The Diamond Slipper Page 9

  "Po­or To­inet­te," Cor­de­lia mur­mu­red, blin­king back her own te­ars. "To ha­ve to ma­ke such a pub­lic fa­re­well. She lo­ves her mot­her so de­arly. How will she ma­na­ge wit­ho­ut her?"

  Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton ma­de no res­pon­se. He too was mo­ved by the po­ig­nancy of this fa­re­well. The new da­up­hi­ne of Fran­ce knew that she wo­uld pro­bably ne­ver see her mot­her aga­in, and it se­emed a bru­tal se­pa­ra­ti­on for a girl not yet fif­te­en. But the sen­ti­ments of pri­va­te pe­op­le had no pla­ce in the lofty re­ac­hes of in­ter­na­ti­onal dip­lo­macy. The ar­c­h­duc­hess's mar­ri­age to the da­up­hin wo­uld ce­ment the vi­tal al­li­an­ce bet­we­en Aus­t­ria and Fran­ce as not­hing el­se co­uld.

  Still we­eping, To­inet­te was es­cor­ted from the pa­la­ce to the co­ach that wo­uld ta­ke her to her new co­untry. She was ac­com­pa­ni­ed by her brot­her, the em­pe­ror Joseph, who se­emed non­p­lus­sed by his lit­tle sis­ter's emo­ti­onal sta­te. To­inet­te had beg­ged that Cor­de­lia be al­lo­wed to ac­com­pany her in the co­ach as well, but the em­p­ress had re­fu­sed. Her da­ug­h­ter must ma­ke her ce­re­mo­ni­al de­par­tu­re from the land of her fat­hers in sta­te. She must be se­en to be strong, ma­tu­re, re­ady to as­su­me her ro­yal du­ti­es.

  As the co­ach mo­ved se­da­tely out of the co­ur­t­yard, To­inet­te co­uld be se­en thro­ugh the glass win­dow, le­aning back in a cor­ner, her hand co­ve­ring her eyes with her han­d­ker­c­hi­ef, but as the car­ri­age pas­sed thro­ugh the ga­tes, she le­aned out, ga­zing bac­k­ward at her ho­me, te­ars stre­aming down her fa­ce. Her brot­her's hand ap­pe­ared on her sho­ul­der, dra­wing her wit­hin.

  "Her brot­her won't be much com­fort," Cor­de­lia ob­ser­ved. "He's so stiff and for­mal."

  "You'll be ab­le to be with her when we re­ach Melk," Leo sa­id. "You had bet­ter ma­ke yo­ur own fa­re­wel­ls now."

  The em­p­ress to­ok a fon­der fa­re­well of her god­c­hild than Du­ke Franz did of his ni­ece. Ma­ria The­re­sa ga­ve her a sil­ver loc­ket with her own por­t­ra­it in­si­de and em­b­ra­ced her warmly. The du­ke ac­k­now­led­ged her curtsy with a cold nod and the com­mand that she obey her hus­band. Her mar­ri­age set­tle­ments we­re ge­ne­ro­us and she sho­uld be gra­te­ful to all tho­se who had lo­oked af­ter her in­te­rests hit­her­to.

  If she ne­ver saw her un­c­le aga­in, she wo­uldn't shed a te­ar, Cor­de­lia de­ci­ded, mo­ving to her own car­ri­age, whe­re Leo Be­a­umont wa­ited to hand her in. The von Sac­h­sen arms we­re em­b­la­zo­ned upon the pa­nels.

  "Yo­ur un­c­le has a harsh man­ner," Leo ob­ser­ved, with a frown. "I da­re­say he's un­com­for­tab­le with emo­ti­on."

  Cor­de­lia glan­ced up at him as he han­ded her in­si­de. "The­re's no ne­ed to ma­ke ex­cu­ses for my un­c­le, Vis­co­unt. I as­su­re you the­re's no lo­ve lost on eit­her si­de." Her fa­ce was tight, tho­ugh, and her eyes we­re tin­ged with sad­ness. "My pa­rents di­ed of smal­lpox when I was a baby. If they had li­ved, per­haps this le­aving wo­uld ha­ve be­en dif­fi­cult. As it is, I can't wa­it." She se­ated her­self on the crim­son vel­vet squ­abs of the lu­xu­ri­o­usly ap­po­in­ted ve­hic­le, her skirts bil­lo­wing out on eit­her si­de, fil­ling the en­ti­re length of the bench. The tig­h­t­ness of her ex­p­res­si­on re­la­xed. "Is Ver­sa­il­les re­al­ly as much of a fa­iry-ta­le pa­la­ce as they say?"

  "Only for the na­ive," he sa­id dryly, put­ting a fo­ot on the fo­ot­s­tep.

  "I don't con­si­der myself to be na­ive," she pro­tes­ted.

  He la­ug­hed, but not un­kindly, as he step­ped in­to the co­ach. "My de­ar, you are an in­ge­nue, you know not­hing of the dar­ker si­de of co­urt li­fe, but if it ple­ases you to ima­gi­ne a glit­te­ring fan­tasy, then do so. You'll be di­sil­lu­si­oned so­on eno­ugh." He sat back on the op­po­si­te bench, ca­re­ful not to tre­ad on the flo­un­ced hem of her gown as he adj­us­ted his sword to his hip.

  "I might sur­p­ri­se you, my lord," Cor­de­lia sa­id, not at all ple­ased at his so­mew­hat pat­ro­ni­zing to­ne.

  "I'm not su­re that an­y­t­hing you do co­uld sur­p­ri­se me," he ob­ser­ved ami­ably, de­ter­mi­ned ne­it­her to qu­ar­rel in the clo­se con­fi­nes of the car­ri­age, nor to of­fer an op­por­tu­nity for one of her im­pul­si­ve flights of pas­si­on. And af­ter this ce­re­mo­ni­al de­par­tu­re from Vi­en­na, he wo­uld be ab­le to ri­de whi­le his char­ge jo­ur­ne­yed by co­ach in de­co­ro­us so­li­tu­de.

  The car­ri­age star­ted for­ward. Cor­de­lia le­aned out of the win­dow to watch the pro­ces­si­on fall in be­hind her. The­re we­re co­ac­hes la­den with bag­ga­ge and ser­vants. Mat­hil­de was tra­ve­ling with Cor­de­lia's trunks at the re­ar of the pro­ces­si­on. A tro­op of ca­valry es­cor­ted the pro­ces­si­on, ban­ners snap­ping in the bre­eze, the sun shi­ning on the em­b­ro­ide­red ce­re­mo­ni­al trap­pings, the sil­ver of brid­le and stir­rup. At the very re­ar, spa­re hor­ses we­re led by tro­opers, her own Lu­cet­te, a Lip­pi­za­ner li­ke the vis­co­unt's, among them.

  "Is Chris­ti­an tra­ve­ling with yo­ur staff?"

  "I be­li­eve so. But how he cho­oses to ma­ke the jo­ur­ney is up to him."

  "I wish I co­uld be a fly on the wall when the bro­ad­s­he­et hits the stre­et to­mor­row and Po­ligny finds him­self ex­po­sed." She chuc­k­led, fan­ning her­self lightly.

  Leo didn't of­fer a res­pon­se. He had less con­fi­den­ce than Cor­de­lia and Chris­ti­an in the po­wer of the truth to bring down so­me­one as slip­pery and in­f­lu­en­ti­al as Po­ligny, but the man wo­uld at le­ast be em­bar­ras­sed, es­pe­ci­al­ly by the de­fec­ti­on of the pu­pil who­se work bro­ught the mas­ter his gre­atest cre­dit.

  "The em­p­ress was very gra­ci­o­us when Chris­ti­an as­ked her to re­le­ase him," Cor­de­lia con­ti­nu­ed, re­gar­d­less of her com­pa­ni­on's si­len­ce. "She even ga­ve him a pur­se." "Mm."

  "How far is it to Melk?" "Fifty ki­lo­me­ters."

  The vis­co­unt was ob­vi­o­usly not in a tal­ka­ti­ve mo­od. They we­re to stop for the night at the Be­ne­dic­ti­ne mo­nas­tery of Melk, and fifty ki­lo­me­ters of jol­ting on ill-ma­de ro­ads in such se­ve­rely si­lent com­pany was hardly ap­pe­aling.

  "Is so­met­hing ve­xing you, my lord?" She of­fe­red what she ho­ped was an in­no­cent and sup­pli­ca­ting smi­le. "I'll try very hard not to be a te­di­o­us tra­ve­ling com­pa­ni­on."

  "I'm very much af­ra­id that if you try too hard, you'll ac­hi­eve the op­po­si­te ef­fect," he ob­ser­ved, le­aning back, his arms fol­ded, re­gar­ding her thro­ugh half-clo­sed eyes. She was we­aring an en­c­han­ting vel­vet cap per­c­hed atop the pi­led mass of black rin­g­lets. An In­di­an shawl was dra­ped ca­re­les­sly over her sho­ul­ders aga­inst drafts, and one per­fectly ro­un­ded fo­re­arm res­ted on the sill of the car­ri­age. Prin­ce Mic­ha­el's bra­ce­let cir­c­led her wrist, the lit­tle di­amond slip­per clic­king softly aga­inst the si­de of the do­or with the swa­ying of the car­ri­age.

  "That's un­kind, but if you wish me to sit in si­len­ce, my lord, then I will." Cor­de­lia fol­ded her lips to­get­her, pla­ced both hands in her lap, and sta­red fi­xedly at the car­ved wo­oden pa­ne­ling abo­ve the vis­co­unt's he­ad.

  It was such an ab­surd pic­tu­re that his lips twit­c­hed and the merry ha­zel glints ap­pe­ared in his eyes. "What an an­no­ying cre­atu­re you are."

  "Oh, that is un­fa­ir!" she pro­tes­ted. "I'm trying to be exactly what you wish in a tra­ve­ling com­pa­ni­on and you ac­cu­se me of be­ing an­no­ying."

  "I don't re­call des­c­ri­bing my ide­al tra­ve­ling com­pa­ni­on."

  "Well, you im­p­li­ed a des­
c­rip­ti­on. You want a stiff, starchy, ugly doll, who won't spe­ak or smi­le or sug­gest an­y­t­hing in the le­ast unu­su­al in the way of en­ter­ta­in­ment."

  "If that we­re my ide­al, I as­su­re you, my de­ar, that you co­uld ne­ver ap­pro­ach it," he sa­id with a lazy grin. "If you re­ma­in on yo­ur se­at and con­fi­ne yo­ur re­marks to the com­mon­p­la­ce, I shall be well sa­tis­fi­ed."

  Cor­de­lia ma­de a fa­ce. "The com­mon­p­la­ce is ex­ce­edingly bo­ring, my lord. Ho­we­ver, I ha­ve an idea how we may amu­se our­sel­ves." She fum­b­led in her re­ti­cu­le and pro­du­ced a pa­ir of di­ce with a lit­tle crow of tri­umph.

  "See. I co­me pre­pa­red. We shall di­ce the ti­me away. I do ado­re to gam­b­le." She tos­sed the di­ce from hand to hand with an ex­pert to­uch.

  Leo ra­ised his eyeb­rows. Gam­b­ling was the be­set­ting sin of all co­ur­ti­ers in every co­urt on the con­ti­nent as well as at St. James's Pa­la­ce in Lon­don. For­tu­nes we­re lost in an eve­ning al­most as fast as re­pu­ta­ti­ons. Prin­ce Mic­ha­el was no ex­cep­ti­on, al­t­ho­ugh he pre­fer­red cards to di­ce, but whet­her he wo­uld lo­ok kindly on se­ri­o­us gam­b­ling by his wi­fe was anot­her mat­ter. But per­haps her idea of gam­b­ling was of the scho­ol­ro­om va­ri­ety, for small co­ins or pa­per spills.

  "Let's throw for high num­bers," she sa­id eagerly, rol­ling the di­ce bet­we­en her hands. "What do you wa­ger, sir?"

  "Three ecus," he sa­id, pre­pa­red to in­dul­ge her.

  "Oh, pshaw! That's baby stuff. I wa­ger fo­ur lo­u­is."

  Cle­arly, Cor­de­lia had prog­res­sed be­yond pa­per spills. "I pre­su­me you can co­ver such a wa­ger?"

  Her eyes flas­hed in­dig­nantly. "You in­sult me, my lord."

  He held up his hands pa­ci­fi­cal­ly. "No in­sult in­ten­ded, I as­su­re you, ma­da­me. I was un­su­re whet­her you had funds upon yo­ur per­son."

  Cor­de­lia re­tur­ned to her re­ti­cu­le, wit­h­d­ra­wing a he­avy vel­vet pur­se. "I ha­ve fi­ve hun­d­red lo­u­is in co­in and no­tes," she sta­ted. "My un­c­le's wed­ding gift. He wo­uld not ha­ve it sa­id that he fa­iled in his duty to his ni­ece," she ad­ded with a sar­do­nic smi­le. "It's my own mo­ney an­y­way, from my mot­her's es­ta­te, but Du­ke Franz al­ways pre­tends that it's his own ge­ne­ro­sity that ke­eps me in funds." Her lip cur­led de­ri­si­vely. "I trust my hus­band is not un­ge­ne­ro­us in such mat­ters. I know for a fact that my mot­her's jo­in­tu­re is my own un­der the mar­ri­age set­tle­ments, so I ho­pe he's not in­c­li­ned to wit­h­hold it."

  Leo frow­ned. He didn't think Mic­ha­el wo­uld wit­h­hold his bri­de's es­ta­te, but ne­it­her did he be­li­eve he wo­uld hand it over to her wit­ho­ut su­per­vi­si­on. "It's not cus­to­mary for a wo­man to ha­ve ac­cess to her own for­tu­ne. I'm su­re yo­ur hus­band will ma­ke you a ge­ne­ro­us al­lo­wan­ce."

  "An al­lo­wan­ce of my own mo­ney! It's so unj­ust."

  Leo shrug­ged. "May­be. But it's the way of the world and not to be chan­ged by a slip of a girl."

  "Don't be too su­re, my lord." Cor­de­lia thrust her ir­ri­ta­ti­on from her and tos­sed the di­ce aga­in. "Co­me, let us throw. We don't ha­ve a flat sur­fa­ce, but we can toss them on the se­at be­si­de you. The di­sad­van­ta­ge will be the sa­me for both of us." She le­aned over, the shawl slip­ping from her, re­ve­aling the de­ep cleft bet­we­en her ro­und bre­asts. The scent of her ha­ir, so clo­se to his fa­ce, fil­led his nos­t­rils, the cur­ve of her che­ek en­t­ran­ced him.

  The di­ce rol­led on the vel­vet se­at be­si­de Leo, and he tur­ned with re­li­ef to lo­ok.

  "A fo­ur and a six." Cor­de­lia sat back with a smi­le of tri­umph. "Let's see if you can do bet­ter, my lord."

  Re­sig­ned, Leo tos­sed the di­ce. They ca­me up three and a two.

  "Ha! I win." She gat­he­red up the di­ce and held out her hand for her win­nings.

  Leo drew out his own pur­se and han­ded her fo­ur lo­u­is, which she poc­ke­ted with such an air of glo­ating jubi­la­ti­on that he co­uldn't help la­ug­hing. "What a gra­ce­less win­ner you are. I trust you don't lo­se as badly."

  "I ra­rely lo­se," she sa­id smugly, tos­sing the di­ce in her hands aga­in. "Shall we ra­ise the sta­kes to fi­ve?"

  It se­emed a re­la­ti­vely har­m­less way to pass the ti­me, and Cor­de­lia's sha­me­less exul­ta­ti­on at every win was ir­re­sis­tib­le. And she won every throw.

  Be­la­tedly, it oc­cur­red to Leo that such a run of go­od luck was way be­yond the ave­ra­ge. She had gle­eful­ly poc­ke­ted twenty lo­u­is be­fo­re the first sus­pi­ci­on en­te­red his he­ad. Ca­su­al­ly, he tur­ned si­de­ways to watch clo­sely as she tos­sed the di­ce. The­re was so­met­hing abo­ut the way she flic­ked them that ca­ught his at­ten­ti­on. It was a lit­tle twist of her wrist that or­di­na­rily wo­uld pass un­no­ti­ced, but he was be­gin­ning to find his con­ti­nu­al los­ses so­mew­hat te­di­o­us.

  "Ha! I win aga­in! You owe me anot­her fi­ve lo­u­is, my lord." She held out her hand in her usu­al fas­hi­on.

  "I won­der if I do," he sa­id slowly, sco­oping up the di­ce from the se­at be­si­de him. They felt nor­mal eno­ugh. He'd be­en thro­wing them for the last half ho­ur wit­ho­ut a qu­alm. He glan­ced up. Cor­de­lia was lo­oking tran­s­pa­rently an­xi­o­us and had wit­h­d­rawn her open palm.

  He tos­sed the di­ce in his palm, fi­xing her with a hard sta­re, wat­c­hing the co­lor ri­se in her cre­amy che­eks, wa­iting un­til her eyes drop­ped to her lap.

  "The­se are we­ig­h­ted in so­me way, aren't they? Aren't they?" he re­pe­ated when she se­emed di­sin­c­li­ned to an­s­wer.

  "How co­uld you ac­cu­se me of such a thing?" Her co­lor was high, her bot­tom lip clip­ped bet­we­en her te­eth.

  "You che­ating lit­tle fib­s­ter!" he dec­la­red, tos­sing the di­ce in­to her lap. "Show me how they work."

  "I was go­ing to gi­ve the mo­ney back to you." Her glo­wing eyes we­re enor­mo­us, fi­xed ear­nestly on his fa­ce.

  "You'll for­gi­ve me if I do­ubt that," he sa­id dryly. "Now, show me how they work."

  "Oh, very well. But it's such a ne­at lit­tle trick. If you didn't know, you co­uldn't fe­el it. You co­uldn't, co­uld you?"

  "If I had be­en ab­le to, I wo­uldn't be twenty lo­u­is the po­orer," he sa­id as aridly as be­fo­re. "I'm wa­iting."

  Cor­de­lia le­aned for­ward, al­most in­to his lap, the di­ce cup­ped in her hand. "They're clip­ped at this cor­ner. If you flick them on­to the ed­ge, they al­ways fall eit­her on the six or the fo­ur. It do­esn't win every ti­me, but most of the ti­me."

  She was far too clo­se to him. Her scent, the de­ep cleft of her bo­som, the mid­nig­ht-black mass of curls we­re ma­king his he­ad spin, and when she lo­oked up at him, a ten­ta­ti­ve smi­le in her eyes that we­re that mo­ment as bril­li­ant as sap­phi­res, his bre­ath ca­ught in his thro­at.

  "It was only a lit­tle fun, my lord." Her vo­ice was both apo­lo­ge­tic and de­fen­si­ve. "It wasn't as if we we­re pla­ying se­ri­o­usly."

  "I didn't no­ti­ce we we­re pla­ying for pre­tend lo­u­is. I tell you, Cor­de­lia, that if I'd be­en pla­ying with a man who used such tricks, I wo­uld ta­ke a hor­sew­hip to him," he sta­ted.

  "Wo­uldn't you chal­len­ge him to a du­el?" Cor­de­lia as­ked in sur­p­ri­se, mo­men­ta­rily dis­t­rac­ted from her own pre­di­ca­ment.

  "I wo­uldn't dis­ho­nor my sword with his blo­od," he sa­id bluntly.

  "Oh." She che­wed her lip aga­in, then rum­ma­ged thro­ugh her re­ti­cu­le. "He­re. Every one of them." She tip­ped the lo­u­is in­to his hand. "I sup­po­se it was wic­ked, but I do so lo­ve to win. And I'd ne­ver do it at the tab­les."r />
  She so­un­ded so me­lan­c­holy and ag­gri­eved that amu­se­ment yet aga­in shat­te­red Leo's jus­ti­fi­ed an­no­yan­ce. It simply wasn't pos­sib­le to be angry with her for mo­re than a fle­eting in­s­tant, even in the fa­ce of such out­ra­ge­o­us be­ha­vi­or.

  "I gi­ve you fa­ir war­ning, that if an­yo­ne cat­c­hes you che­ating in the sa­lons of Ver­sa­il­les, you will be os­t­ra­ci­zed, and not even the da­up­hi­ne will be ab­le to re­de­em you," he sa­id with di­re em­p­ha­sis. "And if you bring such dis­ho­nor on yo­ur hus­band's na­me, he wo­uld be en­tit­led to ha­ve you shut up in a nun­nery."

  "But I wo­uldn't!" Cor­de­lia pro­tes­ted, hor­ri­fi­ed as much by the idea that he might con­si­der her ca­pab­le of such stu­pi­dity as by the con­tem­p­la­ti­on of such ret­ri­bu­ti­on. "We only pla­yed with the­se tricks in the fa­mily. To­inet­te is just as bad as I am; so­me­ti­mes it was the only way to be­at the ar­c­h­du­kes. And they we­re qu­ite odi­o­us when they won and set all sorts of em­bar­ras­sing for­fe­its."

  "Well, I've a mind to set a for­fe­it of my own," he sa­id tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly, tap­ping his mo­uth with his fin­ger­tips as he exa­mi­ned her.

  "What?" A lit­tle pric­k­le of ex­ci­te­ment ran over her skin. She le­aned for­ward aga­in. "How wo­uld you ha­ve me pay, sir?

  Leo re­ali­zed his mis­ta­ke im­me­di­ately. Whe­ne­ver he drop­ped his gu­ard, he fo­und him­self blun­de­ring in­to the mo­rass. Her lips we­re par­ted in un­mis­ta­kab­le in­vi­ta­ti­on, and the tip of her pink ton­gue ran slowly over them in a ges­tu­re so se­duc­ti­ve that it to­ok his bre­ath away. Cor­de­lia was not the le­ast alar­med by talk of for­fe­its.

  He sat back, sa­ying in­dif­fe­rently, "I find this te­di­o­us." Clo­sing his eyes, he res­ted his he­ad aga­inst the se­at back and to all in­tents and pur­po­ses went to sle­ep.