The Diamond Slipper Read online

  Cor­de­lia didn't re­ali­ze that the vis­co­unt was ob­ser­ving her as clo­sely as she was ob­ser­ving him. Leo was thin­king that she bo­re no physi­cal re­sem­b­lan­ce to El­vi­ra, who had be­en fa­ir and sta­tu­es­que, un­li­ke this spri­tely dark be­a­uty with the cre­amy skin and de­ep-set eyes that we­re so­me­ti­mes blue as tur­qu­o­ise and so­me­ti­mes gray as char­co­al. But he was con­vin­ced that the two wo­men sha­red so­met­hing el­se. Pas­si­on and a sen­su­al ap­pe­ti­te that wo­uld dri­ve a man wild. He had wat­c­hed El­vi­ra be­fo­re her mar­ri­age work her ma­gic with her rich la­ugh of ple­asu­re and a ca­re­less toss of her blon­de ma­ne. Prin­ce Mic­ha­el had not be­en the first in her bed, but that was only to be ex­pec­ted when a wo­man as li­vely and sop­his­ti­ca­ted as El­vi­ra wa­ited in­to her twen­ti­es be­fo­re ac­cep­ting a hus­band. She had in­sis­ted that Mic­ha­el had ne­ver qu­es­ti­oned her abo­ut her past. He was a man of the world; he wo­uldn't ha­ve ex­pec­ted a wo­man of the world to be a vir­gin. But so­me­ti­mes Leo won­de­red how true that was. Mic­ha­el cul­ti­va­ted a smo­oth dip­lo­ma­tic co­ur­tesy and Leo had ne­ver se­en it crack, but it was hard to be­li­eve the­re we­ren't so­me ot­her cur­rents be­ne­ath the sur­fa­ce.

  Leo sip­ped cham­pag­ne and wat­c­hed the prin­ce's des­ti­ned se­cond bri­de go thro­ugh the mo­ti­ons of the mi­nu­et, gra­ce­ful­ly but wit­ho­ut en­t­hu­si­asm. Her par­t­ner was lo­oking bo­red. Lady Cor­de­lia tur­ned on the flo­or and on­ce aga­in her eyes met the vis­co­unt's. A flush star­ted on her che­eks, her lips par­ted, her eyes glo­wed.

  He swung away from her. Holy Mot­her, what was she do­ing? First so­me po­or so­ul be­hind the ta­pestry scre­en and now she'd tur­ned her en­c­han­t­ment upon him, God help him!

  The pa­la­ce clocks chi­med mid­night and the gu­ests strol­led thro­ugh the gal­lery to the sup­per ro­oms, whe­re bur­ned cham­pag­ne, gre­en go­ose, qu­a­il in as­pic, larks' ton­gu­es, sal­mon mo­us­se, oy­s­ter bar­qu­et­tes, and crab pat­ti­es awa­ited them.

  Leo re­ma­ined in the gal­lery, sta­ring mo­odily out in­to the gar­dens, whe­re the light from the win­dows spil­led on­to the lawns and the gra­vel paths. He sip­ped from his re­fil­led glass. Be­hind him the mu­si­ci­ans con­ti­nu­ed to play softly, the so­unds of la­ug­h­ter and the chink of glass and chi­na drif­ted from the sup­per ro­oms.

  A fi­gu­re ap­pe­ared be­low him, on the cur­ved sto­ne sta­ir­ca­se le­ading to the gar­den. She pas­sed be­ne­ath the li­ne of fla­ming tor­c­hes ed­ging the sto­ne-flag­ged ter­ra­ce, and her black ha­ir sho­ne with blue fi­res. Her gown of ivory ga­uze swa­yed gra­ce­ful­ly aro­und her as she step­ped on­to a gra­vel path run­ning bet­we­en the par­ter­res and wal­ked swiftly to­ward the oran­gery.

  Now whe­re in the de­vil's na­me was she go­ing, sne­aking away in the mid­dle of the night? Leo put his glass down on the win­dow­sill and stro­de from the gal­lery, down the gre­at sta­ir­ca­se to the do­ors ope­ning on­to the sto­ne sta­irs. If this was anot­her tryst, he was ob­li­ged in his ro­le as Mic­ha­el's proxy to put a stop to it. She was bet­rot­hed and co­uld no lon­ger run aro­und li­ke a scho­ol­girl pur­su­ing her own but­ter­f­li­es.

  He ca­ught a glim­p­se of ivory di­sap­pe­aring in­to the dar­k­ness of the oran­gery and qu­ic­ke­ned his step.

  Insi­de the swe­etly frag­rant glas­sho­use, Cor­de­lia mo­ved uner­ringly down the third al­ley, her fe­et clic­king on the sto­ne flo­or. Bra­zi­ers we­re lit even on such a mild night, cod­dling the ra­re or­c­hids, the exo­tic fru­it tre­es, the lush gra­pe vi­nes in the ar­bor.

  "Chris­ti­an? Are you he­re?" Her vo­ice so­un­ded un­na­tu­ral­ly lo­ud in the si­len­ce as she ca­me to the end of the ais­le and lo­oked aro­und in the se­mi­dar­k­ness.

  "He­re." Chris­ti­an step­ped from be­hind a palm tree. His fa­ce was pa­le in the glo­om. "Is it true? You're to go to Fran­ce, to marry so­me Prus­si­an prin­ce?"

  "Yes," she sa­id softly, "but lis­ten. Why don't you ac­com­pany me? You can find a new pat­ron at Ver­sa­il­les and be yo­ur own mas­ter, not a pu­pil any lon­ger. If I can per­su­ade the em­p­ress to re­le­ase you, as a sort of wed­ding pre­sent, then you'll be free of Po­ligny."

  "But even if the em­p­ress do­es re­le­ase me, I ha­ve no mo­ney. How can I ma­ke the jo­ur­ney?"

  "Why do you al­ways lo­ok for dif­fi­cul­ti­es?" Cor­de­lia sa­id im­pa­ti­ently, pun­c­hing his arm with her small fist. "We'll ma­na­ge so­met­hing."

  Chris­ti­an still lo­oked do­ub­t­ful, but tur­ned the su­bj­ect to Cor­de­lia's con­cerns. "Is this him?" He po­ked the mi­ni­atu­re pin­ned to her dress with a fin­ger­tip, as if it we­re so­met­hing dis­gus­ting or har­m­ful.

  "Yes. I ha­ve to we­ar it." She tip­ped it up and pe­ered down at it. "Do you think I shall li­ke him?"

  Chris­ti­an exa­mi­ned the mi­ni­atu­re mo­re clo­sely. "He lo­oks hard. But per­haps that's just the por­t­ra­it," he ad­ded has­tily, an­xi­o­us to re­as­su­re her. "Pe­op­le al­ways lo­ok too com­po­sed in por­t­ra­its."

  "Mmm." It was Cor­de­lia's turn to lo­ok do­ub­t­ful. "I won­der if he'll li­ke me."

  "Of co­ur­se he will. How co­uld an­yo­ne not li­ke you?" He hug­ged her tightly to him. "I'm go­ing to miss you so."

  "No, you're not," she mum­b­led aga­inst his chest. "Be­ca­use you're co­ming too."

  "Are you both in­sa­ne?"

  Chris­ti­an jum­ped back with a star­t­led cry, his hands fal­ling from her body. He sta­red over Cor­de­lia's he­ad in­to the pa­le glim­mer of Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton's fa­ce.

  "Of all the stu­pid, rec­k­less things to do. Lady Cor­de­lia is bet­rot­hed; the pa­la­ce is craw­ling with gu­ards, of­fi­ci­als, gu­ests. And the two of you kiss and cud­dle among the oran­ge tre­es li­ke a pa­ir of vil­la­ge sim­p­le­tons!"

  Cor­de­lia sta­red at him, for­get­ting the stran­ge ef­fect he had on her in her re­sen­t­ment at this fu­ri­o­us and be­wil­de­ring cas­ti­ga­ti­on. "We we­ren't do­ing an­y­t­hing of the kind, as it hap­pens. Not that it's any of yo­ur bu­si­ness what I do," she sta­ted, as Chris­ti­an was still trying to re­co­ver his wits.

  "You for­get. I am to stand proxy for yo­ur hus­band," he sa­id curtly. "That ma­kes yo­ur bu­si­ness very much mi­ne, my lady. And most par­ti­cu­larly when it le­ads to this kind of self-in­dul­gent idi­ocy. Ha­ve you gi­ven any tho­ught to what wo­uld hap­pen if you we­re dis­co­ve­red?" He sta­red at them, an­ger fa­ding to exas­pe­ra­ti­on. "What a pa­ir of fo­olish chil­d­ren you are."

  He tur­ned to the still ton­gue-ti­ed Chris­ti­an and sa­id mo­re kindly, "Be off with you, now. Yo­ur bu­si­ness he­re is do­ne. If you wish to do Cor­de­lia a fa­vor, you'll ke­ep out of her way un­til she le­aves he­re. It will be easi­er on both of you." A smi­le glim­me­red in the dim­ness and he pat­ted

  Chris­ti­an's sho­ul­der. "First lo­ve hurts, I know. But it do­es ease.

  Chris­ti­an lo­oked blankly at the man who he as­su­med was Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton, sin­ce he'd sa­id he was Cor­de­lia's proxy hus­band. But he se­emed to ha­ve ta­ken hold of the wrong end of the stick. Chris­ti­an cle­ared his thro­at and sa­id, "Of co­ur­se I lo­ve Cor­de­lia, sir, she's my best fri­end. But we're not in lo­ve, if that's what you're im­p­l­ying."

  "No," Cor­de­lia ag­re­ed tartly. "We we­re simply ha­ving a fri­endly con­ver­sa­ti­on."

  "A fri­endly con­ver­sa­ti­on at de­ad of night, loc­ked in each ot­her's arms in a sec­lu­ded oran­gery!" Leo scof­fed. "What kind of a fo­ol do you ta­ke me for?"

  "One who's blind as a bat," Cor­de­lia re­tor­ted. "Chris­t
i­an was just hug­ging me."

  "I think I'd bet­ter go," Chris­ti­an sa­id, re­ading Leo's in­c­re­du­lity wit­ho­ut dif­fi­culty. "We're not ha­ving an as­sig­na­ti­on, sir, but it's true that Cor­de­lia sho­uldn't be he­re with me. It's not ap­prop­ri­ate for the em­p­ress's god­da­ug­h­ter to ma­ke a fri­end of a me­re mu­si­ci­an." He spo­ke with a qu­i­et dig­nity, bo­wed stiffly, and wal­ked away.

  Leo's exas­pe­ra­ti­on fa­ded. The lad's com­po­su­re was con­vin­cing. May­be he'd co­me to the wrong con­c­lu­si­on, but it didn't al­ter the fact that Mic­ha­el's bet­rot­hed had no right to be do­ing wha­te­ver she had be­en do­ing, ho­we­ver in­no­cent it might ha­ve be­en. He tur­ned back to Cor­de­lia, who now sto­od si­lent and still in the sha­dows. He cro­oked a fin­ger at her. "Co­me he­re, my lady."

  Cor­de­lia step­ped in­to the dim light. She re­tur­ned his scru­tiny. All her an­ger had dis­si­pa­ted and that stran­ge thing was hap­pe­ning to her aga­in. They we­re alo­ne in this dark and frag­rant pla­ce, and she co­uld think of only one way to dis­pel the con­fu­si­on ra­ging in her bra­in, po­uring thro­ugh her ve­ins with every he­ar­t­be­at. "Wo­uld you kiss me, li­ke you did this af­ter­no­on?"

  "Wo­uld I what?

  "Ple­ase kiss me," she re­pe­ated pa­ti­ently. "It's very im­por­tant."

  "My God, you are be­yond be­li­ef!"

  Cor­de­lia didn't say an­y­t­hing, me­rely step­ped up to him. He wan­ted to mo­ve back but he co­uldn't, it was as if she'd bo­und him with in­vi­sib­le thre­ads. He co­uld fe­el the he­at of her body, smell the frag­ran­ce of her skin and ha­ir. She lo­oked si­lently up at him, her eyes wi­de and lu­mi­no­us.

  "Ple­ase." She ra­ised her hands to hold his fa­ce and then pul­led his he­ad down to hers.

  Why co­uldn't he mo­ve? Why co­uldn't he stop this? But he co­uldn't. He co­uldn't re­sist the po­wer of her pas­si­on or pre­vent the rush of his own. His hands en­cir­c­led her thro­at, fe­eling the pul­se be­ating wildly aga­inst his thumb. Her mo­uth ope­ned be­ne­ath his, her ton­gue dar­ting aga­inst his, tas­ting the flesh of his che­eks, the mo­ist un­der­si­de of his ton­gue, run­ning over his lips. Her bre­asts ri­sing abo­ve the low nec­k­li­ne cri­ed out for his to­uch. His hands slid down the co­lumn of her thro­at, mo­ved over the soft swell of flesh. A fin­ger dip­ped in­to her nec­k­li­ne, and her nip­ple was hard and erect as he to­uc­hed it. All the whi­le her hungry mo­uth en­gul­fed him, se­eming to draw him up from his body's co­re, her de­man­ding swe­et­ness he­ady on his ton­gue.

  With a sup­re­me ef­fort, he bro­ke free of the web her body was spin­ning aro­und him, a web who­se gos­sa­mer strands we­re ma­de up of her scent, her tas­te, the lit­he fe­el of her be­ne­ath his hands.

  "Holy Mot­her! Eno­ugh!" He pus­hed her from him and ran his hands over his fa­ce, his mo­uth, tra­cing her im­p­rint on his flesh. "What kind of sor­ce­ress are you?"

  Cor­de­lia sho­ok her he­ad, sa­ying with soft won­der, "No sor­ce­ress. But I lo­ve you."

  "Don't be ab­surd." He strug­gled to re­ga­in his com­po­su­re. "You're a spo­ilt and he­ad­s­t­rong child."

  "No." She sho­ok her he­ad aga­in. "No, I'm not. I've ne­ver lo­ved an­yo­ne li­ke this be­fo­re. Oh, on­ce Chris­ti­an and I tho­ught that per­haps we lo­ved each ot­her in that way, but it didn't last a we­ek. I ne­ver wan­ted him to kiss me the way I ne­eded you to. I know what I fe­el."

  The­re was such calm con­vic­ti­on in her vo­ice, in her eyes, in her smi­le. She lo­oked as smug and sa­tis­fi­ed and as su­re of her­self as any cat with a sa­ucer of cre­am.

  Leo la­ug­hed, thin­king des­pe­ra­tely that may­be to­le­rant amu­se­ment wo­uld pun­c­tu­re her in­ti­mi­da­ting self-pos­ses­si­on. "You know not­hing, my de­ar girl. Not­hing at all. You're at the mercy of a host of emo­ti­ons you don't as yet un­der­s­tand. They be­long in the ma­ri­tal cham­ber and you'll un­der­s­tand them so­on eno­ugh. I bla­me myself. I sho­uld ne­ver ha­ve kis­sed you."

  "I kis­sed you just then," she cor­rec­ted simply. "Be­ca­use I ne­eded to."

  He ran a hand thro­ugh his ha­ir, dis­tur­bing the thick black locks wa­ving off his bro­ad fo­re­he­ad. "Now, lis­ten to me, Cor­de­lia. It was all my fa­ult. I sho­uld ne­ver ha­ve te­ased you the way I did in the gal­lery ear­li­er. I didn't re­ali­ze, God help me, that I was pla­ying with fi­re. But you must now put all this non­sen­se abo­ut lo­ve be­hind you. You're go­ing to be the wi­fe of Prin­ce Mic­ha­el von Sac­h­sen. That is yo­ur des­tiny. And you will only hurt yo­ur­self if you don't ac­cept it."

  Cor­de­lia tuc­ked a lo­ose­ning rin­g­let be­hind her ear. "Are you mar­ri­ed?"

  "No." He an­s­we­red the sim­p­le qu­es­ti­on wit­ho­ut tho­ught. "Do you ha­ve a mis­t­ress?"

  "Do I what?" The chan­ge of tack left him mo­men­ta­rily spe­ec­h­less, un­til he re­ali­zed that it wasn't a chan­ge of tack at all.

  "A mis­t­ress?" she re­pe­ated, tuc­king away anot­her rin­g­let. "Do you ha­ve one at pre­sent?"

  "Get out of he­re, Cor­de­lia, be­fo­re I re­al­ly lo­se my tem­per."

  "I won­der what that wo­uld be li­ke," she sa­id mis­c­hi­evo­usly, then bac­ked away as he step­ped to­ward her. "Oh de­ar, I ha­ve ma­de you cross. Well, you ne­edn't an­s­wer me now I'll ask you aga­in when you're mo­re used to the idea."

  She blew him a kiss, tur­ned, and mo­ved away in­to the dar­k­ness. He sto­od wat­c­hing the glim­mer of her ivory gown waf­ting as if di­sem­bo­di­ed un­til even that had va­nis­hed and he was left only with the lin­ge­ring scent of her.

  Chapter Three

  Ra­in las­hed the win­dow­pa­ne, and a chill dra­ught set the fla­mes in the he­arth flic­ke­ring. Prin­ce Mic­ha­el von Sac­h­sen put down his pen and le­aned to­ward the fi­re, hol­ding out his hands to the warmth. Ap­ril in Pa­ris was not al­ways a soft ti­me of bud­ding tre­es and nod­ding spring flo­wers; the wind and ra­in co­uld be as raw as on any win­ter day.

  He pic­ked up his pen aga­in and con­ti­nu­ed with his wri­ting, co­ve­ring the thick vel­lum pa­ge of the le­at­her­bo­und bo­ok with a spi­dery slo­ping scrawl. At the end of the pa­ge, he la­id down his pen. For twenty ye­ars he hadn't mis­sed a da­ily entry: a scru­pu­lo­usly ac­cu­ra­te ac­co­un­ting of his day, with every event, every sig­ni­fi­cant tho­ught pun­c­ti­li­o­usly re­cor­ded.

  He re­re­ad the entry be­fo­re san­ding the pa­ge and clo­sing the bo­ok. He car­ri­ed the jo­ur­nal over to an iron­bo­und chest be­ne­ath the win­dow. He to­ok a key from his poc­ket and un­loc­ked the chest's brass pad­lock. He kept the chest loc­ked even when he was in the ro­om. It con­ta­ined too many dan­ge­ro­us sec­rets. He lif­ted the he­avy lid and in­ser­ted the jo­ur­nal at the end of a row of iden­ti­cal vo­lu­mes, each one with the ye­ar em­bos­sed on the spi­nes that fa­ced up­ward. His hand drif­ted over the spi­nes. His in­dex fin­ger ho­oked the top of the vo­lu­me for 1765, flip­ping it up. He ope­ned it, stan­ding with his back to the fi­re. The pa­ge fell open to Feb­ru­ary 6. The­re was only one li­ne on the pa­ge: At six o'clock this eve­ning, El­vi­ra pa­id for her fa­it­h­les­sness.

  The prin­ce clo­sed the bo­ok and rep­la­ced it in the chest. The lid drop­ped with a thud and he tur­ned the key in the pad­lock, drop­ping the key back in­to his poc­ket. A gre­en log his­sed in the gra­te, ac­cen­tu­ating the si­len­ce of the ro­om, in­de­ed of the en­ti­re ho­use at this de­ad ho­ur of the night. He pic­ked up his neg­lec­ted glass of cog­nac and sip­ped, sta­ring down in­to the spit­ting fi­re, be­fo­re tur­ning res­t­les­sly back to the sec­re­ta­ire whe­re he'd be­en wri­ting his jo­ur­nal.

  He ope­ned a dra­wer an
d to­ok out the mi­ni­atu­re in its mot­her-of-pe­arl fra­me. A yo­ung, smi­ling fa­ce lo­oked out at him. Ra­ven black rin­g­lets fra­med her co­un­te­nan­ce-fresh skin, lar­ge, de­ep-set blue-gray eyes, a tur­ned-up no­se that ga­ve her a rat­her im­pish lo­ok.

  Lady Cor­de­lia Bran­den­burg. Aged six­te­en, god­da­ug­h­ter of an em­p­ress, ni­ece of a du­ke. Im­pec­cab­le li­ne­age and a very ple­asing co­un­te­nan­ce… but one that bo­re no re­sem­b­lan­ce to El­vi­ra's. Cor­de­lia was as dark as El­vi­ra had be­en fa­ir. His ga­ze lif­ted to the por­t­ra­it abo­ve the man­tel. El­vi­ra, just af­ter the birth of the twins. She rec­li­ned on a cha­ise lon­gue, clad in a crim­son vel­vet cham­ber ro­be. Her vo­lup­tu­o­us bo­som, even ful­ler af­ter the birth, ro­se from a la­ce-ed­ged bo­di­ce. A rich vel­vet fold ca­res­sed the cur­ve of her hip. One hand res­ted neg­li­gently in her lap. Aro­und her wrist glit­te­red the charm bra­ce­let that her hus­band had gi­ven her on the birth of the chil­d­ren. At first glan­ce an ob­ser­ver wo­uld miss its cu­ri­osity, but the ar­tist had ca­ught the bra­ce­let's in­t­ri­ca­te de­sign, a ray of sun­light thro­wing it in­to sharp re­li­ef aga­inst the lush crim­son lap. El­vi­ra was smi­ling the smi­le Mic­ha­el re­mem­be­red so well, the one that dro­ve him to mad­ness. So de­fi­ant, so de­ri­si­ve. Even when she was ter­ri­fi­ed and he co­uld fe­el her fe­ar, she ga­ve him that smi­le.

  How many lo­vers had she had? With how many men had she bet­ra­yed him? Even now the qu­es­ti­on twis­ted in his so­ul li­ke a fat mag­got. Even now, when El­vi­ra was no lon­ger he­re to ta­unt him with her de­fi­an­ce.

  He lo­oked down aga­in at the mi­ni­atu­re on his palm. He had co­ve­ted El­vi­ra in the early days, but he wo­uld ne­ver ex­po­se him­self to such we­ak­ness aga­in. He wo­uld ta­ke this wo­man be­ca­use he ne­eded an he­ir. And he ne­eded a wo­man in his bed. He was not a man who enj­oyed pa­ying for his ple­asu­res; it left a so­ur tas­te in his mo­uth. This fresh yo­ung wo­man wo­uld aro­use his flag­ging ener­gi­es, wo­uld bring him ple­asu­re as well as the fru­its of her lo­ins. And she co­uld oc­cupy her­self use­ful­ly with the twins. Leo was right that they ne­eded mo­re com­p­lex scho­oling than the­ir go­ver­ness co­uld pro­vi­de. The prin­ce had lit­tle in­te­rest in them him­self, but they ne­eded to be edu­ca­ted in the du­ti­es of wo­man­ho­od if they we­re to ma­ke sa­tis­fac­tory wi­ves. He was al­re­ady plan­ning the­ir bet­rot­hals. Fo­ur ye­ars old was not too so­on to ma­ke the most ad­van­ta­ge­o­us con­nec­ti­ons for him­self. They wo­uldn't marry for anot­her ni­ne or ten ye­ars, of co­ur­se, but a wi­se man pre­pa­red early.