The Diamond Slipper (25 page)

Leo rode along the left bank of the Seine toward the Belle Etoile, where he had told Christian to put up.

As he turned away from the river, however, he spied the musician hurrying down the street toward him with an abstracted air.

“Christian?”

Christian stopped in his tracks. He looked up at the horseman, blinking, clearly trying to come back from whatever astral plane of genius he had been inhabiting. “Oh, Viscount Kierston.” He smiled, with an air still somewhat bemused. “I was thinking of Cordelia. I’m so worried about her.”

Leo swung down from his horse. He looped the reins over his arm. “There is a pleasant little tavern on the next street. Let’s quench our thirst and talk in private.”

Christian fell in beside him. “Have you seen her, sir? That man … her husband … the prince … he seemed so severe.
To talk to her in such manner and in such a place. I haven’t been able to sleep for worrying.”

“I think she worries as much about you,” Leo said casually, wondering why he was reluctant to share his own concerns with the musician.

Outside a tavern on the rue de Seine, Leo handed his horse to a waiting urchin and politely stood aside as his companion dipped his head to pass beneath the narrow lintel. Inside, it was dim, the air musty, sawdust on the floor. It didn’t strike Christian as a pleasant place at all, whatever the viscount said. But then, he wasn’t to know that it had a very special reputation among those in the know.

“Wine, mine host!” Leo waved a hand toward the apronclad tavernkeeper standing at the stained bar counter. “My usual.” He brushed off a chair and sat down, swinging his sword to one side. He drew off his gloves and placed them on the table, saying with a smile, “You might find it hard to believe, but Raoul here has as good a cellar as any house in Paris. And I mean
any
house. There isn’t a lord or prince of the blood whose cellar is more extensive.”

Raoul, grinning, put a dusty bottle on the table. He wiped two glasses on his less-than-clean apron, plunking them beside the bottle. “Aye, that’s right, milord. But don’t ever ask where I gets it from.” He tapped the side of his nose with another suggestive grin before drawing the long cork. His expression was reverential as he sniffed the cork, held it for Leo, then passed his nose across the neck of the bottle. As reverently, he poured a measure into one glass, swirling it around until the sides were coated, then he handed it to Leo.

Leo sipped and closed his eyes on a blissful sigh. “Manna.”

Raoul nodded and filled both glasses to the brim. “I’ll fetch a bite of cheese and some bread. It’s no quaffing wine.”

“Raoul is a sommelier who could teach the stewards at Versailles a thing or two.” Leo took another sip of wine, then sat back, crossing his legs at the ankles. He didn’t open
the conversation until the tavern keeper had returned with a crusty loaf of bread and a round of cheese.

Christian controlled his impatience as best he could. He was indifferent to wine, and the ceremony and the savoring struck him as a complete waste of time. He broke a piece of bread, cut a piece of cheese, and ate with relish. Food was a different matter. He seemed always to be hungry.

“Have you heard of the Duc de Carillac?” Leo finally began.

Christian nodded. “He’s well known even in Vienna for his patronage.”

“Well, I think he might be interested in offering you his support.” Leo refilled his own glass after casting a glance at his companion’s barely touched one.

Christian looked up from the cheese that he was cutting into again, and his eyes sparkled. “Really? Really and truly, sir?”

“Really and truly,” Leo said, smiling. “I promised to bring you to him this afternoon … if you’re free, of course.”

“Oh, but of course I will be … whatever else could I be doing?” Christian stammered. “You are too kind, sir. I hate to think that I might have caused you trouble. I would never have asked for such a favor myself, but …”

“But Cordelia has no such scruples,” Leo finished for him with another dry smile. “She’s a most loyal friend, I believe.”

“And I would do anything for her,” Christian said, his delight fading from his eyes. “I don’t like that husband, sir. He makes me uneasy.”

And me also
. But Leo didn’t say that. He nibbled a crust of bread and said carefully, “Prince Michael is more than thirty years older than Cordelia. It’s inevitable that he should feel a need to mold her to his—”

“But Cordelia cannot be molded.” Christian interrupted passionately, banging his fist on the table in emphasis. “Surely you must know that, sir. You’ve spent time with her. She’s her own person.” He pulverized a bread crumb with his fingertips against the stained planking of the table.

Leo put a protective hand on the bottle as the table continued to shake. “Yes, I understand that,” he said quietly. “But she will have to adapt in some way, Christian, surely you accept that.”

“Why would her husband forbid us to talk to each other?” Christian took another tack. “I know I’m a humble musician, but I have some status. If I have the duke’s patronage, I shall be at court. I shall play at court. Why should we not be able to talk to each other?”

“Prince Michael is very conscious of his social status,” Leo said lightly. “It’s a Prussian characteristic. But Cordelia, I’m certain, will win him over, once he’s become accustomed to her and she to him. Until then …” He paused, picking his words carefully, “Until then, it would be wise of you to keep your distance. For your own sake as well as Cordelia’s. Carillac is a close friend of Prince Michael’s. You don’t want to ruin your chances there.”

“Have you seen her since her marriage?” Christian raised his head from his gloomy contemplation of the table. He’d asked the question once already but hadn’t received an answer.

“This morning.” Leo drank his wine, keeping his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

“Is she well?”

“Perfectly. And looking forward to going to Versailles.”

Christian still looked doubtful. “I wish I could speak to her myself. Do you think I could write to her?”

“Give me a letter and I’ll see she gets it.” Leo wondered ruefully why he would suggest playing postman. Except that he knew how it would please Cordelia to be able to communicate with her friend.

Christian’s face lit up. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll go back to the inn and write at once. I can give it to you when I see you this afternoon.”

Leo inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I’ll come for you at three o’clock.”

Christian, burbling his thanks, hastened away, leaving
Leo staring into space. He couldn’t shake his own uneasiness, despite his dismissal of Christian’s fears.

“Raoul!” he bellowed across the noisy taproom. “Another bottle. And drink it with me. I’ve a wine thirst this afternoon and a need for company.”

Chapter Thirteen

I
T WAS LATE
morning when Cordelia stepped out of the carriage in the great court of the palace of Versailles. They had left rue du Bac before dawn, and the thirty miles from Paris had taken hours as the long procession of carriages had wound its way single file along the narrow road. Half of Paris, it seemed, had come to see the dauphin wed. Burghers, merchants, even tradesmen mingled in the court with elegantly dressed courtiers, the women sporting plumed headdresses and skirts so wide they needed at least six feet of space around them.

The palace of Versailles was a city in itself, its doors ever open to the populace who wandered freely through the great rooms, uninhibited by the careless dismissal of courtiers and the haughty glares and commands of powdered liveried flunkies. The people of Paris regarded their king in the light of a father, and his palaces and entertainments were as much for their benefit as his. A royal wedding was a party to be enjoyed by everyone.

Cordelia listened to the buzz around her as she waited for Monsieur Brion, who had accompanied his employers, to summon carriers and footmen to deal with their luggage. The people of Paris had fallen in love with the dauphine, it seemed. They talked of her sweetness, her beauty, her inevitable fertility that would provide for the succession with a line of healthy sons.

Cordelia repressed a shudder as her husband came up behind her and only with the greatest difficulty kept herself from flinching when he put his hand on her shoulder. She knew now that any show of fear excited him, just as the merest hint of rebellion brought hideous punishment.
He punished her with his body in the dark cave of the bed-curtains, subduing her resistant flesh with a savagery that seemed to feed on itself. Only when she was reduced to a disgusted, pitiable quiver of mortification would he achieve his climax, and then, smiling smugly, he would leave her and return to his own bedchamber.

But this morning Cordelia sensed that he was preoccupied by much more than the perverted pleasures of ruling his wife. “We must get out of this crush.” He raised a pomander to his nose with a fastidious sniff. “The people stink. Brion will direct you to our apartments, where you must wait until it’s time for us to go to the chapel. I must go immediately to the Cabinet du Conseil to pay my respects to the king.” He turned and vanished into the throng, the pomander still held to his nose, liveried flunkies clearing a path for him with shouts and swinging staffs.

“This way, my lady.” Monsieur Brion set off for the flight of steps leading into the palace. He walked slowly so that Cordelia on her high heels could keep pace as he cleared the way for them. He knew full well that if he lost sight of the princess, it might take hours to find her again, and she would quickly become lost in the warren of staircases and passages in the vast palace. Newcomers were generally issued maps and could be seen scurrying along the corridors from one function to the next, their eyes glued to the parchment.

The prince’s apartments were spacious and elegant, located on the north staircase, very close to the royal apartments. They looked out over the sweep of gardens at the rear of the palace, where myriad fountains played in the soft air and the parterres were massed with color. In honor of the occasion, a series of trellised arches ran along both sides of the canal. They were decorated like Venetian windows, and Cordelia could see the little lanterns that would illuminate them at night.

Two bedchambers, each with a dressing room, opened
off the salon—a square, comfortable room with a dining alcove at one end. There was even a small kitchen where their own cook could prepare meals if the prince and princess were not dining elsewhere. The servants’ quarters consisted of cubbyholes at the rear of the kitchen, furnished with sleeping pallets and very little else.

Mathilde arrived in a very few minutes under the escort of a footman, who carried on his shoulder the ironbound leather chest that Prince Michael kept in his library in the rue du Bac.

Mathilde was panting after the long haul up the stairs. “Goodness me, I must have walked miles.” She plumped herself down onto a chair, fanning herself with her hand. “What a place. And the crowds! Everywhere. A body can’t move. I can’t think what the empress would have to say.” It was clear her comparison of the orderly Schonbrunn with the chaotic magnificence of Versailles was not favorable.

Cordelia murmured a companionable agreement, watching as Frederick, the footman, under orders from Monsieur Brion, staggered with the chest into the prince’s dressing room. His papers must be of vital importance if they had to accompany him everywhere, she reflected.

“We’d best touch up your dress,” Mathilde said, finally dragging herself to her feet. “Your hair is coming loose too.”

It had been four in the morning when Mathilde had dressed Cordelia for the wedding in a sacque gown of crimson damask open over a petticoat of ivory silk sewn with pearls. A pearl tiara glimmered in her black hair, pearls encircled her throat and nestled in her earlobes. But the long carriage journey had inevitably caused some disarray.

“I would kill for a cup of coffee,” Cordelia declared. “Can it be arranged, Monsieur Brion?”

The majordomo hesitated. It went against the grain to admit that he couldn’t fulfill his employer’s every wish, but on this occasion the cook and the servants had not yet arrived or were still struggling to make their way through the crowds.

“I don’t know if the kitchen is ready for use, madame.”

“Oh, you leave it to me. Just show me the way, monsieur.” Mathilde brushed off her hands with an air of unmistakable competence.

Monsieur Brion had decided early on that Mathilde should be left to her own devices. She was no ordinary servant and he sensed that his customary authority wouldn’t wash with her; in fact, they were all just a little frightened of the princess’s abigail, although she was always perfectly pleasant and never put on airs, but sometimes there was a look in her sharp eyes that gave a man the chills.

Cordelia wandered into the bedchamber that by its feminine hangings was clearly intended for herself. She wondered if Elvira had used it, if it was the same now as it had been in Elvira’s time. Or whether the prince had had the delicacy to change the decorations. That thought brought a grim turn to her mouth. Delicacy was not one of Prince Michael’s hallmarks.