The Diamond Slipper Read online

  "Well, well," he sa­id. "If it isn't the flo­wer girl. Whe­re did you spring from?"

  Cor­de­lia was for on­ce in her li­fe at a loss un­der the qu­iz­zi­cal scru­tiny of a pa­ir of merry gol­den eyes, ag­lint with flecks of ha­zel and gre­en. Her he­art was sud­denly be­ating very fast. She told her­self it was fe­ar that her clan­des­ti­ne ex­c­han­ge with Chris­ti­an had be­en over­he­ard, but for so­me re­ason she didn't se­em to find that wor­rying. So­met­hing el­se was ca­using this tu­mul­tu­o­us con­fu­si­on, the mo­is­te­ning of her palms.

  "Cat got yo­ur ton­gue?" he in­qu­ired, lif­ting a slen­der dark eyeb­row.

  "Be­hind the scre­en… I was be­hind the scre­en." Cor­de­lia fi­nal­ly ma­na­ged to spe­ak. "I… I was adj­us­ting my dress… a ho­ok ca­me lo­ose." She gat­he­red the shreds of her com­po­su­re aro­und her aga­in, and her eyes threw him a de­fi­ant chal­len­ge, da­ring him to qu­es­ti­on the lie.

  "I see." Leo Be­a­umont re­gar­ded her with amu­sed cu­ri­osity. Wha­te­ver had be­en go­ing on be­hind the scre­en had had lit­tle to do with dress re­pa­iring. Ho­oks and eyes didn't ca­use such a de­li­ci­o­us flush or such a tran­s­pa­rently gu­ilty con­s­ci­en­ce. He glan­ced po­in­tedly to­ward the scre­en, and his eyes fil­led with la­ug­h­ter as he tho­ught he un­der­s­to­od. A sec­ret as­sig­na­ti­on. "I see," he re­pe­ated, amu­se­ment bub­bling in his vo­ice. "I'm hurt. I tho­ught yo­ur kis­ses we­re ex­c­lu­si­vely for me."

  Cor­de­lia swal­lo­wed and inad­ver­tently to­uc­hed her lips with her ton­gue. What was hap­pe­ning to her? Why wasn't she tel­ling him to mind his bu­si­ness? She told her­self that she had to stay in or­der to pre­vent him from lo­oking be­hind the scre­en and iden­tif­ying Chris­ti­an. "Who are you?" she de­man­ded with a ru­de­ness that she ho­ped wo­uld dis­t­ract him.

  "Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton at yo­ur ser­vi­ce." He bo­wed so­lemnly, se­emingly un­per­tur­bed by her lack of fi­nes­se.

  An En­g­lish vis­co­unt. No me­re equ­er­ry, then. Cor­de­lia nib­bled her lip. His eyes con­ti­nu­ed most un­ner­vingly to hold her own blue-gray ga­ze. Clo­se to, he ful­fil­led the pro­mi­se of her dis­tant win­dow ob­ser­va­ti­on. She fo­und her­self ta­king in­ven­tory. Tall, slen­der, with a bro­ad fo­re­he­ad and pro­no­un­ced wi­dow's pe­ak, his ha­ir, al­most as black as her own, con­fi­ned in a bag wig at his na­pe. The­re was so­met­hing dis­tur­bingly sen­su­al abo­ut his mo­uth, a long up­per lip abo­ve a de­eply cleft chin.

  Lu­ci­fer! What was she thin­king? Her mind flew to Chris­ti­an, co­we­ring be­hind the scre­en, but his ima­ge se­emed to blur un­der the En­g­lish vis­co­unt's ste­ady ga­ze and her own rapt be­mu­se­ment.

  "You now ha­ve the ad­van­ta­ge of me," he prom­p­ted gently, no­ting the ele­gan­ce of her gown, the sil­ver pen­dant at her thro­at, the pe­arl-sewn rib­bon in her ha­ir. "I ta­ke it you're not a flo­wer girl or a par­lor ma­id, des­pi­te yo­ur fon­d­ness for kis­ses."

  Cor­de­lia flus­hed and sa­id aw­k­wardly, "I trust you'll ke­ep that lit­tle in­ci­dent bet­we­en our­sel­ves, my lord."

  His mo­uth qu­ir­ked. "But I fo­und yo­ur gre­eting on my ar­ri­val qu­ite de­lig­h­t­ful."

  "It was un­wi­se of me to throw the flo­wers, sir," she sa­id stiffly. "I am so­me­ti­mes un­wi­se, but it was only a ga­me, and I in­ten­ded no dis­co­ur­tesy, or… or…"

  "Ex­ces­si­ve fa­mi­li­arity," Leo sup­pli­ed hel­p­ful­ly. "I as­su­re you I didn't ta­ke it in the le­ast ill, and to pro­ve it to you, al­low me to ma­ke go­od a dis­tant pro­mi­se." Ta­king Cor­de­lia's chin bet­we­en fin­ger and thumb, he kis­sed her be­fo­re she fully gras­ped what he me­ant. His lips we­re co­ol and pli­ant, yet firm.

  Inste­ad of wit­h­d­ra­wing in shock and out­ra­ge, Cor­de­lia fo­und her­self res­pon­ding, ope­ning her lips for the strong mus­cu­lar pro­be of his ton­gue, gre­edily in­ha­ling the scent of his skin. His hands mo­ved over her back, cup­ping her but­tocks, lif­ting her to­ward him. She pres­sed her­self in­to his body, her bre­ath swift and une­ven as hot wa­ves of hungry pas­si­on bro­ke over her. She nip­ped his bot­tom lip, her hands ra­king thro­ugh his ha­ir, her body to­tal­ly at the mercy of this des­pe­ra­te cra­ving.

  Leo drew back. He sta­red down at her, his own pas­si­on fa­ding slowly from his eyes. "De­ar God," he sa­id softly. "De­ar God in he­aven. What are you?"

  Cor­de­lia felt the co­lor dra­ining from her fa­ce as the wild, un­con­t­rol­led pas­si­on re­ce­ded and she un­der­s­to­od what she'd do­ne. Un­der­s­to­od what, but not why. Her body was still on fi­re, her legs sha­king. With an inar­ti­cu­la­te mum­b­le, she tur­ned and fled the gal­lery, hol­ding up her skirts with one hand, her ho­op swin­ging, her jewe­led he­els tap­ping on the mar­b­le flo­or.

  Leo sho­ok his he­ad in be­wil­der­ment. What had star­ted as a lit­tle play­ful dal­li­an­ce with an ap­pe­alingly mis­c­hi­evo­us yo­ung wo­man had ta­ken an as­to­un­ding turn. He wasn't used to lo­sing him­self in the kis­ses of an in­ge­nue, but who­ever she was, she we­aved a po­wer­ful ma­gic with that un­b­rid­led pas­si­on. Ref­lec­ti­vely, he to­uc­hed his bit­ten lip. Then with anot­her lit­tle sha­ke of his he­ad, he tur­ned to le­ave the gal­lery.

  He glan­ced si­de­ways at the scre­en from whe­re the girl had emer­ged. Pre­su­mably, it con­ce­aled so­me yo­ung man who had fal­len vic­tim to that ti­dal wa­ve of de­si­re. He tap­ped his fin­gers lightly aga­inst the wo­oden fra­me. "It's qu­ite sa­fe for you to co­me out now."

  He left the hid­den lo­ver to ma­ke his es­ca­pe and strol­led to­ward the gu­est apar­t­ments, a de­ep frown dra­wing his scul­p­ted eyeb­rows to­get­her.

  Chris­ti­an emer­ged when the bo­oted fo­ot­s­teps had re­ce­ded. He lo­oked up and down the gal­lery. The­re was no sign of Cor­de­lia. What had be­en go­ing on? He'd he­ard them tal­king, but they had be­en too far along the gal­lery for him to ma­ke out the words. But then the­re'd be­en a long si­len­ce, a si­len­ce en­li­ve­ned only by the shuf­fle of fe­et on the mar­b­le, the rus­t­le of rich ma­te­ri­al. Then he'd he­ard Cor­de­lia's ra­cing steps out of the gal­lery. What had hap­pe­ned out he­re? Who was the man? And what had he be­en do­ing with Cor­de­lia?

  Frow­ning fi­er­cely, the yo­ung mu­si­ci­an ma­de his way to his own hum­b­le cham­ber over the kit­c­hens.

  A flunky was wa­iting for Leo in the sa­lon of the gu­est apar­t­ments. "Lord Ki­er­s­ton, Her Im­pe­ri­al Hig­h­ness re­qu­ests yo­ur pre­sen­ce," he sa­id with so­me has­te. "She is in audi­en­ce with Du­ke Bran­den­burg. If you wo­uld fol­low me."

  Leo fol­lo­wed the flunky thro­ugh the cor­ri­dors of the pa­la­ce. He was fa­mi­li­ar with the in­t­ri­ca­ci­es of the pla­ce af­ter a vi­sit six ye­ars ear­li­er, when he'd had a pri­va­te audi­en­ce with the Aus­t­ri­an em­p­ress on be­half of his own fa­mily, who cla­imed kin­s­hip to the Hap­s­burgs thro­ugh a dis­tant co­usin. Li­ke most En­g­lish nob­le fa­mi­li­es, the Be­a­umonts had re­la­ti­ves and con­nec­ti­ons ac­ross the con­ti­nent, and the­re was al­ways a ho­me and a wel­co­me to be had at any ro­yal co­urt.

  But for the last three ye­ars, Leo had spent most of his ti­me at the co­urt of Ver­sa­il­les, cul­ti­va­ting the fri­en­d­s­hip of his sis­ter's wi­do­wer, Prin­ce Mic­ha­el von Sac­h­sen, be­ca­use only thus co­uld he ke­ep a wat­c­h­ful eye on El­vi­ra's chil­d­ren.

  "Ah, Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton, how de­lig­h­t­ful that you co­uld be part of this his­to­ric oc­ca­si­on." The em­p­ress gre­eted him cor­di­al­ly. Ma­ria The­re­sa was now a wi­dow of fif­ty-th­ree and af­ter six­te­en chil­d­ren, her for­mer be­
a­uty was just a sha­dow. She ga­ve him her hand to kiss, then wa­ved him to a cha­ir. "We are very in­for­mal this af­ter­no­on," she sa­id with a smi­le. "We are dis­cus­sing the ar­ran­ge­ments for Cor­de­lia Bran­den­burg's mar­ri­age to Prin­ce Mic­ha­el von Sac­h­sen."

  Leo bo­wed to Du­ke Bran­den­burg the pros­pec­ti­ve bri­de's un­c­le, with the bland ex­p­res­si­on of an ex­pe­ri­en­ced dip­lo­mat. "My brot­her-in-law wis­hes me to stand proxy at the mar­ri­age of yo­ur ni­ece, Du­ke. I trust that me­ets with yo­ur ap­pro­val."

  "Oh, most cer­ta­inly." Du­ke Franz Bran­den­burg smi­led with his fleshy lips, re­ve­aling yel­low te­eth, po­in­ted li­ke fangs. "I've exa­mi­ned the mar­ri­age con­t­racts, and all ap­pe­ars to be in or­der." He rub­bed his hands to­get­her in a ges­tu­re of sa­tis­fac­ti­on. Cor­de­lia's pri­ce was high, but Prin­ce Mic­ha­el von Sac­h­sen, the Prus­si­an am­bas­sa­dor to the co­urt of Ver­sa­il­les, had not even bar­ga­ined.

  Leo con­ten­ted him­self with a short nod. Mic­ha­el had de­ci­ded very sud­denly to ta­ke anot­her wi­fe, so­me yo­ung vir­gin who wo­uld be­ar him a ma­le he­ir. Twin da­ug­h­ters co­uld be sold in the mat­ri­mo­ni­al mar­ket when the ti­me was right, but they co­uld not in­he­rit, and co­uld not per­pe­tu­ate the na­me of von Sac­h­sen. Cor­de­lia Bran­den­burg, the em­p­ress's god­da­ug­h­ter, was a most eli­gib­le bri­de for a von Sac­h­sen prin­ce. At six­te­en, she wo­uld be well tu­to­red in the so­ci­al re­qu­ire­ments, but ot­her­wi­se un­sop­his­ti­ca­ted, inex­pe­ri­en­ced, and, of co­ur­se, a vir­gin.

  Leo's only in­te­rest in his brot­her-in-law's pros­pec­ti­ve bri­de was as a step­mot­her to his twin ni­eces. They we­re at the age now when they ne­eded the sof­te­ning in­f­lu­en­ce of a mot­her. The­ir fat­her was a dis­tant autoc­rat, le­aving the­ir da­ily ca­re in the hands of an el­derly in­di­gent re­la­ti­ve whom Leo des­pi­sed. Lo­u­ise de Nevry was too nar­row-min­ded to su­per­vi­se the edu­ca­ti­on and wel­fa­re of El­vi­ra's spi­ri­ted chil­d­ren.

  He be­ca­me sud­denly awa­re that his hands we­re clen­c­hed in­to fists, his jaw so tight, pa­in shot up the si­de of his he­ad. He for­ced him­self to re­lax. Whe­ne­ver he tho­ught of his twin sis­ter's sud­den de­ath, an al­most un­be­arab­le ten­si­on and un­fo­cu­sed ra­ge wo­uld fill him. It had be­en so un­ne­ces­sary. So ab­rupt. Her mar­ri­age had chan­ged her cer­ta­inly, dam­pe­ned her won­der­ful exu­be­ran­ce, and her re­ady la­ug­h­ter was he­ard less of­ten. But when he'd left her and go­ne to Ro­me that Feb­ru­ary of 1765, she'd be­en as full of li­fe, as be­a­uti­ful as ever. He co­uld still see her de­ep blue eyes, the­ir mot­her's eyes, smi­ling as she ba­de him fa­re­well. The­re had be­en a sha­dow in the depths of her eyes that he had put down to me­lan­c­holy at the­ir par­ting. They had al­ways ha­ted to be too dis­tant from each ot­her.

  A we­ek la­ter she was de­ad. And now when he co­nj­ured up her ima­ge, all he saw was that sha­dow in her eyes, and now he re­mem­be­red that it had be­en the­re for many months, and that so­me­ti­mes her la­ug­h­ter had so­un­ded stra­ined, and that on­ce he had sur­p­ri­sed an ex­p­res­si­on on her fa­ce that he had ne­ver se­en be­fo­re. Al­most of ter­ror. But El­vi­ra had la­ug­hed when he'd pro­bed, and he'd tho­ught not­hing of it un­til af­ter her de­ath. Now he co­uld think of lit­tle el­se.

  "Lord Ki­er­s­ton?"

  He re­tur­ned to his sur­ro­un­dings with a jolt. The em­p­ress was tal­king to him. "I un­der­s­tand you ha­ve as­su­ran­ces from the French king that if Cor­de­lia is wed to Prin­ce Mic­ha­el, she will be per­mit­ted to ac­com­pany my da­ug­h­ter to Ver­sa­il­les," the em­p­ress as­ked.

  The as­su­ran­ces we­re ac­tu­al­ly from Ma­da­me du Barry, the king's mis­t­ress, but, as they all knew, the du Barry's word was as go­od as the king's. "Yes in­de­ed, Yo­ur Ma­j­esty. His Ma­j­esty un­der­s­tands that it will be hard for the ar­c­h­duc­hess to le­ave ever­y­t­hing and ever­yo­ne she knows be­hind her on her mar­ri­age to the da­up­hin."

  "My da­ug­h­ter will em­b­ra­ce Fran­ce as her co­untry," Ma­ria The­re­sa sta­ted. "She knows her duty. She knows that she was born to obey." She nod­ded de­ci­si­vely. "And Cor­de­lia, of co­ur­se, will be de­lig­h­ted to ac­com­pany Ma­rie An­to­inet­te-and to ac­cept such an ad­van­ta­ge­o­us mar­ri­age. You ha­ve dis­cus­sed this with her, Du­ke?" She tur­ned to Franz with an in­qu­iring smi­le.

  The du­ke shrug­ged. "I saw no ne­ed to do so, ma­da­me. Cor­de­lia al­so knows that she was born to obey. Now is ti­me eno­ugh to tell her of her go­od for­tu­ne."

  Go­od for­tu­ne? Leo's fa­ce was ex­p­res­si­on­less. Mic­ha­el was a de­sic­ca­ted Prus­si­an prin­ce of ri­gid tem­pe­ra­ment; a six­te­en-ye­ar-old might well be a trif­le skep­ti­cal of such go­od for­tu­ne. Mic­ha­el had not be­en as ri­gid when he'd mar­ri­ed El­vi­ra, but her de­ath had dar­ke­ned him in so­me way.

  "So, my ni­ece will wed Prin­ce Mic­ha­el by proxy and will ac­com­pany the da­up­hi­ne to Ver­sa­il­les. You, Vis­co­unt, will be her es­cort, I un­der­s­tand."

  "Yes, Du­ke. It will be my ho­nor and pri­vi­le­ge." Leo in­c­li­ned his he­ad in ac­k­now­led­g­ment, thin­king we­arily of how te­di­o­us it was go­ing to be ac­com­pan­ying so­me sim­pe­ring de­bu­tan­te on such a long and ar­du­o­us jo­ur­ney.

  "Cor­de­lia sho­uld be in­for­med im­me­di­ately. Send for Lady Cor­de­lia." The em­p­ress ges­tu­red to her sec­re­tary, who bo­wed and left the ro­om with swift step. "I wo­uld ha­ve this mat­ter set­tled be­fo­re the fes­ti­vi­ti­es of the wed­ding truly be­gin. We will be do­ne with all bu­si­ness so we may enj­oy our­sel­ves on this joyo­us oc­ca­si­on with a free he­art." Ma­ria The­re­sa smi­led be­nignly.

  Cor­de­lia sta­red down at the La­tin text in front of her. The words ma­de no sen­se; the gram­ma­ti­cal struc­tu­re was im­pe­net­rab­le. As she stum­b­led over the tran­s­la­ti­on, she co­uld sen­se the puz­zled im­pa­ti­en­ce of Ab­be Ver­mond, the ar­c­h­bis­hop of To­ulo­use, who tu­to­red both Cor­de­lia and Ma­rie An­to­inet­te. Cor­de­lia ne­ver stum­b­led. She to­ok gre­at ple­asu­re in the in­t­ri­ca­ci­es of the La­tin lan­gu­age, as she did in phi­lo­sophy, his­tory, and mat­he­ma­tics. Un­li­ke To­inet­te, who­se at­ten­ti­on span was al­most no­ne­xis­tent, Cor­de­lia was in ge­ne­ral a bright, qu­ick pu­pil. But not to­day.

  She was al­ter­na­tely hot and cold, al­ter­na­tely fil­led with con­fu­sed em­bar­ras­sment and be­mu­sed an­ger when she tho­ught of the ex­c­han­ge with the En­g­lis­h­man. And then when her body re­mem­be­red the im­p­rint of his thro­ugh the light mus­lin of her gown, when her lips re­mem­be­red the co­ol pli­ancy of his mo­uth, when her ton­gue re­mem­be­red the tas­te of his mo­uth, she was awash with pul­sing lon­ging that she knew she sho­uld con­si­der sha­me­ful, and yet she co­uld find wit­hin her­self not one iota of gu­ilt or sha­me. It was pu­re ex­ci­ting ple­asu­re.

  She glan­ced si­de­ways at To­inet­te's fa­ir he­ad bent over her bo­oks. The ar­c­h­duc­hess was do­od­ling in the mar­gin of the text, id­le scrib­bles of birds and flo­wers. She yaw­ned, de­li­ca­tely co­ve­ring her mo­uth with her fa­ir whi­te hand, her bo­re­dom pal­pab­le in the warm ro­om fil­led with spring sun­s­hi­ne.

  Had To­inet­te ever felt the­se stran­ge stir­rings, this he­ady flush of an un­k­nown pro­mi­se? Cor­de­lia was cer­ta­in she hadn't. To­inet­te wo­uld ha­ve con­fi­ded such myste­ri­o­us lon­gings to her fri­end.

  The­re was a knock at the do­or. To­inet­te sat up, blin­king the da­ze from her eyes. Cor­de­lia lo­oked over with only mild cu­ri­osity a
t the flunky who sto­od in the do­or­way. "Lady Cor­de­lia is sum­mo­ned im­me­di­ately to the em­p­ress."

  "What co­uld my mot­her want with you?" To­inet­te as­ked, frow­ning. "Why wo­uld she see you wit­ho­ut me?"

  "I can't ima­gi­ne." Cor­de­lia wi­ped her qu­ill ca­re­ful­ly and la­id it on the blot­ter be­si­de the in­k­s­tand. Such a sum­mons was un­p­re­ce­den­ted, but one didn't ke­ep the em­p­ress wa­iting. "If you wo­uld ex­cu­se me, mon pe­re." She cur­t­si­ed to the ar­c­h­bis­hop and went to the do­or. The flunky bo­wed her out and es­cor­ted her to the em­p­ress's audi­en­ce cham­ber, al­t­ho­ugh she knew the way per­fectly well.

  She en­te­red the audi­en­ce cham­ber, her eyes swiftly ta­king in tho­se pre­sent. A qu­iver of shock and sur­p­ri­se went thro­ugh her at the sight of the En­g­lish vis­co­unt stan­ding be­hind the em­p­ress's cha­ir. Drop­ping her eyes, she ma­de a de­ep obe­isan­ce to the em­p­ress and thus mis­sed the ex­p­res­si­on in the vis­co­unt's eyes. Her un­c­le, his go­uty leg prop­ped on a fo­ot­s­to­ol, his hand res­ting on the sil­ver knob of his ca­ne, ga­ve her a curt nod.

  Leo tur­ned asi­de, strug­gling to re­ga­in his com­po­su­re. This was Cor­de­lia Bran­den­burg! No sim­pe­ring de­bu­tan­te but a mis­c­hi­evo­us, chal­len­ging, and sen­su­al yo­ung wo­man. Just as El­vi­ra had be­en be­fo­re her mar­ri­age.

  "Cor­de­lia, my de­ar, yo­ur un­c­le has ar­ran­ged a most ad­van­ta­ge­o­us match for you," the em­p­ress sa­id wit­ho­ut pre­am­b­le. "Prin­ce Mic­ha­el von Sac­h­sen is the Prus­si­an am­bas­sa­dor to the co­urt of Ver­sa­il­les. As his wi­fe, you will ta­ke yo­ur pla­ce in that co­urt, and you will be ab­le to re­ma­in as fri­end and com­pa­ni­on for Ma­rie An­to­inet­te."

  Cor­de­lia's mind whir­led. She co­uldn't im­me­di­ately ta­ke it in. She was to be mar­ri­ed as well as To­inet­te? They wo­uld be go­ing to Fran­ce to­get­her? It was too go­od to be true- that she might be free of her un­c­le's tyran­ni­cal ru­le and the con­fi­nes of the Aus­t­ri­an co­urt. And li­ve in­s­te­ad in that glit­te­ring pa­la­ce of Ver­sa­il­les, in the fa­iry-ta­le world of the French co­urt.