The Diamond Slipper Read online

  "Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton, the prin­ce's brot­her-in-law, will stand proxy for yo­ur wed­ding, which will ta­ke pla­ce the day af­ter the ar­c­h­duc­hess's proxy mar­ri­age to the da­up­hin." Her un­c­le was spe­aking now in his flat as­ser­ti­ve to­nes.

  Leo tur­ned slowly back to the ro­om. Cor­de­lia sta­red at him. "You… you are to be my hus­band." She didn't know what she was sa­ying, the words spo­ke them­sel­ves.

  "Proxy, child… proxy," the em­p­ress cor­rec­ted sharply. "Prin­ce Mic­ha­el von Sac­h­sen is to be yo­ur hus­band."

  "Yes… yes, of co­ur­se." But Cor­de­lia ba­rely he­ard the em­p­ress. She lo­oked at the vis­co­unt and a warm ri­ver of ex­ci­te­ment gus­hed thro­ugh her ve­ins. She co­uldn't put words to its ca­use; it se­emed to spring from so­me bub­bling so­ur­ce exis­ting both in her mind and in her lo­ins. It was as stran­ge and ter­rif­ying a sen­sa­ti­on as it was won­der­ful.

  She smi­led at Leo and the lo­ok in her eyes was so na­kedly sen­su­al that Leo was af­ra­id that the ot­hers in the ro­om wo­uld see it and wo­uldn't fa­il to re­ad it cor­rectly. He step­ped for­ward, dra­wing so­met­hing from his poc­ket.

  "I ha­ve a bet­rot­hal gift from Prin­ce Mic­ha­el, Lady Cor­de­lia. He kept his vo­ice to­ne­less and he avo­ided me­eting her eye as he pla­ced a small pac­ka­ge in her hand. "You will al­so find a mi­ni­atu­re of the prin­ce." He step­ped back, out of her li­ne of sight.

  Cor­de­lia ope­ned the flat vel­vet box and un­w­rap­ped the tis­sue. She wit­h­d­rew a gold, pe­arl-stud­ded charm bra­ce­let and held it up to the light of the win­dow. The jewe­led charms swung to­get­her in the slight bre­eze.

  "Very pretty," ap­pro­ved the em­p­ress.

  Leo frow­ned. He hadn't tho­ught to won­der abo­ut the prin­ce's bet­rot­hal pre­sent. It had se­emed unim­por­tant. But the bra­ce­let had be­en El­vi­ra's, a gift from her hus­band on the birth of the twins. His mo­uth thin­ned. Mic­ha­el kept a tight hold on his pur­ses­t­rings, but to gi­ve a new wi­fe a gift from a de­ad one se­emed in­sen­si­ti­ve to say the le­ast.

  "Oh, lo­ok, the­re's anot­her charm!" Cor­de­lia was mo­men­ta­rily dis­t­rac­ted from her emo­ti­onal tur­mo­il. She pic­ked up a tiny di­amond-en­c­rus­ted slip­per. "See how de­li­ca­te it is." It lay in the palm of her hand, the di­amonds glit­te­ring in the light. "He "must me­an it to be my own spe­ci­al charm."

  "We will send the bra­ce­let and the charm to the jewe­lers, Cor­de­lia, and they will at­tach the slip­per," Ma­ria The­re­sa sa­id briskly, re­tur­ning to bu­si­ness. "Le­ave it on the tab­le the­re. Now ta­ke a lo­ok at the mi­ni­atu­re of Prin­ce Mic­ha­el."

  Cor­de­lia re­luc­tantly la­id down the bra­ce­let and un­w­rap­ped the small cir­cu­lar pac­ka­ge that had ac­com­pa­ni­ed the box. The por­t­ra­it of her fu­tu­re hus­band lo­oked up at her from a lac­qu­ered fra­me. It was hard to get any sen­se of the per­son be­hind the flat ima­ge. She saw pa­le eyes un­der be­et­ling brows, a thin stra­ight mo­uth, a jut­ting jaw. His ha­ir was con­ce­aled be­ne­ath a cur­led and pow­de­red wig. He lo­oked hu­mor­less, even se­ve­re, but sin­ce she was ac­cus­to­med to de­aling with both cha­rac­te­ris­tics in her un­c­le, she was un­t­ro­ub­led by it. He had no ob­vi­o­us physi­cal de­fects that she co­uld see, ex­cept for his age. He was de­fi­ni­tely not in the first flush of yo­uth. But if that was all to obj­ect to in her fu­tu­re hus­band, then she was luc­ki­er than many of her pe­ers who we­re sold, re­gar­d­less of in­c­li­na­ti­on, to who­ever su­ited the­ir fa­mily's ne­eds.

  Her ga­ze dar­ted to­ward Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton. Was he mar­ri­ed? That stran­ge fizz of ex­ci­te­ment was in her blo­od aga­in. Her eyes wi­de­ned and she al­most to­ok a step to­ward him. But he mo­ved away and the­re was such a sharp war­ning in his own eyes that she re­col­lec­ted her­self ab­ruptly.

  "How re­cent is the por­t­ra­it?" she as­ked du­ti­ful­ly.

  "It was ta­ken last month," the vis­co­unt rep­li­ed.

  "I see. And do­es the prin­ce ha­ve a mi­ni­atu­re of me?"

  "Yes, of co­ur­se," her un­c­le sa­id with a to­uch of im­pa­ti­en­ce. "He re­ce­ived it months ago. One wo­uldn't ex­pect Prin­ce Mic­ha­el to of­fer for you sight un­se­en."

  "No, of co­ur­se not," Cor­de­lia mur­mu­red. "But I, of co­ur­se, must ac­cept him as my hus­band." It was al­most sot­to vo­ce, but Leo he­ard it. His lips twit­c­hed des­pi­te his une­ase at the un­ner­ving in­ten­sity of her ga­ze.

  "The vis­co­unt will be yo­ur es­cort on the jo­ur­ney to Ver­sa­il­les," the du­ke sta­ted, thum­ping his ca­ne on the flo­or. He hadn't he­ard what she'd sa­id, but he knew his ni­ece and gu­es­sed it was so­met­hing im­per­ti­nent.

  "I will be most gra­te­ful for His Lor­d­s­hip's es­cort." Cor­de­lia cur­t­si­ed de­mu­rely to the vis­co­unt. "I am obe­di­ent to the wis­hes of my em­p­ress and my un­c­le in all things." Her eyes flic­ked up­ward to me­et the vis­co­unt's, and aga­in he was ta­ken aback by the light of pas­si­on bla­zing in the blue-gray depths. What was she? An in­no­cent on the ver­ge of sen­su­al awa­ke­ning? Or a wo­man who had held the sec­rets of that ter­ri­tory in her blo­od sin­ce birth?

  The fi­ne ha­irs on the na­pe of his neck pric­k­led with the chil­ling cer­ta­inty that he was go­ing to find out.

  Chapter Two

  Chris­ti­an lur­ked in the cor­ri­dor out­si­de the em­p­ress's audi­en­ce cham­ber. He knew that Cor­de­lia was with the em­p­ress and her un­c­le. The who­le pa­la­ce was abuzz with ru­mors. Gos­sip tra­ve­led on the ton­gu­es of ser­vants fas­ter than a pan­t­her on the he­els of prey, and Lady Cor­de­lia's na­me was on every ton­gue. Not­hing spe­ci­fic had be­en sa­id, but it was ge­ne­ral­ly ag­re­ed that the ar­ri­val of the French de­le­ga­ti­on con­cer­ned Lady Cor­de­lia's fu­tu­re as well as the ar­c­h­duc­hess's.

  Chris­ti­an nib­bled a lo­ose cu­tic­le as he ho­ve­red in a win­dow em­b­ra­su­re. He knew they wo­uldn't be ab­le to spe­ak openly in the pub­lic cor­ri­dor, but he was too ap­pre­hen­si­ve and cu­ri­o­us to wa­it pa­ti­ently for Cor­de­lia to se­ek him out. So­met­hing pe­cu­li­ar had hap­pe­ned ear­li­er bet­we­en her and the man in the gal­lery. He wan­ted to know what, and whet­her it had any be­aring on wha­te­ver was hap­pe­ning now.

  The do­or to the audi­en­ce cham­ber ope­ned, and a tall man in dark ri­ding clot­hes emer­ged. He sto­od for a mi­nu­te in the cor­ri­dor, and his ex­p­res­si­on, which had be­en calmly ne­ut­ral a se­cond ear­li­er, sud­denly ca­me ali­ve. Chris­ti­an didn't know who he was, but the glint in the ha­zel eyes was so in­vi­ting he al­most step­ped out of the win­dow em­b­ra­su­re to­ward him. A puz­zled frown drew the stran­ger's eyeb­rows to­get­her, and the light in his eyes was sud­denly spe­cu­la­ti­ve. Then his ta­ut mo­uth re­la­xed, tur­ning up at the cor­ners in an at­trac­ti­ve smi­le. Still smi­ling to him­self, he strol­led down the cor­ri­dor, pas­sing Chris­ti­an wit­ho­ut so much as a glan­ce, his short scar­let-li­ned ri­ding ca­pe swin­ging with his long stri­de.

  Chris­ti­an won­de­red what it was abo­ut the stran­ger that was so cha­ris­ma­tic. He se­emed to pos­sess a cu­ri­o­usly mag­ne­tic qu­ality. Then he shrug­ged off the qu­es­ti­on and re­su­med his vi­gil. The em­p­ress was ke­eping Cor­de­lia for an inor­di­na­tely long ti­me. Du­ke Franz Bran­den­burg emer­ged next, le­aning he­avily on his ca­ne, his ha­bi­tu­al scowl mar­ring his jowly co­un­te­nan­ce. He stom­ped down the pas­sa­ge, ig­no­ring the mu­si­ci­an. A ser­vant hur­ri­ed past, half run­ning, and still Cor­de­lia didn't ap­pe­ar.

  Chris­ti­an tur­ned to ga­ze down thro­ugh the win­dow
in­to the co­urt be­low. It was pac­ked with wa­gons, car­ri­ages, and hor­ses as the pa­la­ce set abo­ut pre­pa­ring to en­ter­ta­in tho­se who had co­me to ta­ke the ar­c­h­duc­hess to her fu­tu­re li­fe.

  The light pat­te­ring of slip­pe­red fo­ot­s­teps bro­ught him ro­und to fa­ce the cor­ri­dor aga­in. Ma­rie An­to­inet­te was dan­cing down the cor­ri­dor to­ward her mot­her's do­or. To­inet­te ra­rely wal­ked an­y­w­he­re.

  Chris­ti­an frow­ned as the ar­c­h­duc­hess was ad­mit­ted to the audi­en­ce cham­ber. Was the­re so­me tro­ub­le that both girls sho­uld be sum­mo­ned to the em­p­ress? Had he and Cor­de­lia be­en se­en so­mew­he­re, ex­c­han­ging ur­gent whis­pers in a cor­ner of the gar­dens? In a fe­ver of an­xi­ety, he be­gan to pa­ce the cor­ri­dor, una­wa­re of the cu­ri­o­us glan­ces he drew from hur­rying ser­vants.

  In the em­p­ress's pri­va­te cham­ber adj­o­ining the audi­en­ce ro­om, Ma­rie An­to­inet­te was em­b­ra­cing her fri­end with te­ars of joy. "I can't be­li­eve it, Cor­de­lia. You're to co­me with me. I won't be alo­ne."

  "His Ma­j­esty has be­en very con­si­de­ra­te, child." Her mot­her smi­led be­nignly at the en­t­wi­ned fin­gers of her da­ug­h­ter and her fri­end. The fri­en­d­s­hip ple­ased her, lar­gely be­ca­use Cor­de­lia, a ye­ar ol­der and a gre­at de­al wi­ser than the ar­c­h­duc­hess, of­ten had a so­be­ring in­f­lu­en­ce. Al­t­ho­ugh it had to be ad­mit­ted that Cor­de­lia's vi­va­city so­me­ti­mes led them both as­t­ray, Ma­ria The­re­sa was con­fi­dent that mar­ri­age and its he­avy so­ci­al bur­dens at the co­urt of Ver­sa­il­les, not to men­ti­on mot­her­ho­od, wo­uld squ­ash any un­de­si­rab­le li­ve­li­ness in both of them.

  "Is this his por­t­ra­it? Oh, let me see." To­inet­te pic­ked up the mi­ni­atu­re and exa­mi­ned it cri­ti­cal­ly. "He's very old."

  "What non­sen­se!" re­bu­ked the em­p­ress. "The prin­ce is in the pri­me of his li­fe. A man of gre­at we­alth and in­f­lu­en­ce at the co­urt."

  "How is it that the vis­co­unt is Prin­ce Mic­ha­el's brot­her-in-law, Ma­da­me? Is he mar­ri­ed to the prin­ce's sis­ter?" Cor­de­lia told her­self it was a per­fectly re­aso­nab­le qu­es­ti­on and that she was only pe­rip­he­ral­ly in­te­res­ted in the an­s­wer.

  "Prin­ce Mic­ha­el was mar­ri­ed to the vis­co­unt's sis­ter," the em­p­ress told her. "Unfor­tu­na­tely, she di­ed so­me ye­ars ago, le­aving twin da­ug­h­ters, I be­li­eve."

  But he co­uld be mar­ri­ed to so­me­one el­se. Why co­uld she not get Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton out of her he­ad? What pos­sib­le dif­fe­ren­ce co­uld it ma­ke to her, whet­her he was mar­ri­ed or not? Cor­de­lia to­ok her­self to task, but her self-rep­ro­of se­emed to lack con­vic­ti­on.

  "Oh, then you're to be a ma­ma im­me­di­ately!" To­inet­te ex­c­la­imed, do­ing a lit­tle pi­ro­u­et­te. "Shall you li­ke it, Cor­de­lia?"

  Anot­her thing no one had tho­ught to tell her, Cor­de­lia ref­lec­ted, star­t­led by this in­for­ma­ti­on. How co­uld she tell whet­her she wo­uld be ab­le to mot­her two un­k­nown lit­tle girls? She wasn't re­ady to be a mot­her to an­yo­ne, she was only just be­gin­ning to try her own wings. "I ho­pe so," she sa­id, kno­wing it to be the only an­s­wer ac­cep­tab­le to the em­p­ress.

  "You must pin the mi­ni­atu­re to yo­ur dress," To­inet­te sa­id. "Li­ke mi­ne." She ges­tu­red to the por­t­ra­it of the da­up­hin that she now wo­re. Deftly, she fas­te­ned the prin­ce's mi­ni­atu­re to Cor­de­lia's mus­lin bo­di­ce. She sto­od back, exa­mi­ning her han­di­work, then ga­ve a lit­tle nod of sa­tis­fac­ti­on. "Now you're pro­perly bet­rot­hed, just as I am."

  "Well, run along now. You must dress for the ball to­night," Ma­ria The­re­sa in­s­t­ruc­ted with anot­her fond smi­le. "You will both lo­ok so be­a­uti­ful… two ex­qu­isi­te bri­des." She pat­ted the fa­ir he­ad and the dark, then kis­sed them both. "Le­ave me now. I ha­ve so­me pa­pers to re­ad be­fo­re din­ner."

  To­inet­te lin­ked arms with Cor­de­lia and dan­ced her out of the im­pe­ri­al pre­sen­ce. "It's so ex­ci­ting," she bur­b­led. "I'm so happy. I was so af­ra­id, al­t­ho­ugh I didn't da­re ad­mit it, but now I'm not at all frig­h­te­ned abo­ut go­ing. We shall ta­ke Ver­sa­il­les by storm, and ever­yo­ne will fall at the fe­et of the two be­a­uti­ful bri­des from Vi­en­na." La­ug­hing, she re­le­ased Cor­de­lia's arm and twir­led away down the cor­ri­dor. Cor­de­lia's he­ad was too full of her own tur­mo­il to be ab­le to en­ter the spi­rit of To­inet­te's exu­be­ran­ce, and she fol­lo­wed mo­re slowly.

  "Cor­de­lia!" Chris­ti­an grab­bed her arm as she pas­sed the em­b­ra­su­re. He jer­ked her in­to the small spa­ce. "What's go­ing on? What's hap­pe­ning? Who was that man you we­re with in the gal­lery?"

  Cor­de­lia glan­ced over her sho­ul­der. A ma­j­or­do­mo had ap­pe­ared aro­und the cor­ner of the cor­ri­dor and was ma­king his self-im­por­tant way to­ward the em­p­ress's do­or. "I'm to be mar­ri­ed," she whis­pe­red. "And the man was Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton; he's to be my proxy hus­band. But we can't talk he­re. Co­me to the oran­gery-the usu­al pla­ce-at mid­night. I'll be ab­le to slip away from the ball then. I've had an ab­so­lu­tely bril­li­ant idea that'll sol­ve all yo­ur prob­lems."

  She put a fin­ger on his lips when it lo­oked as if he was abo­ut to pro­test, then dar­ted anot­her glan­ce at the ap­pro­ac­hing ma­j­or­do­mo be­fo­re swiftly jum­ping on her to­es and kis­sing his che­ek. Then she slip­ped away, wal­king se­da­tely down the cor­ri­dor. Chris­ti­an he­ard her po­li­te gre­eting to the of­fi­ci­al as he wa­ited for the man to pass be­fo­re le­aving the em­b­ra­su­re him­self.

  Cor­de­lia was al­ways full of bril­li­ant ide­as, but how co­uld her get­ting mar­ri­ed and pre­su­mably le­aving Vi­en­na sol­ve any of his prob­lems? It wo­uld simply me­an that he wo­uld lo­se his best fri­end.

  The ga­la re­cep­ti­on that be­gan the we­ek of fes­ti­vi­ti­es to ce­leb­ra­te the ar­c­h­duc­hess's mar­ri­age to the da­up­hin of Fran­ce was held in the Gre­at Gal­lery. The high win­dows we­re ope­ned to the ex­pan­se of tor­c­h­lit gar­dens be­ne­ath, whe­re co­lo­red fo­un­ta­ins pla­yed, the­ir de­li­ca­te cas­ca­des ref­lec­ted in the gold-fra­med crystal mir­rors of the gal­lery.

  Cor­de­lia kept her eye on the clock even when she was whir­led down the li­ne of dan­ce by hot yo­ung men in pow­de­red wigs, the­ir ro­uge run­ning un­der the exer­ti­ons of the dan­ce and the he­at of fo­ur tho­usand can­d­les. Nor­mal­ly, she enj­oyed dan­cing, but to­night she was dis­t­rac­ted. Chris­ti­an had gi­ven a re­ci­tal ear­li­er, his ex­qu­isi­te mu­sic tran­s­por­ting his audi­en­ce. Po­ligny had nod­ded be­nignly thro­ug­ho­ut and had bla­tantly cla­imed the cre­dit both for the com­po­si­ti­on and for his pu­pil's per­for­man­ce for him­self. The em­p­ress had gi­ven Po­ligny a he­avy pur­se at the end, enj­oying the im­p­res­si­on her mu­si­ci­ans had had on her vi­si­tors. The pat­ro­na­ge of ge­ni­uses was a ro­yal ob­li­ga­ti­on, but it was very sa­tis­f­ying to ha­ve it ac­k­now­led­ged. She wo­uld ex­pect Po­ligny to sha­re the pur­se with Chris­ti­an, but Cor­de­lia knew as well as Chris­ti­an that he'd be lucky if he saw so much as a gu­inea.

  Chris­ti­an now cir­c­led aro­und the gal­lery, dan­cing when he was ob­li­ged to do so, ac­cep­ting com­p­li­ments when ne­ces­sary, ma­king him­self ag­re­e­ab­le as a man who li­ved on pat­ro­na­ge must do. He kept his angry chag­rin at Po­ligny's tre­at­ment well hid­den from the crowd.

  The en­ti­re pa­la­ce now knew that Lady Cor­de­lia Bran­den­burg was to be mar­ri­ed to a Prus­si­an prin­ce, am­bas­sa­dor at the co­urt of Ver­sa­il­les, and the
ar­c­h­duc­hess Ma­rie An­to­inet­te wo­uldn't ha­ve to ma­ke her jo­ur­ney in­to her new li­fe alo­ne. But Chris­ti­an was de­so­la­te. Pa­ris was a who­le world away. Sin­ce the mo­ment when he'd co­me upon an an­g­rily we­eping lit­tle girl in the oran­gery fi­ve ye­ars ear­li­er, Cor­de­lia had be­en his best fri­end. He'd com­for­ted her on that oc­ca­si­on and on many anot­her sin­ce, just as she had sup­por­ted him, bol­s­te­ring his con­fi­den­ce, al­ways be­li­eving in him ho­we­ver many ti­mes Po­ligny cut him down, moc­ked him, ma­de use of him. Only when he was with Cor­de­lia did Chris­ti­an be­li­eve truly in his own ge­ni­us.

  Cor­de­lia avo­ided Chris­ti­an as she al­ways did in pub­lic, but she didn't se­em ab­le to be so dis­c­re­et when it ca­me to Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton. Her eyes con­s­tantly se­ar­c­hed the ro­om for him. He was ne­ver on the dan­ce flo­or, pre­fer­ring to stand to one si­de in con­ver­sa­ti­on with so­me high-ran­king French or Aus­t­ri­an co­ur­ti­er. She no­ti­ced that he didn't se­em to lo­ok much at the wo­men, who for the­ir part co­uldn't ta­ke the­ir eyes off him-so dis­tin­gu­is­hed in a pa­le gray silk su­it, black stri­ped wa­is­t­co­at, and ruf­fled cra­vat, his un­pow­de­red black ha­ir con­fi­ned at his na­pe with a gray vel­vet rib­bon.

  Was he mar­ri­ed? Did he ha­ve a mis­t­ress? She co­uldn't stop thin­king abo­ut him… co­uldn't stop lo­oking at him. His ima­ge tor­men­ted her, the qu­es­ti­ons hur­led them­sel­ves at her bra­in. She felt as if she we­re in the grip of bra­in fe­ver, hot and cold al­ter­na­tely, and unab­le to con­cen­t­ra­te on an­y­t­hing. Her par­t­ners fo­und her dis­t­rac­ted and al­most brus­que and ra­rely as­ked her for a se­cond dan­ce.