The Diamond Slipper Read online

  He hadn't men­ti­oned the­se plans to the­ir un­c­le as yet. But then, it wasn't re­al­ly Leo's bu­si­ness, al­t­ho­ugh he'd pro­bably con­si­der that it was. He was as de­vo­ted to the chil­d­ren as he had be­en to the­ir mot­her. Her de­ath had de­vas­ta­ted him. He'd jo­ur­ne­yed from Ro­me to Pa­ris in less than a we­ek when the news had re­ac­hed him, and im­me­di­ately af­ter the fu­ne­ral had left Fran­ce for a twel­ve­month. He wo­uld say not­hing abo­ut what he'd do­ne or whe­re he'd be­en du­ring that ye­ar of gri­ef.

  Mic­ha­el to­ok anot­her sip of cog­nac. Leo's be­sot­ted at­ten­ti­on to El­vi­ra's chil­d­ren was a small pri­ce to pay for his con­ti­nu­ing fri­en­d­s­hip. His brot­her-in-law was a very use­ful fri­end. He knew ever­yo­ne at co­urt, knew exactly which path of in­f­lu­en­ce wo­uld be the qu­ic­kest to ac­hi­eve any par­ti­cu­lar go­al, and he was a born dip­lo­mat. He was an amu­sing com­pa­ni­on, a witty con­ver­sa­ti­ona­list, a su­perb card pla­yer, pas­si­ona­te hun­t­s­man, bru­ising ri­der.

  And the per­fect cho­ice to ta­ke ca­re of his fri­end's wed­ding de­ta­ils. Mic­ha­el smi­led to him­self, re­mem­be­ring how de­lig­h­ted Leo had be­en at the pros­pect of the prin­ce's re­mar­ri­age. Not an oun­ce of re­sen­t­ment that his sis­ter was to be rep­la­ced, just sim­p­le ple­asu­re in the pros­pect of the twins ha­ving a mot­her, and an end to his fri­end's ma­ri­tal lo­ne­li­ness.

  Yes, Leo Be­a­umont was a very splen­did man… if a trif­le gul­lib­le.

  "Oh, Cor­de­lia, I am so fa­ti­gu­ed!" To­inet­te threw her­self on­to a cha­ise with a sigh. "I am so bo­red with lis­te­ning to spe­ec­hes, stan­ding the­re li­ke a dummy whi­le they rat­tle on and on abo­ut pro­to­col and pre­ce­dent. And why do I ha­ve to play this silly ga­me this af­ter­no­on?"

  She le­aped up aga­in with an energy bel­ying her com­p­la­int of fa­ti­gue. "Why do I ha­ve to an­no­un­ce in front of ever­yo­ne that I re­no­un­ce all cla­im to the thro­ne of Aus­t­ria? Isn't it ob­vi­o­us that I do? Be­si­des, the­re's Joseph and Le­opold and Fer­di­nand and Ma­xi­mi­li­an all in li­ne be­fo­re me."

  Cor­de­lia bit in­to a par­ti­cu­larly ju­icy pe­ar. "If you think this is te­di­o­us, To­inet­te, just wa­it un­til you get to Fran­ce. The re­al wed­ding will be twi­ce as pom­po­us as all this pa­la­ver." She slur­ped at the ju­ice be­fo­re it co­uld run down her chin.

  "You're a gre­at com­fort," To­inet­te sa­id glo­omily, flop­ping down aga­in. "It's all right for you, no one's ta­king any no­ti­ce of yo­ur wed­ding."

  "Yes, how very for­tu­na­te I am," Cor­de­lia sa­id dryly. "To be mar­ri­ed in the sha­dow of the ar­c­h­duc­hess Ma­ria An­to­nia and Lo­u­is-Augus­te, da­up­hin of Fran­ce."

  "Oh!" To­inet­te sat up. "Are you un­hap­py that yo­ur wed­ding is to be so qu­i­et? I didn't me­an to hurt yo­ur fe­elings. It must be ter­rib­le to ha­ve no one ta­king any no­ti­ce of you at such an im­por­tant ti­me."

  Cor­de­lia la­ug­hed. "No, it's not in the le­ast ter­rib­le. I was only po­in­ting out the ot­her si­de of the co­in. In fact, the­re's not­hing I wo­uld li­ke less than to be the cen­ter of at­ten­ti­on." She tos­sed the co­re of her pe­ar on­to a sil­ver sal­ver and wi­ped her mo­uth with the back of her hand.

  "Oh, you ha­ve the bra­ce­let back from the jewe­ler." To­inet­te ca­ught the flash of gold in a ray of sun­light.

  "Yes, and it's most stran­ge." Cor­de­lia, frow­ning, un­c­las­ped the bra­ce­let from her wrist. "I didn't no­ti­ce its de­sign when I first lo­oked at it, but it's a ser­pent with an ap­ple in its mo­uth. Lo­ok." She held it out to the ar­c­h­duc­hess.

  To­inet­te to­ok it, hol­ding it al­most gin­gerly in the palm of her hand. "It's be­a­uti­ful, but it's… it's… oh, what's the word?"

  "Si­nis­ter?" Cor­de­lia sup­pli­ed. "Re­pel­lent?"

  To­inet­te shi­ve­red, and to­uc­hed the elon­ga­ted ser­pent's he­ad whe­re a pe­arl ap­ple nes­t­led in its mo­uth. "It is a bit, isn't it? It's very old, I sho­uld think." She han­ded it back with anot­her lit­tle shi­ver.

  "Me­di­eval, the jewe­ler sa­id. He was most im­p­res­sed with it… sa­id he'd ne­ver se­en an­y­t­hing li­ke it ex­cept in an il­lus­t­ra­ti­on in a thir­te­en­th-cen­tury psal­ter. Don't you think it's stran­ge if it's that old that it sho­uld only ha­ve the­se three charms on it? In fact, re­al­ly only two if you don't co­unt the slip­per, which is mi­ne."

  "Per­haps the ot­hers got lost so­mew­he­re along the li­ne."

  "Mmm." Cor­de­lia fin­ge­red the de­li­ca­te fi­lig­ree of a sil­ver ro­se, its cen­ter a de­ep-red ruby. Be­si­de it hung a tiny eme­rald swan, per­fect in every de­ta­il. "I won­der who they be­lon­ged to. Whe­re they ca­me from," she mu­sed.

  "I ex­pect it's very va­lu­ab­le."

  "Yes," Cor­de­lia ag­re­ed, clas­ping it on­ce aga­in aro­und her wrist. "Part of me do­esn't li­ke we­aring it and part of me do­es. It has a kind of gho­ulish fas­ci­na­ti­on, but I do lo­ve the slip­per. Ma­kes me think of Cin­de­rel­la go­ing to the ball."

  She chuc­k­led at her fri­end's in­c­re­du­lo­us ex­p­res­si­on. "Oh, I know I'm not a beg­gar ma­id res­cu­ed by a prin­ce, but we are go­ing to Ver­sa­il­les, which ever­yo­ne says is a fa­iry-ta­le pa­la­ce, and we're es­ca­ping from all this prim pro­to­col, and my un­c­le will ne­ver aga­in be ab­le to bully me. We can dan­ce our li­ves away if we want, and ne­ver aga­in ha­ve to swe­ep the as­hes in the kit­c­hen… Oh, lord, is that the ti­me?" She star­ted, ex­c­la­iming with a mor­ti­fi­ed cry, "Why am I al­ways la­te?" as the cha­pel clock struck no­on, the gong re­so­un­ding thro­ugh the co­ur­t­yard be­yond the win­dow.

  "Be­ca­use you think it's fas­hi­onab­le," To­inet­te rep­li­ed with a kno­wing chuc­k­le. "What are you la­te for this ti­me?"

  "I was sup­po­sed to be in the cha­pel at qu­ar­ter to twel­ve to re­he­ar­se my own proxy mar­ri­age with the chap­la­in. And I didn't me­an to be la­te. It was the bra­ce­let that de­la­yed me." Cor­de­lia grab­bed anot­her pe­ar from the fru­it bowl and he­aded for the do­or. "I don't sup­po­se it'll mat­ter. Fat­her Fe­lix ne­ver ex­pects me to be on ti­me."

  "Yo­ur hus­band might," the ar­c­h­duc­hess com­men­ted, chec­king her ref­lec­ti­on in a sil­ver-bac­ked hand mir­ror.

  Cor­de­lia grin­ned. "My proxy hus­band or the re­al one?"

  "Prin­ce Mic­ha­el, of co­ur­se. The vis­co­unt is just a pup­pet."

  "Oh, I don't think that's the ca­se," Cor­de­lia sa­id con­si­de­ringly. "Leo Be­a­umont's no pup­pet. An­y­way, I'm su­re he's not ex­pec­ted to re­he­ar­se too." She blew To­inet­te a ja­unty kiss as she left.

  She had se­en the vis­co­unt only from a dis­tan­ce sin­ce the en­co­un­ter in the oran­gery two nights ear­li­er. Stran­gely, she'd enj­oyed the dis­tan­ce. She'd hug­ged the tho­ught of him as a de­ep and joy­ful sec­ret, tre­asu­ring his ima­ge, which had fil­led her nig­h­t­ti­me dre­ams and her wa­king in­ter­nal vi­si­on. But she'd be­en only half awa­ke as she'd wat­c­hed him from afar, dwel­ling on this ex­t­ra­or­di­nary, all-en­com­pas­sing, to­tal­ly en­gul­fing lo­ve that had fel­led her li­ke a bolt of lig­h­t­ning, ma­de her so hot with de­si­re she co­uld ha­ve be­en in the grip of a fe­ver.

  Now she was re­ady aga­in for the man of flesh and blo­od. Her body sang at the tho­ught of be­ing clo­se to him, of fe­eling his he­at, in­ha­ling his scent. Her ears lon­ged to he­ar his vo­ice, her eyes to fe­ast upon his co­un­te­nan­ce. This af­ter­no­on, at the re­nun­ci­ati­on ce­re­mony, he wo­uld be be­si­de her, in Prin­ce Mic­ha­el's pla­ce.

  She pus­hed open the do­or to the cha­pel and en­
te­red the dim, in­cen­se-frag­rant in­te­ri­or. "I do beg yo­ur par­don for be­ing la­te, Fat­her." She be­ca­me awa­re of Leo Be­a­umont's pre­sen­ce even be­fo­re she saw him pa­cing res­t­les­sly be­fo­re the al­tar. Her he­art jum­ped in­to her thro­at. "I ask yo­ur par­don, sir. I didn't re­ali­ze you we­re to be re­he­ar­sing too."

  "I un­der­s­tand from Fat­her Fe­lix that you've ne­ver be­en ta­ught that pun­c­tu­ality is the co­ur­tesy of kings," Leo sa­id acidly.

  "Oh, in­de­ed, I know it's im­po­li­te." She ca­me swiftly to­ward him, her eyes glo­wing in her ra­di­ant fa­ce. "But I was tal­king with To­inet­te. My bra­ce­let has co­me back from the jewe­ler and we we­re ad­mi­ring it and the ti­me just went so­mew­he­re." She held out her hand to him, her fin­gers clo­sing over his.

  De­li­be­ra­tely, he pul­led his fin­gers free and in­s­te­ad pic­ked up her wrist, hol­ding it to the light from the ro­se win­dow abo­ve the al­tar. As al­ways, the bra­ce­let's cu­ri­o­us de­sign dis­tur­bed him. The ser­pent that tem­p­ted and ul­ti­ma­tely des­t­ro­yed Eve. So­me­ti­mes he had tho­ught El­vi­ra had be­en the em­bo­di­ment of Eve and that Mic­ha­el had pic­ked his gift with po­in­ted ca­re. He no­ti­ced that the jade he­art was now mis­sing. It had be­en the charm Mic­ha­el had gi­ven to El­vi­ra. Pre­su­mably, he'd tho­ught it mo­re tac­t­ful to re­mo­ve it be­fo­re pas­sing on the gift to El­vi­ra's rep­la­ce­ment.

  He be­ca­me sud­denly con­s­ci­o­us of Cor­de­lia's pul­se ra­cing be­ne­ath his fin­gers as they cir­c­led her wrist. Her skin was hot. He lo­oked in­to her fa­ce, and she smi­led with such se­duc­ti­ve ra­di­an­ce, her eyes so full of joyo­us ex­ci­te­ment, that he drop­ped her wrist as if it we­re a bur­ning brand. For an in­s­tant he clo­sed his eyes aga­inst the bla­zing for­ce of her in­vi­ta­ti­on.

  "Well, now you're he­re, let's be do­ne with this bu­si­ness. I've ot­her things to do with my ti­me." He tur­ned brus­qu­ely to the al­tar. "Fat­her, if you're re­ady."

  The chap­la­in ca­me for­ward with an eager as­sent. "It won't ta­ke long, my lord. Just to ma­ke su­re that you're both fa­mi­li­ar with the ce­re­mony and the bles­sing of the rings."

  Cor­de­lia step­ped up be­si­de Leo. Her skirts brus­hed his thigh. She til­ted her he­ad to lo­ok up at him. "Don't be ve­xed, my lord. I'm truly sorry to ha­ve kept you wa­iting."

  "It's not ne­ces­sary to stand so clo­se to me," he snap­ped in an un­der­to­ne, ta­king a step si­de­ways.

  Cor­de­lia lo­oked hurt.

  "I beg yo­ur par­don, my lord. Is so­met­hing the mat­ter?" The chap­la­in lo­oked up from his pra­yer bo­ok, whe­re he was se­ar­c­hing for the re­le­vant pas­sa­ges.

  "No." Leo sho­ok his he­ad with a sigh. "Not­hing in the world, Fat­her." He sta­red stra­ight ahe­ad, trying to ig­no­re the pul­sing pre­sen­ce be­si­de him. How on earth was he go­ing to ma­na­ge her on the long jo­ur­ney to Pa­ris? Or did he me­an, how on earth was he go­ing to ke­ep his hands off her?

  The ce­re­mony was short, and Fat­her Fe­lix was only too happy to ra­ce thro­ugh it when he re­ali­zed the vis­co­unt's im­pa­ti­en­ce and Lady Cor­de­lia's res­t­less dis­t­rac­ti­on. He clo­sed the bo­ok with re­li­ef af­ter ten mi­nu­tes. "That's re­al­ly all the­re is to it. The bles­sing of the rings will ta­ke fi­ve mi­nu­tes, and, of co­ur­se, the­re'll be an ad­dress to the con­g­re­ga­ti­on. You will ma­ke yo­ur con­fes­si­on be­fo­re the ser­vi­ce, Lady Cor­de­lia, so that you will be in a sta­te of gra­ce when you ma­ke yo­ur vows."

  "And His Lor­d­s­hip too?"

  "As this is a mar­ri­age by pro­cu­ra­ti­on, my lady, Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton do­es not ha­ve the sa­me ob­li­ga­ti­ons."

  "Qu­ite apart from the fact that I don't prac­ti­ce yo­ur fa­ith," Leo sta­ted. "Now, if you'll both ex­cu­se me, I ha­ve so­me bu­si­ness to at­tend to."

  Fat­her Fe­lix of­fe­red a bles­sing and di­sap­pe­ared in­to the sac­risty.

  "Oh, no, wa­it!" Cor­de­lia gat­he­red up her skirts and ran to catch up with the vis­co­unt as he stro­de out of the cha­pel. "Don't go yet." She slip­ped her hand in­to his arm, pul­ling him asi­de in­to a small si­de cha­pel. "What a re­li­ef it must be not to ha­ve to go to con­fes­si­on." She to­ok a bi­te of the pe­ar she'd be­en hol­ding in her hand thro­ug­ho­ut the re­he­ar­sal. "I tend to be rat­her for­get­ful when it co­mes to re­mem­be­ring my sins."

  Her chuc­k­le was so in­fec­ti­o­us that Leo co­uldn't help a res­pon­ding smi­le. "Se­lec­ti­ve me­mory has its uses." He co­uldn't drag his eyes away from her lit­tle whi­te te­eth bi­ting in­to the suc­cu­lent flesh of the pe­ar.

  "I was won­de­ring if lo­ving co­uld be con­si­de­red a sin," Cor­de­lia mum­b­led thro­ugh anot­her mo­ut­h­ful of pe­ar. "I don't know why it sho­uld ha­ve hap­pe­ned that I lo­ve you the way I do, but it's a fact, and I don't re­al­ly be­li­eve that God wo­uld frown upon it."

  "Oh, in the na­me of mercy, Cor­de­lia!" Leo jer­ked his arm free. "You don't know what you're tal­king abo­ut." He gla­red down at her. "And you've got pe­ar ju­ice run­ning all down yo­ur chin."

  "But I do know what I'm tal­king abo­ut," Cor­de­lia pro­tes­ted firmly, se­ar­c­hing thro­ugh her poc­kets. "Oh de­ar, I se­em to ha­ve mis­la­id my han­d­ker­c­hi­ef. They're such ju­icy pe­ars, you see."

  With a mut­te­red ex­c­la­ma­ti­on, Leo pul­led out his own han­d­ker­c­hi­ef and scrub­bed at her chin. "You ha­ve to stop this fan­ci­ful non­sen­se, Cor­de­lia. Do you he­ar me?" He thrust his han­d­ker­c­hi­ef back in­to his poc­ket.

  "I he­ar you. But I don't con­si­der it to be non­sen­se." She ga­ve him a se­re­ne smi­le. "To­mor­row night, in the Hof­burg cha­pel, you will be my hus­band."

  "Proxy!" he cri­ed, flin­ging up his hands in frus­t­ra­ti­on. "Proxy hus­band!"

  "Yes, well, that's just a de­ta­il." She lo­oked aro­und for so­mew­he­re to dis­po­se of her pe­ar co­re, then with a shrug sho­ved it in­to her poc­ket. "Don't you see, Leo? This is me­ant to be. I know it in my blo­od. The­re are so­me ob­s­tac­les, I know, but not­hing we can't over­co­me."

  "Are you run qu­ite mad?" He lo­oked at her hel­p­les­sly.

  She sho­ok her he­ad. "No. Kiss me and you'll see what I me­an."

  "Oh no." He bac­ked away from her, hol­ding up his hands as if to ward her off. She was Eve, and the ser­pent bra­ce­let gle­amed on her slen­der wrist as she re­ac­hed for his hand.

  "Kiss me," she re­pe­ated, her vo­ice low and swe­et, her eyes bec­ko­ning him with a si­ren's en­c­han­t­ment, her par­ted lips of­fe­ring en­t­ran­ce to the lush sec­rets of her body. Her hand clo­sed over his and she step­ped up to him. Light from the sta­ined-glass win­dow pla­yed over her up­tur­ned fa­ce, and a bar of gold lay ac­ross her milk whi­te thro­at. "Kiss me, Leo."

  He ca­ught her fa­ce bet­we­en both his hands. The ur­ge to bring his mo­uth to hers was over­w­hel­ming. His lips se­emed to sing with the me­mory of the ti­mes he had kis­sed her, and she was lo­oking up at him with all the ex­pec­tant won­der of sen­su­al awa­ke­ning. He co­uld fe­el his fin­gers de­eply im­p­rin­ting the soft skin of her che­eks. The­re was a de­mon he­re, in her or in him­self, he didn't know, but so­me­how it must be exor­ci­sed. He lo­oked down at her, his eyes se­eming to pi­er­ce the shell of her body to the so­ul be­ne­ath.

  Abruptly, his hands drop­ped from her fa­ce. He tur­ned and stro­de from the cha­pel, and the do­or clan­ged shut be­hind him.

  Cor­de­lia bit her lip on her di­sap­po­in­t­ment. She felt empty, as if she'd be­en pro­mi­sed so­met­hing that had be­en in­com­p­re­hen­sibly wit­h­d­rawn. And yet she was cer­ta­in that he did fe­el
what she felt-that they we­re so­me­how bo­und to each ot­her. It wasn't a cer­ta­inty that she co­uld ima­gi­ne eit­her ig­no­ring or qu­es­ti­oning.

  Chapter Four

  Leo was bo­red, but no one wo­uld gu­ess it from his smi­ling at­ten­ti­on, his easy con­ver­sa­ti­on, his dip­lo­ma­tic ap­pe­aran­ce of ple­asu­re in the eve­ning. He dis­li­ked cos­tu­me balls mo­re than an­y­t­hing, and in Pa­ris or Lon­don he wo­uld ha­ve ap­pe­ared in his re­gu­lar dress, may­be car­rying a loo mask as to­ken con­t­ri­bu­ti­on to the fes­ti­vi­ti­es. But in Vi­en­na he was a fo­re­ign gu­est, a mem­ber of a de­le­ga­ti­on, and it wo­uld be dis­co­ur­te­o­us to spurn his hos­tess's en­ter­ta­in­ment. So now he was clad as a Ro­man se­na­tor in a pur­p­le-ed­ged to­ga, but as if to em­p­ha­si­ze his dis­li­ke of the en­ter­ta­in­ment, his loo mask dan­g­led neg­li­gently from one fin­ger.

  He shif­ted from one fo­ot to the ot­her and wat­c­hed the clock. At mid­night ever­yo­ne wo­uld be un­mas­ked, and if he slip­ped away a lit­tle be­fo­re­hand, he co­uld re­turn dres­sed as him­self wit­ho­ut dra­wing com­ment.