The Diamond Slipper Read online

  In the me­an­ti­me he con­ver­sed with one half of his mind whi­le his eyes co­vertly ra­ked the throng for Cor­de­lia. She'd be­en at the ban­qu­et, dres­sed in a gown of ce­les­ti­al blue qu­il­ted taf­fe­ta over a pet­ti­co­at of pa­lest blue. Her mid­night black rin­g­lets clus­te­red on her whi­te sho­ul­ders, ca­ught up at the back in a pe­arl comb. Her wrist was cir­c­led with her bet­rot­hal bra­ce­let, and he no­ti­ced how she pla­yed with it ab­sently when her hands had not­hing el­se to do.

  He had tri­ed not to lo­ok at her, but, fa­iling in that, had con­cen­t­ra­ted on con­ce­aling his ob­ser­va­ti­on. She had cast him se­ve­ral spe­aking glan­ces ac­ross the wi­de ex­pan­se of the ban­qu­et tab­le, but he had re­fu­sed to re­turn them, pre­ten­ding to see only the bril­li­ant glit­ter of the chan­de­li­ers, the crystal sea of glass, the glin­ting pla­nes of sil­ver and gold sal­vers that stret­c­hed bet­we­en them.

  But he co­uldn't deny that she was en­t­ran­cing. She bub­bled with li­fe, and her tab­le com­pa­ni­ons we­re ref­lec­ted in her light and la­ug­h­ter. She se­emed to scin­til­la­te at the cen­ter of the pe­op­le aro­und her, and Leo aga­in saw El­vi­ra. No one co­uld be in the sa­me ro­om with El­vi­ra wit­ho­ut be­co­ming wit­ti­er, pret­ti­er, han­d­so­mer, li­ve­li­er. Even Mic­ha­el in the early days of the­ir mar­ri­age had ta­ken on so­me of her hu­es.

  Ame­lia and Sylvie oc­ca­si­onal­ly sho­wed glim­p­ses of the­ir mot­her's spi­rit, but they we­re in­ti­mi­da­ted by the­ir do­ur go­ver­ness, who was un­der strict or­ders from her em­p­lo­yer to stamp out any signs of un­se­emly li­ve­li­ness in the girls and to tra­in and edu­ca­te them to know the­ir duty.

  Leo, sud­denly awa­re of his clen­c­hed jaw, for­ced his tho­ughts back to the bal­lro­om. He ma­de so­me va­gue ob­ser­va­ti­on to his com­pa­ni­on as they sto­od at the si­de of the bal­lro­om, his eyes still se­ar­c­hing the crowd of dan­cers for Cor­de­lia. She wo­uld ha­ve chan­ged in­to her cos­tu­me af­ter din­ner, but he was su­re he'd know her, no mat­ter how ela­bo­ra­te her dis­gu­ise. Not­hing wo­uld con­ce­al the es­sen­ti­al Cor­de­lia.

  When his com­pa­ni­on's at­ten­ti­on was cla­imed by anot­her gu­est, he to­ok the op­por­tu­nity to mo­ve away, strol­ling aro­und the bal­lro­om, avo­iding the stra­te­gi­cal­ly pla­ced fi­re­men with the­ir pum­ps-eight hun­d­red of them sta­ti­oned in the win­dow em­b­ra­su­res to watch the tho­usands of can­d­les. He'd be­en told that the em­p­ress had in­s­tal­led me­di­ci­nes, beds for emer­gen­ci­es, and physi­ci­ans in the apar­t­ments sur­ro­un­ding the tem­po­rary wo­oden struc­tu­re of the bal­lro­om in the gro­unds of the Bel­ve­de­re Pa­la­ce. It struck him as typi­cal of that mo­narch's ob­ses­si­on with de­ta­il.

  A qu­ad­ril­le was be­ing dan­ced by fo­ur squ­ares of co­up­les. He pa­used to watch, his eye im­me­di­ately fal­ling upon a lis­so­me fi­gu­re scan­da­lo­usly clad in brit­c­hes that mol­ded her cal­ves and thighs. A tu­nic co­ve­red her hips for the most part, but when she mo­ved in the dan­ce, the tu­nic mo­ved with her, of­fe­ring tan­ta­li­zing glim­p­ses of a small ro­und bot­tom.

  Her ha­ir was pul­led back from her brow and con­fi­ned in a silk sno­od, her black silk loo mask co­ve­red eyes and no­se, but Leo knew im­me­di­ately that it was Cor­de­lia. What in Lu­ci­fer's na­me was she pla­ying at? He pur­sed his lips on a so­un­d­less whis­t­le and glan­ced in­vo­lun­ta­rily to­ward the da­is whe­re the em­p­ress sat with her da­ug­h­ter, her sons, and the se­ni­or co­ur­ti­ers of both Fran­ce and Aus­t­ria. Did she ha­ve the fa­in­test idea that her god­da­ug­h­ter was dres­sed in this scan­da­lo­us fas­hi­on? Cor­de­lia was sa­fe from Du­ke Franz be­ca­use his go­ut kept him from the ball, but she was still ris­king se­ri­o­us cen­su­re. And she was dra­wing every eye in her vi­ci­nity.

  She was out­ra­ge­o­us and ut­terly se­duc­ti­ve. And af­ter to­mor­row eve­ning's proxy mar­ri­age, she wo­uld be to­tal­ly in his char­ge un­til he de­li­ve­red her to Prin­ce Mic­ha­el. It wo­uld be his res­pon­si­bi­lity to see she didn't flo­ut the con­ven­ti­ons on the pro­ces­si­on thro­ugh Fran­ce. The­re wo­uld be ri­gidly de­fi­ned ru­les of eti­qu­et­te for this ce­re­mo­ni­al jo­ur­ney with its many stops as the French pe­op­le we­re in­t­ro­du­ced to the­ir new da­up­hi­ne, and the­re wo­uld be no ro­om for non­con­for­mity, ho­we­ver ap­pe­aling the re­bel might be.

  And she was very ap­pe­aling. Even as he frow­ned with di­sap­pro­val, he co­uldn't deny how much she stir­red him.

  The stra­ins of mu­sic fa­ded as the gra­ce­ful dan­ce en­ded. Cor­de­lia smi­led dis­t­rac­tedly at her par­t­ner, then tur­ned away, stri­ding off the flo­or with the fre­edom of mo­ve­ment her cos­tu­me al­lo­wed. It was cle­ar to Leo that she was lo­oking for so­me­one as she cir­c­led the ro­om, prow­ling with a long-leg­ged fe­li­ne gra­ce that sent a shi­ver down his spi­ne. Jud­ging by the qu­iver of ar­rows on her back, she was pla­ying Di­ana the Hun­t­ress. She didn't se­em to be awa­re of the at­ten­ti­on she was dra­wing. The sta­res, the whis­pers, scan­da­li­zed, en­vi­o­us, and in many ca­ses un­de­ni­ably las­ci­vi­o­us, fol­lo­wed her every step.

  Mic­ha­el wo­uld ha­ve a se­izu­re if he co­uld see her, Leo tho­ught. But in­s­te­ad of be­ing shoc­ked, he wan­ted to la­ugh. She­er mad­ness. En­co­ura­ging her was the last thing he wan­ted to do. De­ar God, whye­ver had he ag­re­ed to ta­ke on such a char­ge? But, of co­ur­se, he'd be­en ex­pec­ting a ti­mid, obe­di­ent de­bu­tan­te. In­s­te­ad of which…

  Impa­ti­ently, he star­ted to cross the ro­om to­ward her, ke­eping her in his li­ne of sight. She had pa­used be­si­de the yo­ung mu­si­ci­an, Chris­ti­an Per­cos­si, who was lis­te­ning at­ten­ti­vely to so­me bew­his­ke­red ge­ne­ral. Leo saw her brush her fri­end's arm in pas­sing. Then a back ob­s­cu­red his vi­ew for a se­cond, and when he had a cle­ar vi­ew aga­in, Di­ana the Hun­t­ress had va­nis­hed.

  Frus­t­ra­ted, he stop­ped, lo­oking aro­und. Then he saw yo­ung Per­cos­si ma­king his way pur­po­se­ful­ly to the do­ors le­ading to the co­ur­t­yard out­si­de the bal­lro­om.

  Cle­arly anot­her as­sig­na­ti­on. Leo's eyes rol­led he­aven­ward. He qu­ic­ke­ned his step, fol­lo­wing the mu­si­ci­an.

  The­re was a nip in the night air; the stars we­re crystal­li­ne aga­inst the­ir black vel­vet bac­k­g­ro­und. Leo shi­ve­red in his thin to­ga af­ter the he­ated bal­lro­om with its myri­ad can­d­les and hot press of bo­di­es. A red car­pet co­ve­red by an aw­ning ran from the bal­lro­om to the ma­in struc­tu­re of the Bel­ve­de­re Pa­la­ce; flam­be­a­ux lit the pat­h­way that di­sap­pe­ared in­to the glit­te­ring maw of the pa­la­ce. The­re was no sign of his qu­ar­ry, but Leo fol­lo­wed the path in­to the pa­la­ce. The gre­at en­t­ran­ce hall was un­na­tu­ral­ly qu­i­et. A lo­ne fo­ot­man hur­rying ac­ross the vast mar­b­le ex­pan­se ga­ve the vis­co­unt in his Ro­man cos­tu­me a cu­ri­o­us glan­ce and se­emed to he­si­ta­te, then a clock so­mew­he­re chi­med the mid­night ho­ur and he con­ti­nu­ed has­tily on his way.

  Leo he­ard Cor­de­lia's vo­ice, low but both ur­gent and ex­ci­ted, co­ming from an an­tec­ham­ber to the left of the grand sta­ir­ca­se. He en­te­red the small ro­om wit­ho­ut ce­re­mony and was re­li­eved to find the two of them stan­ding de­cently far apart be­si­de the open win­dow. For all the­ir pro­tes­ta­ti­ons of pu­re fri­en­d­s­hip, he hadn't be­en com­p­le­tely con­vin­ced. But this was cle­arly no lo­vers' tryst.

  Cor­de­lia sen­sed his pre­sen­ce and tur­ned swiftly to the do­or. "Oh!" she sa­id. "It's you."

  "Yes, it's me." He ad­van­ced in­to
the ro­om. "What in the na­me of the go­od Christ are you do­ing in that cos­tu­me?"

  "I was just as­king her the sa­me thing, sir." Chris­ti­an ran a dis­t­rac­ted hand thro­ugh his fa­ir curls. He was dres­sed uni­ma­gi­na­ti­vely if de­co­ro­usly as a min­s­t­rel. "It's shoc­king, Cor­de­lia. What if the em­p­ress dis­co­vers yo­ur iden­tity? Or yo­ur un­c­le! Can you ima­gi­ne what he wo­uld do to you?"

  "Yes," Cor­de­lia sa­id che­er­ful­ly. "But he won't know, and ne­it­her will the em­p­ress. Only To­inet­te knows, and she wo­uld ne­ver bet­ray me."

  "Cor­de­lia, you're im­pos­sib­le." Chris­ti­an lo­oked to­ward the vis­co­unt in un­con­s­ci­o­us ap­pe­al.

  "Co­me over he­re, Cor­de­lia." Leo to­ok her hand and led her over to a wall mir­ror. "Now, ta­ke a lo­ok at yo­ur­self and tell me what you see."

  Cor­de­lia, he­ad to one si­de, exa­mi­ned her ref­lec­ti­on. It se­emed a stran­ge qu­es­ti­on; it was ob­vi­o­us what she saw. "Me, dres­sed as Di­ana the Hun­t­ress."

  "No. You, dres­sed in the most pro­vo­ca­ti­ve, se­duc­ti­ve fas­hi­on."

  "But it's a cos­tu­me ball. It's part of the fun to be in­cog­ni­to and slightly shoc­king."

  "You are not yet old eno­ugh, wi­se eno­ugh, or sop­his­ti­ca­ted eno­ugh to be en­f­la­ming men."

  "Do I?" she in­ter­rup­ted. "Do I en­f­la­me you?"

  Leo was spe­ec­h­less for a mo­ment, and it was Chris­ti­an who ex­c­la­imed, "Cor­de­lia!"

  "I didn't say it first," she sa­id. "Do I en­f­la­me you, Chris­ti­an?"

  "No… I me­an, well, you co­uld do." He ran his hand thro­ugh his curls aga­in. "It's just shoc­king, Cor­de­lia. You're the em­p­ress's god­da­ug­h­ter and you're abo­ut to be mar­ri­ed-"

  "Pre­ci­sely." Leo wa­ded in, on­ce mo­re on track. He to­ok hold of her sho­ul­ders, fe­eling the slen­der sha­pe of them be­ne­ath his hands, and tur­ned her on­ce aga­in to the mir­ror. "Lo­ok at yo­ur­self, Cor­de­lia. You don't think of the ef­fect you ha­ve on men. Every man in that bal­lro­om was sa­li­va­ting when he lo­oked at you, and you blit­hely swan thro­ugh it all li­ke so­me in­no­cent fa­iry in a dre­am. I tell you stra­ight, yo­ur hus­band will not ap­pre­ci­ate such a per­for­man­ce."

  He felt so­me of her ebul­li­en­ce le­ave the slim body un­der his hands. She sig­hed. "I don't see why you sho­uld both be so cross, when no one ex­cept our­sel­ves and To­inet­te knows who I am. And it's past mid­night, so I can di­sap­pe­ar and no one will ever be any the wi­ser. Be­si­des, I didn't no­ti­ce an­yo­ne sa­li­va­ting over me."

  "That, I sus­pect, is yo­ur only sa­ving gra­ce," Leo sa­id aridly. "If you had cal­cu­la­ted the ef­fect you had, you wo­uld be qu­ite in­suf­fe­rab­le."

  Cor­de­lia tur­ned asi­de and sta­red fi­er­cely out of the win­dow. She was ac­cus­to­med to be­ing scol­ded for her high spi­rits, but not in this fas­hi­on, and cer­ta­inly not by Chris­ti­an. "May­be it was a mis­ta­ke," she con­ce­ded, her vo­ice a lit­tle muf­fled. "So, can we stop tal­king abo­ut it now, ple­ase? I ha­ve so­met­hing much mo­re im­por­tant to dis­cuss."

  "So­met­hing pri­va­te?" Leo in­qu­ired with a ra­ised eyeb­row.

  Cor­de­lia tur­ned back to fa­ce him, re­gar­ding him in­tently, her eyes glo­wing tur­qu­o­ise thro­ugh the slits in her black silk mask. "I wo­uld li­ke to ta­ke you in­to our con­fi­den­ce, my lord. I… I think per­haps you might be ab­le to help us."

  "Oh." The eyeb­row al­most di­sap­pe­ared in­to his scalp.

  "Cor­de­lia, I don't think-" Chris­ti­an be­gan he­si­tantly.

  "Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton will help us," Cor­de­lia in­ter­rup­ted. "You will, won't you?" She la­id a hand on his fo­re­arm, on the ba­re flesh ex­po­sed by the to­ga. Des­pi­te her pre­oc­cu­pa­ti­on, her eyes dar­ted up­ward, an al­most star­t­led ex­p­res­si­on in them as her fin­gers cros­sed over his warm skin. Leo pul­led his arm from her.

  "Go and chan­ge yo­ur clot­hes," he sa­id, ke­eping his vo­ice le­vel only with an enor­mo­us ef­fort. "I re­fu­se to dis­cuss an­y­t­hing with you in that out­fit."

  "But you'll both stay he­re and wa­it for me?" she as­ked ur­gently. "I won't be many mi­nu­tes."

  "Chris­ti­an and I will fur­t­her our ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce in yo­ur ab­sen­ce," he res­pon­ded co­ol­ly.

  "Very well." She whir­led to the do­or. "Chris­ti­an, you can ex­p­la­in the si­tu­ati­on with Po­ligny whi­le I'm go­ne. And then I'll tell you both of my plan when I co­me back."

  The vis­co­unt sho­ok his he­ad as she va­nis­hed. "I find I ne­ed a glass of cham­pag­ne to res­to­re my equ­ilib­ri­um." He stro­de to the bel­lpull han­ging be­si­de the do­or and sum­mo­ned a fo­ot­man.

  "Cor­de­lia do­es so­me­ti­mes ha­ve that ef­fect," Chris­ti­an ven­tu­red with a ti­mid smi­le. "She's so full of energy and ide­as, she of­ten throws me off ba­lan­ce."

  Leo's smi­le was a trif­le ru­eful, but he didn't res­pond. He ga­ve or­ders to the fo­ot­man who'd ap­pe­ared in­s­tantly, then sa­id, "So, put me in the pic­tu­re, Chris­ti­an."

  Cor­de­lia flew up­s­ta­irs to the small cham­ber she oc­cu­pi­ed when the co­urt was in re­si­den­ce at the Bel­ve­de­re Pa­la­ce. It was now­he­re ne­ar as ele­gant or spa­ci­o­us as her apar­t­ments in the Schon­b­runn, al­t­ho­ugh not as cram­ped as tho­se in the an­ci­ent Hof­burg Pa­la­ce, but the co­urt was ac­cus­to­med to mo­ving from one pa­la­ce to anot­her ac­cor­ding to the em­p­ress's ce­re­mo­ni­al ob­li­ga­ti­ons, and Cor­de­lia was at ho­me in any one of them.

  She ha­uled on the bel­lpull and ran to the ar­mo­ire, tug­ging the tu­nic over her he­ad as she did so.

  "My go­od­ness gra­ci­o­us me! Wha­te­ver are you we­aring, girl?" Mat­hil­de ap­pe­ared in the do­or­way wit­hin mi­nu­tes of the sum­mons. She'd be­en Cor­de­lia's nur­se and now per­for­med the du­ti­es of abi­ga­il even as she con­ti­nu­ed to scold, ca­ress, com­fort, and doc­tor as if Cor­de­lia was still her nur­se­ling.

  "Wha­te­ver wo­uld yo­ur un­c­le say? And the em­p­ress?" She clo­sed the do­or swiftly at her back as if prying eyes might be in the cor­ri­dor.

  "Oh, don't you start, Mat­hil­de." Cor­de­lia emer­ged from the tu­nic and tos­sed it to the flo­or. "Only To­inet­te knew who I was, and she tho­ught it a fa­mo­us joke. But I ha­ve to chan­ge now." She tug­ged at the wa­is­t­band of her brit­c­hes whi­le exa­mi­ning the con­tents of the ar­mo­ire. "I shall ha­ve the se­am­s­t­ress ma­ke me up a gown of sac­k­c­loth with a neck that go­es up to my ears! That sho­uld sa­tisfy the so pru­dish Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton!" She grin­ned, her spi­rits qu­ite res­to­red as she kic­ked off the brit­c­hes and shrug­ged out of the shirt.

  "Now, what are you prat­tling abo­ut?" Mat­hil­de pic­ked up the dis­car­ded clot­hes as they flew abo­ut the ro­om. "If so­me­one had the sen­se to ta­ke you to task for such mis­c­hi­ef, all well and go­od."

  Cor­de­lia didn't an­s­wer. She pul­led out a gown of sprig mus­lin. "This sho­uld do. It's abo­ut as se­duc­ti­ve as a hay­s­tack. La­ce me, Mat­hil­de." She ga­ve the wo­man her back, gras­ping the bed­post as Mat­hil­de ha­uled on the la­ces of her cor­set. "Go­od. Thank you." She put fin­ger and thumb at her wa­ist and nod­ded her sa­tis­fac­ti­on. "I sup­po­se when I ha­ve ba­bi­es, I shall grow the most enor­mo­us wa­ist. Now, whe­re are my stoc­kings?"

  Mat­hil­de held them out wor­d­les­sly. She was ac­cus­to­med to Cor­de­lia's whir­l­wind.

  "Fic­hu," Cor­de­lia dec­la­red, step­ping in­to her pet­ti­co­at and gown. "I ne­ed a de­mu­re fic­hu that won't show a cen­ti­me­ter of bo­som."

  Mat­hil­de sho­ok her he�
�ad in re­sig­na­ti­on and prof­fe­red a whi­te cam­b­ric fic­hu. Cor­de­lia fas­te­ned it at the neck of her gown. "Oh, my ha­ir. I can't we­ar this sno­od, it'll gi­ve ever­y­t­hing away." She pul­led it lo­ose, sha­king her black curls free. "Be an an­gel and brush it for me qu­ickly."

  Mat­hil­de did so, dra­wing the brush thro­ugh the black tres­ses un­til they sho­ne with blue lights.

  "You're a dar­ling, Mat­hil­de, and I don't know what I wo­uld ever do wit­ho­ut you." Cor­de­lia threw her arms aro­und the ma­id's neck and kis­sed her so­undly. "Don't wa­it up for me. I can un­d­ress myself." She pic­ked up her fan and dan­ced out of the cham­ber, le­aving a smi­ling Mat­hil­de to tidy up af­ter the cyclo­ne.

  The so­unds of mu­sic still ca­me from the bal­lro­om as Cor­de­lia jum­ped the last two of the swe­ep of mar­b­le sta­irs ri­sing from the en­t­ran­ce hall. She didn't pa­use to catch her bre­ath but has­te­ned in­to the an­te­ro­om. She stop­ped in the do­or­way be­ne­ath a torch in a wall scon­ce and cur­t­si­ed with for­mal de­li­be­ra­ti­on.

  "I trust you find not­hing to obj­ect to in my cos­tu­me, Lord Ki­er­s­ton." She ra­ised her eyes, and the fla­ming torch was ref­lec­ted in the dark iri­ses.

  "I wo­uld call it a vast im­p­ro­ve­ment, ma­da­me," he rep­li­ed with a co­ol bow.

  "I ha­ve it in mind to in­s­t­ruct the se­am­s­t­res­ses to fas­hi­on me one of tho­se gar­ments wo­men we­ar in the sul­tan's ha­rems," she sa­id. "So­met­hing that co­vers every inch of my skin, with a ve­il over my he­ad, so no one can see an­y­t­hing of me but my eyes. Wo­uld that su­it you, sir? That way I co­uld ne­ver be a tem­p­ta­ti­on or-"

  "Put a brid­le on yo­ur ton­gue, Cor­de­lia!" he in­ter­rup­ted, trying to hi­de a bub­ble of amu­se­ment, lo­we­ring his eye­lids to con­ce­al the glints of la­ug­h­ter he knew we­re ali­ve in his eyes. Cor­de­lia co­uld co­ver her­self in hor­se­ha­ir and she wo­uld still be a tem­p­ta­ti­on, but he wasn't abo­ut to tell her that.