The Diamond Slipper (32 page)

When she returned to the salon, Prince Michael was at the secretaire, writing. Cordelia paused in the doorway. She didn’t think he was yet aware of her. She watched, almost holding her breath. Was he writing in his journal again?

Suddenly, he turned, his expression as dark as before. “Why are you creeping around?”

“I wasn’t. I just entered the room. I didn’t wish to disturb you.”

He turned back to sand the sheet and closed the book with a snap. Cordelia took a step closer. It was a ledger. “Do you keep track of the household accounts, sir?” She was so surprised that the question popped out before she gave it due thought.

“When I feel the need,” he said, and she could see that he was coldly furious, but for once not with her. “When I sense some discrepancy in my wine shipper’s bill. When the wine I drink doesn’t match with the wine I’ve bought.” He snatched up the ledger, locked it in the drawer of the secretaire, and strode across to his dressing room. The door banged shut behind him.

Was Monsieur Brion robbing his master? All servants did it as a matter of course. A few bottles here and there would go unnoticed in most aristocratic households. But surely Brion wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave traces for the prince? Perhaps Michael just suspected it. If so, he’d look for proof.

Michael returned, his expression as cold and remote as before. He offered her his arm and they left the apartments to join the throng hurrying to the opera house in order to be at their places before the royal party arrived.

In every bay in the colonnaded opera house hung a half chandelier against the surface of a mirrored backdrop so that the reflection offered a complete illuminated piece. The auditorium was ablaze with light from fourteen massive crystal chandeliers suspended on blue rope to match the cold cobalt blue of the theater hangings. Cordelia was accustomed to magnificence, but she had no words to describe this scene. The courtiers of both sexes seemed to scintillate as their jeweled garments and rich adornments caught the light. The buzz of voices rose to the exquisitely painted ceiling, drowning out the strings from the orchestra pit as the members of the orchestra tuned their instruments.

The prince was responding to greetings as they made slow progress to their own box. Cordelia curtsied, murmured her own salutations, her eyes missing nothing.

Their companions in the box were already seated, but the two front seats had been left for the prince and princess. She sat on the low cushioned stool specially designed to accommodate her wide hoop, arranged her skirts, opened her fan, and looked around. Michael was in conversation with their companions, so for the moment she was unobserved.

She saw Christian strolling through the pit, and her heart jumped. She leaned over the velvet-padded rail of the box, fanning herself indolently, the painted chicken skin of the fan facing her husband so that he couldn’t see her face. Christian looked up and she signaled frantically with her eyes. His own lit up and he began to push his way toward her box. Just in time he remembered and stopped in his tracks. His eyes, filled with frustrated rage, moved to her husband. Cordelia realized with a start that her gentle-tempered, pessimistically fatalistic friend was ready to do murder. Presumably he knew the full truth if he now shared a roof with Mathilde.

Embarrassment flooded her. How could she bear that people should know of her nightly humiliations? She who had always been so unfailingly optimistic, so self-confident, so much the stronger partner in her friendships. But Christian was not people, she reminded herself. Toinette was not people. They were her friends and there was nothing shameful about depending on friendship for comfort and support. She didn’t always have to be the strong one; she could show weakness too.

She mouthed a message to Christian and he nodded with a quick ducking movement of his head. Then he turned and pushed back into the pit.

Leo Beaumont stepped into a box opposite. He turned and said something to a lady in a crimson turban, sporting peacock feathers with diamonds and turquoises for the eyes. She laughed and Cordelia could hear her high-pitched whinny as she tapped the viscount’s wrist with her fan. Leo merely smiled and settled into his seat. Punctiliously, he bowed toward Michael’s box. Michael returned the salute; Cordelia bobbed her head. She could feel Leo’s tension on every current of air that crossed the space between them.

Michael, however, seemed quite unaware that there were two men in the opera house prepared to challenge him to the death. Casually, he took a snuffbox from his pocket. Cordelia had spent her life at court and knew that court rules forbade any public enmity between courtiers. It would be an insult to the king. Men met socially, always the epitome of courtesy, while murderous hatred frequently simmered beneath the affable surface.

The arrival of the royal party put an end to these reflections as she rose with the rest of the audience. The king and his family took their places in the royal box, the court sat down again, the music began.

It was a tedious opera, the music heavy and boring. The chandeliers were kept alight throughout so that people-watching rapidly became the chief entertainment as the performance lumbered along on the stage. Toinette was
looking very bored, fidgeting in her chair, whispering to her companions.

Cordelia allowed her thoughts to run along their own channels until the interlude of ballet at the end of the first act. Toinette, who adored dancing, also sat up, leaning forward to watch attentively.

It was a charming piece, but Cordelia was particularly struck by one young dancer’s solo. The girl was exquisite, dainty, and an excellent ballerina. Cordelia leaned over the edge of the box. Christian was sitting rapt in the first row of the pit, just behind the orchestra. Cordelia recognized the tilt of his head and knew that he was lost to the world, every fiber of his being concentrated on the music … and perhaps also the stage.

Could his attention also be held by the dancer? she wondered with a surge of interest. It would be a wonderful partnership. Christian’s music and the girl’s inspired dancing. Maybe more than a working partnership, she caught herself thinking. Christian needed someone to care for him, to love him for his genius and his gentleness and shake him out of his pessimistic glooms. And she wouldn’t always be around to do it. Not if Leo took her away … Her fingers curled into her palms and she breathed deeply for a minute.

“Do you not find that dancer very talented, sir?” she observed to the man sitting behind her. “Does she dance often for the court?”

“She’s been fortunate enough to catch the king’s eye,” the Duc de Fevre told her.

His duchess chuckled behind her fan. “And we all know what that means. The little Clothilde is on her way to a nice little billet in the Parc aux Cerfs.”

The king’s private bordello—that would not suit Cordelia’s tentative plans at all.

“She comes of a very respectable and devout merchant family, I’m told,” Prince Michael remarked. “I understand her father is very resistant to her appearing on the stage, and
one can only imagine how he would view her residing in the Parc aux Cerfs, even with the king as lover.”

“But dare a man defy his sovereign?” the duke said. “Droit de seigneur …” His rather squeaky titter was unpleasant.

“Aren’t the girls selected by Madame du Barry?” Cordelia inquired, her eyes wide over her fan.

“The king usually states a preference, madame,” the duchess informed her.

Cordelia could tell that Michael wasn’t too happy with the tone of the conversation. He moved restlessly in his seat, his mouth pursed and tight. “Do you enjoy the ballet, my lord?” she inquired, trying for a demure little smile.

“I find I prefer the opera,” he said as pleasantly as behooved a man who knew appearances must be maintained.

“
Perseus
in particular, sir, or opera in general?” She plied her fan.

Michael’s answer was lost as a footman arrived in the box. “Her Highness the Dauphine requests the pleasure of the company of Prince and Princess von Sachsen.”

Michael looked for once approving. Cordelia rose, reveling in the mischievous thought that he might approve of his wife’s influence when it came to the notice of the dauphine, but when he heard where else it had led, he was going to be very discomposed. But he wouldn’t be able to blame her.

She placed her hand on his proffered arm, and they proceeded to the royal box, the flunky clearing the way for them with booming shouts of “Make way for Prince and Princess von Sachsen.” On stage the ballet continued with or without the attention of its audience.

The king greeted Michael amiably and offered his hand to Cordelia with a cheerful “Ah, the other little Viennese. Princess von Sachsen, the card player par excellence. You should know that I find myself very well pleased with those who come from Schonbrunn.” Cordelia curtsied and kissed
his hand. The dauphin greeted her with a stiff nod that denoted ill ease rather than arrogance. Toinette gave her her hand to kiss.

“I heard how thoroughly you carried the day at lansquenet the other evening, my dear friend. You must teach me some of your skills.” Her eyes sparkled.

“I believe you are as skilled as I, madame,” Cordelia said, hiding her grin.

Toinette’s eyes went meaningfully toward Cordelia’s silk reticule, hanging from her wrist by a ribbon. Cordelia nodded. They both knew about the tiny mirror it contained. A mirror that could be concealed in the palm of a hand that might be casually resting on the arm of another player’s chair.

“How do you enjoy the opera?” Toinette changed the subject.

“It is a most solemn, weighty piece, madame,” Cordelia said gravely, her own eyes dancing.

“That is hardly an answer to Madame the Dauphine’s question,” the king said with a guffaw. “Do you find it as tedious as everyone else appears to?”

“Perhaps I am not a good judge, monseigneur.” Cordelia curtsied again and was rewarded with another hearty guffaw. “I can see from your eyes, madame, that you tease me. Shame on you. Prince Michael, did you know you had taken such a tease for your bride?”

“The princess has a very pleasing humor, sir.”

It must have been a real effort to get that out, Cordelia reflected. The words probably scorched the back of his throat. She smiled at him over her fan. “My husband is too kind.”

“Tell me, Prince, about your children.” Toinette demanded in her clear bell-like tones. “Before we left Vienna, Cordelia and I had much talk over her role as a mother. Are they pleased to have a new mother?”

Michael bowed, clearly taken aback by this unexpected
topic. “My daughters are dutiful, madame. They will respect their stepmother.”

“I would dearly like to meet them,” Toinette said artlessly. “Could it be arranged that they could come to Versailles during the remainder of the wedding celebrations?” She turned rapidly to the king before Michael could marshal his senses. “May I invite them,
Grandpère
? My very first guests to the palace.”

The king was well on the way to adoring his new grand-daughter-in-law. He patted her cheek. “Yes, indeed. A capital idea. There’s nothing like children at court. Send for them at once, Prince. We should be delighted to notice them.”

The notice of the king was a signal honor as much for the children’s father as for themselves. Michael bowed and murmured his gratitude. Cordelia exchanged a wink with Toinette.

“You must send for them directly, Prince,” Toinette declared. “In fact, perhaps you should fetch them yourself. We shall look after your wife in your absence.” She smiled radiantly, with the air of one who knew she was being wonderfully generous. “Is that not the best idea,
Monseigneur Grandpère
?”

“If you wish it, my dear,” the king said with a benign beam. “And I shall look forward to getting to know Princess von Sachsen. You must have her more in your company.”

“That would please us both,” Toinette said.

“It would please me immeasurably, madame.” Cordelia curtsied. Beside her, Michael struggled to hide his own feelings. Somehow, in five minutes he had been temporarily dismissed from court and his wife elevated to the side of the dauphine and the particular attention of the king. The honor to his wife reflected upon him, but he had been manipulated in some way. He looked suspiciously between the dauphine and his wife and caught the exchange of a conspiratorial smile.

If Cordelia became an intimate of the dauphine’s house
hold, she would be beyond his observation for long periods of time. He could not follow her into those circles and he could not forbid her to obey a royal command. She would effectively be beyond his jurisdiction except at night.

Was his youthful bride cleverer than he could have imagined? Cleverer even than Elvira? A chill ran down his spine.

The arrival of other visitors to the royal box was their signal to leave. Toinette squeezed Cordelia’s hand in private communication while saying graciously for the benefit of the prince, “Do pray come to me in the morning, Cordelia. We can plan amusements for your stepdaughters when your husband brings them to us.”

Cordelia curtsied and murmured acquiescence. Toinette had gone a step further than they’d planned, but she had no fault to find with the prospect of being husbandless for a night or maybe two.

Michael stiffly escorted her back to their box as the orchestra began tuning up for the second act. “Will you excuse me for a minute, my lord? I have need of the retiring room,” she murmured as they reached their box, slipping her hand from under his arm.

He was looking thunderous, but she couldn’t imagine how he could blame her for the dauphine’s command, backed by the king’s cheerful approval. Even if he suspected she had had a part in it, he could never be certain, and he couldn’t openly object. He didn’t respond to her polite excuse, merely marched into the box, leaving her behind.

She slipped away into the crowded theater foyer, where people lingered, chattering, obviously preferring this entertainment to what was on offer on the stage. Christian was waiting for her beside the tapestried screen that half concealed the entrance to the ladies’ retiring room.