The Diamond Slipper (39 page)

He drank deeply and the fiery spirit calmed him. Once he had Cordelia out of Versailles, the rest would be easy. He must separate her from all her friends, all who had known her before. And most particularly the dauphine. He would be able to censor her correspondence very simply, and when she was completely isolated, then he would be free to do with her as he pleased.

He frowned suddenly. Leo Beaumont might prove awkward. He could well ask inconvenient questions if Cordelia was suddenly incommunicado. But Leo could be handled. He was only really interested in the children. Michael would throw him a distracting sop or two regarding the girls and ensure that whenever he saw Cordelia it was only in her husband’s company. The man was gullible; he could be managed.

Cordelia, lying wide-eyes and wakeful, heard Michael’s bell, and her skin seemed to shrink on her bones. He would be with his valet for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and then he would come to her. Her hand shook slightly as protectively she buttoned the high neck of her nightgown. A pointless gesture, she knew, but an involuntary one.

When she’d seen Mathilde the previous afternoon, her nurse had said the sleeping draught would take a half hour, maybe three quarters, to work. Michael was a big man.

But a half hour was more than enough time for him to inflict punishment, Cordelia thought grimly. But what couldn’t be helped must be endured. He would only be able to assault her once tonight, and if she concentrated on that, she could bear it. It could be no worse that what she’d endured before.

But the tremors in her belly intensified as she listened to her husband and his valet moving about next door. Her palms were slippery with sweat, her heart pounding. But when the door to her chamber opened and her husband’s powerful shape was for a moment outlined in the doorway,
illuminated by the shaft of light from the room behind, a great calm swept over her. Her fingers curled around the little vial, finger and thumb gently easing off the stopper.

Michael stepped into the room, closing the door at his back. Cordelia slipped from bed as he crossed the room carrying his brandy goblet. She stood beside the bed, a frightened smile trembling on her lips. “Welcome, husband.”

Michael looked startled. He was a man of habit and ritual, and Cordelia was supposed to await him in bed. Then his lip curled. This show of fear and penitence was presumably a plea for leniency. A foredoomed plea, but nonetheless gratifying for that.

He came up to her and stood over her. She dropped her eyes before the cold, ruthless cruelty of his gaze. A quiver went through her, and the silence in the room stretched into infinity as he watched her dread grow with each moment. He set his glass down on the bedside table, caught her hair on either side of her head, twining his fingers painfully in the ringlets, crushing her mouth beneath his in a smothering, assaulting travesty of a kiss.

But for the moment he only held her head. Cordelia struggled to keep her mind clear as his heat and musky odor enveloped her. Her hand moved sideways, blindly. She had registered the position of the glass in her mind’s eye. Her fingers located the rim. She estimated three drops but couldn’t be certain exactly how many had fallen in. Mathilde had said the potion was tasteless and odorless, but that was with three drops. If she’d added too much, maybe he would notice. But she couldn’t afford to add too few. Her fingers fumbled with the stopper and then her hand was back at her side, the vial hidden in the folds of her nightgown as she now gave him what he wanted—resistance. She struggled to breathe, to free her hair from the vicious tugging of his fingers.

When he abruptly raised his head, spun her around, and hurled her facedown across the bed, she held her breath. He planted his knee in the small of her back, holding her down
as he drained the contents of his glass in one swallow. Her hand with the vial was trapped beneath her. When he threw up her nightgown and drove into her, she closed her eyes tightly, her teeth closing over a fold of the coverlet, biting down as she fought to keep back the cries of pain and mortification. Soon it would be over ….

Half an hour later, Cordelia lay listening to her husband’s breathing. His heavy frame weighed down the mattress beside her, so that she had to hold herself stiffly to stop rolling into the deep trough against his body. She could swear that his breathing had changed. It had been lighter before, but now it deepened, became stertorous. She could feel that his body had somehow changed, become heavier, more inert. Tentatively, she touched him. His skin was clammy. He didn’t move. She pulled aside the bedcurtains, letting in the moonlight from the window. Still he didn’t move. She propped herself on an elbow and leaned over him, examining his face. It was a mask, showing not a flicker, not a twitch. She touched his mouth. No reaction.

Her heart in her mouth, she slipped from bed. Still he didn’t move. She snaked her hand beneath the mattress on her side of the bed and felt for the key to his chest. Her heart was pounding so loudly it was astonishing that it didn’t penetrate his sleep. But Mathilde had done her work well.

The little padlock lay on the palm of her hand as Cordelia stepped back from the bed, her gaze still riveted to the form on the mattress. With a sudden heave, Michael rolled over onto his side, burying his face in the pillows. She felt sick.

His snores deepened yet again, reverberating around the room. She stood immobile by the bed, turning the key over in her hand, looking down at Michael, his face still buried in the pillow. Even muffled, his snores still reverberated. He wasn’t going to wake for hours.

If she was going to do it, it had to be now. Cordelia flew across the room, through her own dressing room, and let herself into Michael’s. She closed the door and lit the lamp, turning the wick down low, then dropped to her knees
before the chest. The key fitted the brass padlock with oiled ease. She turned the key, heard the little click as the padlock opened. She lifted the lid. The contents looked just as they had done on the last occasion—the book of poisons on top of the series of journals.

Her hand went unerringly to the journal for 1764—the year before Elvira’s death. With trembling fingers, she opened it at the first page.

The book fell to the carpet with a thump as a loud bellow erupted from her bedchamber, a howl almost like an animal in pain.
He knew. He knew that his chest had been violated
. But how could he?

Dear God! She waited, frozen, for him to burst through the door to confront her. He would kill her. Another bellow crashed onto her ears, but he didn’t come.

Slowly, she managed to move. She managed to stand up, although her legs were trembling so much they could barely carry her as she crept to the door to the bedchamber, opened it a crack, and peered around, her dread so profound she thought her heart was going to stop with fright.

Michael was sitting up in bed, his chest bare, his chamber robe fallen open to the sides. His eyes were wide open. They stared at the door, seemed to fix her on the dark points of his pupils. Cordelia trembled, her teeth chattering, nausea rising in her belly as she waited for him to do something. But he just sat there, staring. And slowly, very slowly, it dawned on her that he couldn’t see her. His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see her. He wasn’t awake, he was in the grip of some ghastly nightmare.

Her relief was so great she almost collapsed to the floor. Mathilde’s potion obviously did more than put a man to sleep. It must arouse the demons in the sleeper’s soul. And Mathilde had chosen such a draught for such a man.

Again Cordelia shivered. Mathilde had a long reach and an uncanny instinct for appropriate punishment.

She returned to Michael’s dressing room, picked up the fallen journal, and settled down on the carpet, leaning
against the opened chest, to read. The ticking of the clock, the rustle of the pages as she read were the only sounds in the room. Slowly and in growing horror, she read through the events of 1764.

Her husband’s documentation was meticulous. In February of 1764 he had begun to suspect Elvira of unfaithfulness. Each little detail was recorded, each hint of suspicion, each moment of conviction. His nightly attempts to dominate her were described with all the nauseating attention to detail Cordelia remembered from reading his description of her own ordeals. Elvira had suffered, but if Michael’s entries were to be believed, she had taken her revenge with a lover.

The case against her was built up, pebble by pebble, day by day. Reading the journal was a horrifying excursion into the mind of a man obsessed to the point of dementia by his belief that his wife was making of him a fool and a cuckold. And yet, Cordelia could see no utterly incontrovertible evidence. Michael had seen it … or had he in his mad jealousy invented it?

Cordelia had forgotten the time, the place, all sense of danger. She replaced the volume for 1764 and withdrew the next year’s. And she read about Elvira’s death. Disbelief and then horror seeped cold and dreadful into the very marrow of her bones. Each stage of Elvira’s decline was documented, the vomiting, the weakness, the loss of her once beautiful hair, the blurring of her vision, the dreadful bodily pains that racked her beyond even the help of laudanum. The descriptions of her symptoms were as cold and dispassionate as the descriptions of what had caused them—the poison and its relentless administration.

Each dose Michael had given to his wife was recorded. Three times a day right up to the hour before her death. Her death was simply stated.
At 6:30 this evening, Elvira paid for her faithlessness
.

Cordelia closed the book and stared sightlessly into the empty grate. The wick in the oil lamp flickered faintly, the oil almost gone. She replaced the journal and took out
the book of poisons. With growing repulsion she flicked through it, looking for and yet dreading to find a description of the poison that had killed Elvira. But disgust became too much for her. She closed the book with another shudder of horror. Her hands felt dirty just by touching it. She felt soiled through and through by this journey into the dark vindictive soul of a murderer.

Only one thought filled her head now, as she replaced the book, checked with a cold pragmaticism that everything was in its right place, and closed and locked the chest. She had to get herself and the children away from Michael. Whatever the danger they faced in fleeing, it would be as nothing compared with the danger they all faced every minute they spent under the prince’s roof. And all Leo’s scruples about the kind of future they would have vanished in a puff of smoke when compared with the prospect of no future at all.

She cast one last look around the dressing room before turning out the dying lamp and creeping back to her own bedchamber. Michael was lying down again, on his back, his eyes once more mercifully closed. Cordelia slipped the key back beneath the mattress and drew the curtains around the bed again.

It was dawn. Leo and the male members of the court would be heading out into the forest for a boar hunt. Michael had been intending to join them, but she wasn’t going to try to waken him. Part of her almost wished that she had given him an overdose of the potion, one that would ensure he never woke up. But he was sleeping too noisily for near death.

She wrapped herself in a chamber robe and curled up in an armchair, waiting until it would be a reasonable hour to summon Elsie and Michael’s valet. Her mind was as cold and clear as a marble tablet on which every word she had read was engraved. And her problem was simple. How was she to face her husband when he awoke? How could she act as if she didn’t know what she now knew? The least suspicion and he would kill her too.

•    •    •

Michael awoke to brilliant sunlight. His body felt leaden, clammy, his head thick as if he’d indulged too heavily the night before. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. He blinked at the brightness of the light. Then he realized that he was in his wife’s bed. He must have spent the entire night with her. He turned his head. The pillow beside him was vacant. He was alone in the bed.

He sat up … too suddenly for his head, which felt swollen, assaulted, as if it were a boulder being attacked by pickaxes. His eyes were raw, his mouth dry and foul tasting. He’d been drinking brandy freely before coming to bed. But surely no more than he was accustomed to. He buried his head in his hands, trying to think.

“You are awake, my lord.” Cordelia’s voice interrupted his desperate musing. “Are you ill, sir? You look most unwell.” There was no hint of concern in the cold voice.

He raised his head painfully. Cordelia, in a pale negligee, her hair loose on her shoulders, stood at the end of the bed.

“What’s the time?”

“Past nine. You have slept long.”

“
Past nine
!” He had never slept that late.

“I think perhaps you are ill, my lord.” Cordelia regarded him dispassionately. “You look a little heated. Could you have caught a chill?”

“Don’t be absurd, woman. I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life.” He thrust aside the covers and stood up. Immediately, the room pitched violently and his legs refused to hold him. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and wondered if perhaps Cordelia was right. Could he be ill?

“I’ll call your valet.” Cordelia pulled the bell rope.

“What happened?” Michael demanded thickly. “Last night? What happened?” He had a vague sense of dread that permeated his mind. He didn’t know where it came from, but he felt as if something dreadful had happened, leaving him clothed in sticky, cold strands of apprehension.

“Why, nothing out of the ordinary, my lord.” Cordelia came back to the bed. “Except that you fell asleep afterward.” She couldn’t keep the contempt out of her voice, but somehow she knew that at the moment her insolence would pass with impunity. Michael was too wrapped up in his own ills to hear her tone.

He shook his head slowly. Something was wrong. Badly wrong. His valet knocked and entered. “Is something amiss, my lord? You were to join the hunt this morning, but you didn’t ring for me.”

The hunt
. How in the devil’s name could he have slept through the dawn? Missed one of the king’s hunts? He’d never done such a thing in his life.