside the fact,” Lenka went on, “I have come to tell Benjamin that he is wanted down at the statehouse.”
“For what purpose?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Then you have not heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Ah!” Voltaire said, holding up a finger. “The thing I was about to tell you.”
“Well?” Franklin asked impatiently, looking from the Frenchman to his wife and back.
“Did you did not hear the great clamor a while ago?” Voltaire asked.
“I heard it. Did they ring the bells for you, Voltaire, when you stepped ashore?
Am I to be present at a ceremony celebrating French wits?”
“Not for me those bells and horns, but for a fellow passenger. James Francis Edward Stuart.”
“James—the Pretender?”
Voltaire nodded. “It seems,” he drawled, “you have a king again.”
5.
EMPIRE OF UNREASON
Snares
“Stand up,” Adrienne said, her voice harsh even in her own ears. “Identify yourself or die.”
An unsteady shadow rose. “It is me, Mademoiselle,” a female voice whispered.
“Please do not strike me down. I knew not where else to come.”
Adrienne uncovered the lanthorn near her bed, and light papered the room.
“Elizavet?” That made sense. She had a key, and the guards would not stop her.
The young woman collapsed to the floor. She still wore the red velvet gown from the ball, but it was stained, torn, and wet. Her black hair tumbled in disarray, her face was streaked with the tracks of tears.
“My God, girl, what brought you here? Without a coat, in that state? It must be almost a league to the palace.”
“I ran, lady. I could not—they will kill me or put me in a convent! Please, you must protect me!”
Adrienne rose and shrugged into the silk dressing gown that lay
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