The Diamond Slipper Read online

  "Cor­de­lia, is the­re so­met­hing you wish for?"

  She tur­ned at her hus­band's vo­ice. He sto­od in the do­or­way to the left of the hall and, jud­ging by the tab­le nap­kin in his hand, was pre­su­mably in the mid­dle of his bre­ak­fast. Her eyes fi­xed upon his hands. They we­re squ­are, thick fin­ge­red, with clumps of gra­ying ha­ir on the knuc­k­les. Her skin se­emed to shrink on her bo­nes at the hi­de­o­us me­mory of tho­se hands mar­king her body. Only with the gre­atest dif­fi­culty did she ke­ep from step­ping bac­k­ward, away from him.

  "I was as­king Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on to ac­com­pany me on a to­ur of the pa­la­ce, sir."

  Mic­ha­el con­si­de­red this and co­uld find no fa­ult. "By all me­ans," he sa­id with a nod at Bri­on. "I shall be in the lib­rary in one ho­ur. Per­haps you wo­uld jo­in me the­re, ma­da­me."

  Cor­de­lia ac­qu­i­es­ced with a curtsy and wa­ited un­til her hus­band had re­tur­ned to his in­ter­rup­ted bre­ak­fast be­fo­re tur­ning back to the ma­j­or­do­mo. "Shall we go?"

  Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on bo­wed. This was a dif­fe­rent kind of bri­de from her pre­de­ces­sor, un­sop­his­ti­ca­ted, less canny, and yet he tho­ught he co­uld de­tect a cer­ta­in strength. In this ho­use­hold one gar­ne­red al­li­es whe­re­ver one co­uld. "Whe­re wo­uld you wish to start, ma­da­me?"

  An ho­ur la­ter Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on sho­wed his new mis­t­ress in­to the lib­rary. He was still un­cer­ta­in abo­ut the prin­cess. She had be­en shoc­kingly in­for­mal with the ser­vants they'd met, but the qu­es­ti­ons she'd as­ked him abo­ut the ho­use­hold had be­en un­com­for­tably pe­net­ra­ting, and he was con­vin­ced that his ear­li­er as­ses­sment had be­en cor­rect-he had felt the sting of a most po­wer­ful will be­ne­ath.

  Mic­ha­el ca­re­ful­ly wi­ped the nib of his pen and pla­ced it in per­fect alig­n­ment with the ed­ge of the blot­ter be­fo­re ri­sing from the sec­re­ta­ire when his wi­fe en­te­red.

  "I trust you we­re ple­ased with what you saw, ma­da­me."

  Cor­de­lia co­uldn't bring her­self to step fur­t­her in­to the ro­om, a step that wo­uld bring her that much clo­ser to her hus­band. "You ha­ve a most be­a­uti­ful pa­la­ce, sir. I par­ti­cu­larly ad­mi­red the Bo­uc­her pa­nels in the small sa­lon." She had to le­arn to con­duct or­di­nary con­ver­sa­ti­ons with this man. She had to se­pa­ra­te the day­ti­me hus­band from the nig­h­t­ti­me ra­vis­her. If she co­uldn't do that, she wo­uld be crus­hed li­ke an ant be­ne­ath his bo­ot.

  Mic­ha­el had tur­ned back to his sec­re­ta­ire. With small, pre­ci­se mo­ve­ments, he san­ded the she­et on which he'd be­en wri­ting and clo­sed the le­at­her­bo­und bo­ok. "Did you no­ti­ce the Rem­b­randts in the gal­lery?"

  "Yes, but I pre­fer­red the Ca­na­let­to." She wat­c­hed as he car­ri­ed the bo­ok to an iron­bo­und chest be­ne­ath the win­dow. He wit­h­d­rew a key from his poc­ket, un­loc­ked the chest, and, with the sa­me pre­ci­si­on, pla­ced the bo­ok in­si­de, then drop­ped the lid and loc­ked the chest. Cor­de­lia co­uldn't see what was in the chest, but it struck her as stran­ge that he sho­uld ha­ve to lock up his wri­tings. But then she ref­lec­ted that per­haps they we­re dip­lo­ma­tic sec­rets and ob­ser­va­ti­ons. An am­bas­sa­dor was as much a spy for his mo­narch as he was a dip­lo­mat.

  "The Ca­na­let­to is very fi­ne, but the su­bj­ect mat­ter is mo­re fri­vo­lo­us than Rem­b­randt's."

  Cor­de­lia didn't ar­gue this po­int. Her eyes con­ti­nu­ed to ro­am the ro­om and fell upon the por­t­ra­it abo­ve the man­tel. She knew im­me­di­ately who it was. The physi­cal re­sem­b­lan­ce bet­we­en the wo­man and Leo Be­a­umont was un­mis­ta­kab­le. Al­t­ho­ugh the wo­man's eyes we­re blue in­s­te­ad of ha­zel, the re­sem­b­lan­ce was con­ta­ined in the­ir ex­p­res­si­on, in the no­se, in the qu­irk of that sen­su­al mo­uth.

  "This is yo­ur la­te wi­fe?" She exa­mi­ned the rich, vo­lup­tu­o­us fi­gu­re with a de­ep cu­ri­osity and a stran­ge lit­tle thrill that she knew aro­se be­ca­use the act of lo­oking upon Leo's twin in so­me way con­nec­ted her with Leo him­self.

  "Yes. It's a par­ti­cu­larly fi­ne Fra­go­nard." The prin­ce's to­ne did not en­co­ura­ge fur­t­her dis­cus­si­on of the por­t­ra­it, but Cor­de­lia didn't mo­ve away. She wan­ted to to­uch the soft cur­ving whi­te arm, the shi­ning fa­ir ha­ir, so po­wer­ful­ly did the wo­man's per­so­na­lity co­me ac­ross. Had she al­so suf­fe­red thro­ugh hel­lish nights?

  "She's we­aring my bra­ce­let," she sa­id with a shock of re­cog­ni­ti­on, hol­ding up her wrist in de­mon­s­t­ra­ti­on.

  "The bra­ce­let was my gift to El­vi­ra on the birth of her da­ug­h­ters," Mic­ha­el sa­id, his to­ne now tho­ro­ughly fri­gid. "It is a pri­ce­less work of art and I be­li­eved it to be a su­itab­le bet­rot­hal gift. The­re is no ne­ed to talk of it fur­t­her."

  Cor­de­lia didn't im­me­di­ately res­pond. She exa­mi­ned the bra­ce­let on her wrist and then the one on El­vi­ra's wrist. "She has anot­her charm," she sa­id. "A he­art. Is it jade?"

  Mic­ha­el's lips thin­ned. Was she stu­pid or stub­born to per­sist in the­se ob­ser­va­ti­ons when he'd ma­de it cle­ar he didn't wish to dis­cuss the su­bj­ect? "You ha­ve yo­ur own charm. The bra­ce­let now be­longs to you. I wish now to dis­cuss with you the ar­ran­ge­ments for our so­j­o­urn in Ver­sa­il­les du­ring the da­up­hin's wed­ding."

  Cor­de­lia to­uc­hed the de­li­ca­te di­amond slip­per. She sup­po­sed that by re­mo­ving the charm de­di­ca­ted to El­vi­ra and rep­la­cing it with one de­di­ca­ted to the new ow­ner, her hus­band con­si­de­red he had be­en ac­ting with all due con­si­de­ra­ti­on. But still, it felt a lit­tle pe­cu­li­ar to be we­aring the de­ad wo­man's jewelry, ho­we­ver be­a­uti­ful.

  "Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton sa­id you ha­ve an apar­t­ment at Ver­sa­il­les." She tur­ned back to the ro­om, her fin­ger un­con­s­ci­o­usly tra­cing the sha­pe of the ser­pent aro­und her wrist.

  "Yes, the king has gra­ci­o­usly al­lot­ted me a su­ite of ro­oms on the third sta­ir­ca­se. You will find them com­mo­di­o­us eno­ugh, I be­li­eve."

  Cor­de­lia knew that apar­t­ments at Ver­sa­il­les, thirty mi­les out­si­de Pa­ris, we­re gre­atly co­ve­ted and we­re only al­lo­ca­ted to the king's fa­vo­ri­tes or tho­se with sig­ni­fi­cant in­f­lu­en­ce. "Do­es Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton ha­ve an apar­t­ment at Ver­sa­il­les?" she as­ked ca­su­al­ly.

  "He is much fa­vo­red by Ma­da­me du Barry. He has a small ro­om on the outer sta­ir­ca­se thro­ugh her in­f­lu­en­ce."

  That didn't so­und too com­for­tab­le, but for a bac­he­lor it was pro­bably con­si­de­red suf­fi­ci­ent. Her he­art lif­ted. At le­ast he wo­uld be at Ver­sa­il­les al­so. He had pro­mi­sed to stand her fri­end.

  "I in­tend to in­s­t­ruct my da­ug­h­ters' go­ver­ness to bring them to the dra­wing ro­om be­fo­re din­ner to pay the­ir res­pects to you." Mic­ha­el chan­ged the su­bj­ect, im­pa­ti­ent with this qu­es­ti­on-and-an­s­wer ses­si­on that had not­hing to do with the mat­ters at hand.

  "Oh, I've al­re­ady met them," Cor­de­lia sa­id che­er­ful­ly. "I vi­si­ted the scho­ol­ro­om ear­li­er. They are such lo­vely chil­d­ren."

  "You did what?" Mic­ha­el sta­red in as­to­nis­h­ment.

  Cor­de­lia swal­lo­wed. Ob­vi­o­usly, she'd ma­de a mis­ta­ke. "I didn't think it wo­uld dis­p­le­ase you, my lord. I was an­xi­o­us to me­et them."

  Mic­ha­el mo­ved to­ward her and she sto­od her gro­und with the gre­atest dif­fi­culty. "You will not ever ta­ke such mat­ters on yo­ur­self, do you he­ar me, Cor­de­lia? I ru­le this ho­use­hold and you will not ever at­tempt to usu
rp my ru­le."

  "But… but how co­uld my vi­si­ting the scho­ol­ro­om be con­si­de­red usur­ping yo­ur aut­ho­rity?" she pro­tes­ted, for­get­ting her fe­ar of him in her in­dig­na­ti­on.

  "You will do not­hing-not­hing, do you he­ar me?- wit­ho­ut my per­mis­si­on. No one in this ho­use­hold ta­kes a step wit­ho­ut my per­mis­si­on." He had put his hands on her now, and a de­ep shi­ver be­gan in her belly.

  "But they are ser­vants, my lord. I am yo­ur wi­fe," she sa­id. She wo­uld not back down. She wo­uld not show her fe­ar.

  His fin­gers tig­h­te­ned aro­und her up­per arms, brin­ging back a flo­od of physi­cal me­mo­ri­es of the night. She co­uld smell the mus­ki­ness of his skin, al­most cho­king her as it had do­ne du­ring the ghastly ho­urs of dar­k­ness. And he was hur­ting her aga­in. "You are as much un­der my aut­ho­rity as any ser­vant, my de­ar." His vo­ice was low but in­ten­se. "You will for­get that at yo­ur own risk. Do you un­der­s­tand?"

  Cor­de­lia clo­sed her lips tightly. She aver­ted her fa­ce from his, now so clo­se to her she tho­ught she wo­uld fa­int with lo­at­hing.

  "An­s­wer me!" he de­man­ded.

  "You're hur­ting me." It was all the an­s­wer he was go­ing to get.

  "An­s­wer me!"

  "In or­der for me to un­der­s­tand, my lord, I beg you will ex­p­la­in to me exactly how you wo­uld wish me to in­vol­ve myself with yo­ur da­ug­h­ters." She ig­no­red the pa­in in her arms. She had had con­f­ron­ta­ti­ons of a li­ke sort with her un­c­le. She hadn't gi­ven way to him; she wo­uld not gi­ve way to her hus­band.

  "Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton im­p­li­ed that it was ho­ped I wo­uld be a mot­her to them. I can­not do that if I'm per­mit­ted to see them only at yo­ur com­mand."

  With a shock, Mic­ha­el re­ali­zed that she was not in­ti­mi­da­ted. "They ha­ve no ne­ed of mot­he­ring," he sa­id ta­utly. "The­ir go­ver­ness will su­per­vi­se the­ir edu­ca­ti­on and the­ir day-to-day ca­re. But she has no ex­pe­ri­en­ce of co­urt cir­c­les. You will be res­pon­sib­le for pre­pa­ring them to mo­ve in tho­se cir­c­les. You will al­so be­gin to pre­pa­re them for the­ir bet­rot­hals. The­re will be no ne­ed for you to in­vol­ve yo­ur­self in the­ir ge­ne­ral wel­fa­re. Is that un­der­s­to­od?"

  "Su­rely they're too yo­ung to be con­si­de­red for bet­rot­hal?" she ex­c­la­imed.

  "That is no bu­si­ness of yo­urs." He sho­ok her in ro­ugh em­p­ha­sis. "You will ke­ep yo­ur opi­ni­ons to yo­ur­self." But he co­uldn't help ad­ding with cold pri­de, "I ha­ve every ho­pe of ma­king the most ad­van­ta­ge­o­us, in­f­lu­en­ti­al con­nec­ti­ons for them. It is not un­re­alis­tic to lo­ok to the hig­hest co­urts in Euro­pe. The­re are yo­un­ger ro­yal sons ap­lenty who co­uld do wor­se than a con­nec­ti­on with the von Sac­h­sens."

  Cor­de­lia had be­en sac­ri­fi­ced to the pri­de of li­ne­age. Co­uld she help tho­se two lit­tle girls avo­id such a des­tiny? Per­haps-but not by set­ting her­self up openly aga­inst her hus­band. It was ti­me to be­at a stra­te­gic ret­re­at.

  "It is, of co­ur­se, for the­ir fat­her to de­ci­de." She lo­we­red her eyes.

  He sa­id coldly, "The­se dis­p­lays of de­fi­an­ce will do you no go­od, my de­ar. Do you un­der­s­tand that?" He was de­ter­mi­ned to he­ar her sub­mis­si­on. He re­mem­be­red the fe­el of her slen­der fra­ilty be­ne­ath him du­ring the night. Her re­sis­tan­ce that he had over­co­me so easily. She was yo­ung. She wo­uld ma­ke mis­ta­kes. It was for him to cor­rect them.

  She wo­uld not say it. The ten­se si­len­ce was as thick and pal­pab­le as a blan­ke­ting fog.

  A knock at the do­or ma­de them both jump. His hands fell from her arms, and he swung ro­und with a sa­va­ge "What is it?"

  "Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton, my lord," an­no­un­ced Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on. Leo en­te­red the lib­rary on the an­no­un­ce­ment with all the in­for­ma­lity of an old fa­mily fri­end. He was dres­sed in black, ex­cept for a short ri­ding clo­ak that this ti­me was li­ned in pe­acock blue. He held his la­ce-ed­ged glo­ves in one hand, his ot­her res­ting al­most un­con­s­ci­o­usly on the hilt of his sword. His eyes we­re sharp and cold as icic­les.

  Cor­de­lia's he­art be­at fast and her palms we­re sud­denly damp. Wo­uld he be lo­oking for Mic­ha­el's mark upon her? Wo­uld he see so­me sign of the hor­rors of that pos­ses­si­on? He mustn't know. She co­uldn't be­ar him to know.

  "Prin­ce Mic­ha­el. Prin­cess von Sac­h­sen. Yo­ur ser­vant." He bo­wed. Cor­de­lia cur­t­si­ed. He to­ok her hand and her skin bur­ned with his to­uch. She ra­ised her eyes for an in­s­tant and lo­oked de­ep in­to his. She re­ad the qu­es­ti­on con­ta­ined in his ste­ady ga­ze, but she co­uldn't an­s­wer it. With a po­li­te smi­le she wit­h­d­rew her hand and step­ped back, tur­ning her eyes away.

  "Wel­co­me, Leo. You will drink to our wed­ding as you we­re unab­le to do last night." Mic­ha­el to­ok up a de­can­ter of Rhe­nish wi­ne on the si­de­bo­ard. "Cor­de­lia, you will jo­in us in a glass."

  It was not a sug­ges­ti­on. Cor­de­lia to­ok the glass of whi­te wi­ne. The­re was an ex­pec­tant si­len­ce, then Leo ra­ised his glass and sa­id qu­i­etly, "To yo­ur hap­pi­ness."

  Cor­de­lia drank the to­ast, the sa­me po­li­te smi­le fi­xed to her lips. She knew he was sin­ce­re. He wo­uld not wish her un­hap­pi­ness no mat­ter what lay bet­we­en them.

  Mic­ha­el smi­led and drank de­eply. "Thank you, my de­ar fri­end."

  Cor­de­lia co­uldn't be­ar it anot­her mi­nu­te. She put her ba­rely to­uc­hed glass down. "If you will ex­cu­se me, my lords, I ha­ve as­ked the co­ok and the ho­use­ke­eper to co­me to me in my bo­udo­ir at no­on."

  "The­re is no ne­ed for you to in­vol­ve yo­ur­self in the day-to-day run­ning of the ho­use­hold, ma­da­me," Mic­ha­el sa­id sharply. "I ha­ve al­re­ady ex­p­la­ined yo­ur du­ti­es. And they do not in­c­lu­de con­sor­ting with the staff, who know how to ma­na­ge the­ir own du­ti­es per­fectly well."

  "You don't con­si­der it ne­ces­sary for ser­vants to know the­ir mis­t­ress, my lord?"

  She was def­ying him aga­in! Mic­ha­el co­uldn't be­li­eve what he was he­aring. But he co­uld do not­hing in Leo's pre­sen­ce. He to­ok one me­na­cing step to­ward her and his eyes bla­zed. "I ha­ve told you what I con­si­der ne­ces­sary."

  Leo saw the lo­ok in her eyes as she se­emed to wit­h­d­raw her body in­to it­self. El­vi­ra had had that sa­me sha­dow in her eyes. The sha­dow had ap­pe­ared at the ti­me he'd no­ti­ced that her bub­bling la­ug­h­ter was he­ard less of­ten. But whe­ne­ver he'd qu­es­ti­oned her, she'd put him off, chan­ged the su­bj­ect, and the sha­dow had be­en ba­nis­hed as swiftly as it had ap­pe­ared, so that he'd ne­ver be­en cer­ta­in that he'd se­en it. Now he knew he had. Cor­de­lia was not so adept at mas­king her fe­elings.

  "It must be as you wish, my lord." Cor­de­lia cur­t­si­ed, her vo­ice tight. "I bid you go­od day, Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton." The do­or clo­sed qu­i­etly be­hind her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Leo, hi­ding his con­cern, re­ma­ined with his brot­her-in-law for the best part of an ho­ur. Cor­de­lia had al­re­ady fal­len fo­ul of her hus­band. It didn't sur­p­ri­se him. Mic­ha­el had ma­de it cle­ar over the bu­si­ness with Chris­ti­an that he in­ten­ded to ru­le his wi­fe with an iron hand, and Leo knew that Cor­de­lia wo­uldn't ac­cept that easily. But what had hap­pe­ned bet­we­en them to ca­use that sha­dow of fe­ar in her eyes? And de­ar God, had he re­al­ly se­en that sa­me lo­ok in El­vi­ra's eyes?

  But Mic­ha­el saw no­ne of this dis­tur­bed co­nj­ec­tu­re. As usu­al, Leo chat­ted in­con­se­qu­en­ti­al­ly abo­ut co­urt mat­ters, snip­pets of gos­s
ip, drop­ping the oc­ca­si­onal ju­ici­er mor­sels in­to the con­ver­sa­ti­on, kno­wing that the prin­ce had sharp ears for an­y­t­hing use­ful eit­her to his own dip­lo­macy or to his per­so­nal am­bi­ti­on.

  Sin­ce El­vi­ra's de­ath Leo had wor­ked hard to gi­ve Mic­ha­el the im­p­res­si­on of an id­le co­ur­ti­er who lo­ved to play, who knew ever­yo­ne, was uni­ver­sal­ly li­ked. A man who co­uld be trus­ted with Mic­ha­el's da­ug­h­ters, an un­c­le who wo­uldn't un­der­mi­ne the­ir fat­her's aut­ho­rity or at­tempt to in­vol­ve him­self in de­ci­si­ons con­cer­ning them. Mic­ha­el wo­uldn't he­si­ta­te to ban Leo from the scho­ol­ro­om if the un­c­le's in­te­rest be­ca­me in­con­ve­ni­ent.

  Leo's com­mit­ment to watch over El­vi­ra's chil­d­ren as the­ir mot­her wo­uld ha­ve do­ne was one of the dri­ving for­ces of his li­fe. It was the re­ason he sta­yed in Pa­ris in­s­te­ad of re­tur­ning to his na­ti­ve En­g­land. Mic­ha­el had no emo­ti­onal at­tac­h­ment to his da­ug­h­ters, but Leo knew that he saw them as dip­lo­ma­tic cur­rency, to be sold to the hig­hest bid­der. Leo wo­uld fight for the­ir wel­fa­re when the ti­me ca­me, but in the me­an­ti­me he pla­yed the be­nign and har­m­less un­c­le. When Mic­ha­el lo­oked upon El­vi­ra's brot­her, he saw a smi­ling mo­uth, slightly ho­oded eyes, an ele­gantly dres­sed form al­ways re­la­xed. Un­li­ke Cor­de­lia, he saw lit­tle or no re­sem­b­lan­ce to El­vi­ra, but then, he wasn't lo­oking for it.

  And now, Leo tho­ught, he had ad­ded Cor­de­lia's wel­fa­re to his res­pon­si­bi­li­ti­es un­der Mic­ha­el's ro­of. "So you will be ta­king the prin­cess to Ver­sa­il­les for the wed­ding?" He sip­ped his wi­ne, idly cros­sing one silk-clad knee over his thigh.

  "I ha­ve in­s­t­ruc­ted the ma­j­or­do­mo to ar­ran­ge for our re­mo­val in three days' ti­me, when the king's party re­turns from Com­pi­eg­ne."

  "I da­re­say I'll see you the­re then." Leo set down his glass. "The king has most gra­ci­o­usly in­sis­ted that I at­tend the ce­re­mony. I sus­pect at the du Barry's own in­sis­ten­ce." He la­ug­hed lightly, ri­sing to his fe­et. "His Ma­j­esty's fa­vo­ri­te is ge­ne­ro­us with her fa­vors. It was a sig­nal mark of ho­nor that she at­ten­ded yo­ur wed­ding yes­ter­day."