Jane Feather - The Diamond Slipper

"And when will the prince be receiving?" Louise put on all her airs. She was a relative of the prince's, not to be put off by a mere servant.

"He hasn't said. I suggest you return to your own quarters, madame, and he will send for you when he is so inclined." Brion stepped back into the room and began to close the door.

"You will tell him I wish to speak with him?" Louise pleaded desperately as the door closed against her nose. There was no response.

She lurked in the corridor, muttering to herself. She didn't trust Brion to pass on her message, or at least not in a timely fashion. And it was vitally important she tell her tale to the prince as soon as possible. She would tell him that if her authority was to be flouted after all these years, then she must hear it from his own lips. Of course, she would bow to the prince's commands, but he would understand her position. The princess was so young; she was playing at the novelty of motherhood. Soon she would become bored, and court pleasures would seduce her from the schoolroom. And the governess would be left with fractious, disappointed, spoiled children.

She hovered outside the door, rehearsing her speech under her breath, trying to look assured, as if she had good reason to be where she was, becalmed on the tide of scurrying servants and chattering, fan-flourishing courtiers whose jeweled heels taptapped on the marble floors as they hurried past. Everyone was in a hurry and no one cast a sideways glance at the red-nosed, watery-eyed governess with her unfashionable wig and dowdy gown.

Louise glanced anxiously at her fob watch. It was nearing one o'clock and the children had been gone for two hours. She should return to her own quarters, but she kept hoping that the prince would emerge. Just because Brion said he wasn't receiving didn't necessarily mean that he wasn't.

Brion was a malicious beast and would enjoy her discomfiture, she thought with compressed lips.

A servant walked by with a pair of spaniels straining at a leash. The dogs stopped and sniffed at the governess's shoes, the hem of her gown. In one disdainful glance, the manservant appraised Madame de Nevry, put her down as a charity case, a poor relation, maybe even an upper servant, although her dress was a trifle dowdy for the upper echelons of a servants' hall in any powerful household. He let the leash go slack and a wet nose pushed up beneath Louise's petticoat. The servant stared indifferently around, making no attempt to drag the animals away, as if the governess were merely a tree trunk for the dogs' convenience.

"Oh, go away!" she squeaked, backing against the wall.

The servant grinned. "They're only being friendly," he said.

"Take them away!" She brushed at them, trying to straighten her skirt. "Horrible little animals."

"Don't you let His Grace of Burgundy hear you say that. Dear me, no." The man shook his head in mock reproof. "These two are more precious to the duke than his own children."

He was making game of her and she could do nothing about it, backed up as she was against the wall with the slobbering snuffling dogs at her ankles. Tears of frustration pricked behind her eyes. She knew she was the butt of kitchen jokes in the rue du Bac, but why some complete stranger should pick upon her she couldn't imagine.

"Madame de Nevry!" The princess's voice chimed from behind the odious footman. "Did you wish for something? For goodness sake, man, pull those dogs off. Can't you see that Madame has a dislike of the animals?"

The servant, recognizing the voice of authority, tugged his forelock and dragged the dogs away. Cordelia surveyed the red-faced governess with a raised eyebrow. "The children are with the nursemaid. They should have dinner and a

rest before they attend the dauphine's musical entertainment this afternoon."

The princess's coldly arrogant tone was a timely reminder of Madame's grievances. She drew herself upright, her pursed mouth almost disappearing. "I understood that you had taken responsibility for the children, Princess. You made it very clear that I was not needed."

"And you were perhaps going to discuss that with my husband?" Cordelia asked softly, her eyes narrowed.

Louise almost flinched. "I wish to clarify matters with my cousin."

Cordelia stood in frowning silence for a minute.

"Walk with me awhile, madame." She took the governess's arm and marched her away down the corridor before Louise had time to recover from her astonishment. "Listen carefully," Cordelia continued in a conversational tone of voice that passed unnoticed among the chattering crowds. "I can only assume that my husband hasn't noticed that you reek like a pickle barrel, but I assure you that everyone else is aware of it. Myself, Viscount Kierston, Monsieur Brion, every member of the household right down to the potboy."

Louise gave an outraged gasp and tried to pull her arm free, but the princess for all her slenderness was more than a physical match for the governess. "I will not be spoken to-"

"Tush!" Cordelia interrupted. "You will listen, madame. I intend to involve myself in the children's welfare, and in every aspect of their education. You will say nothing of this to Prince Michael, and you will make no attempt to thwart me. If you do, then I promise you that the prince will know that a drunken sot has charge of his daughters. I leave you to imagine the consequences for yourself."

Louise was winded. She gasped like a gaffed fish, her face gray. It had never occurred to her that her numerous dips into her little silver flask left any trace. She had no idea she smelled of brandy. No idea that her bloodshot eyes and sometimes unsteady gait and her frequent dozes gave her away. She had thought herself perfectly safe from detection in the schoolroom with two tiny children.

"Do we have an understanding, madame?" Cordelia demanded crisply, plying her fan with her free hand. She smiled and curtsied to an acquaintance as she continued to march the governess along. "Your silence in exchange for mine."

Louise's head reeled. More than anything, she wanted a nip from her flask to clear her thoughts. "I… I will deny it. How dare you talk to me in such fashion," she managed to say.

Cordelia gave a short laugh. "There are too many witnesses for a denial to pass muster, madame. And I can safely promise you that they will step forward if I ask it of them. You are not very popular, you know," she added almost cajolingly, suddenly switching tactics. "And I have only the children's best interests at heart, as I am sure have you. We will work together to make them happy."

Louise's only response was an inarticulate moan, but Cordelia judged she had won the day. "We will start tomorrow," she said cheerfully. "I will introduce the girls to a musician friend of mine. A very influential friend," she fibbed, "who will undertake their musical instruction. And since I'm certain they'll make great progress under his tuition, their father will be very pleased. And, of course, you will take all the credit."

She stopped where two corridors branched, the left one leading to the children's quarters. "So, do we have an understanding?"

Louise was now flushed, but she could think of nothing to say. She ducked her head in a gesture that could have been agreement, pulled her arm free of Cordelia's, and scuttled away.

Cordelia nibbled her bottom lip, wondering if she'd overreached herself. She'd offered both blackmail and bribery.

Would it be enough to keep the governess silent and turning a blind eye for the necessary time? Leo had said he would have passports within two days. If she could get the children into the town to Mathilde in Christian's lodgings without Michael's being aware of it, then they would have taken an important step. Just as long as Louise would keep quiet about a supposed music lesson.

She turned and thoughtfully made her way back to her own apartments. Michael was sitting in the salon, looking pale and drawn, when she entered.

"The king was very pleased with your daughters, my lord," she said almost indifferently. "The dauphine walked with them in the gardens, and they are bidden to attend her at a concert this afternoon."

Michael glowered. The leech had taken copious amounts of blood, and he felt too weak to take exception to her tone. "I will accompany you myself," he stated, taking a deep draught of the hot milk punch that he hoped would put blood back in his veins.

Cordelia curtsied. "If you feel well enough, my lord."

"Damn you! Of course I'm well enough!" He stared at her and the horrendous suspicion popped into his head that perhaps she had done this to him. Witchcraft? Could she be a witch? Absurd thought. But it wouldn't leave him. Something had drained all the strength from him while he'd been sleeping. While he'd been unconscious, something had filled his head with those ghastly images, those fearful premonitions that still haunted him in the bright sunlight of a new day.

His wife? His child bride? That willful, defiant, intractable chit?

Under his fixed stare, Cordelia felt pinned like a rabbit mesmerized by the fox. She couldn't imagine what thoughts could produce such dreadful menace. Had he looked at Elvira in that way? When he'd decided to kill her?

O God, help me. The prayer went round and around in her head. She who put little faith in prayer. With a supreme effort of will, she smiled into those terrible pale eyes and excused herself. And in her deserted chamber, she hung over the commode, dryly retching as if she could rid herself of her terror.

The fencing master dropped his point and stepped back as the buttoned tip of Viscount Kierston's foil met his shoulder. "That was too quick even for me," he conceded, wiping his brow with a lace-edged handkerchief. "You have wings on your feet today, Milord Kierston."

Leo shook his head in disclaimer and mopped his own brow. It was early afternoon and warm in the gallery over the stables where courtiers tried their foils against the skill of Master Leclerc. Leo was a regular here, dueling with the master several hours a day whenever he had the opportunity. But today there was a deadlier purpose behind his practice than mere sport, and it showed in every muscle of his body, in his lethal concentration, in the ferocity beneath the impassive surface of his eyes.

"You are planning a duel, milord?" Leclerc never beat around the bush and he knew from years of experience how to read the signs.

Leo merely laughed and picked up the water carafe from the low stone sill behind him. He drank thirstily, then tilted back his head and poured a cool clear stream over his face. His hair was drawn tightly back from his face, accentuating the clean lines of the set jaw, the high cheekbones, the broad expanse of forehead.

"I pity whoever it is who's fallen foul of you, milord," Leclerc said phlegmatically, taking the carafe that Leo now offered him. He drank. "Another bout? Your footwork on the lunge is occasionally just a minuscule beat off perfection." He illustrated the gap with finger and thumb.

The dauphine's concert was not until three o'clock. Leo raised his point, saluted the fencing master, and the clash of blade on blade, the soft pounding of stockinged feet, were once again the only sounds to be heard in the long gallery.

As they fought, others arrived, ready to try out their skill against the master. Several pairs began a match of their own; others gathered to watch the master and his opponent. Leo was peripherally aware of the audience. Deliberately, he blocked them out, concentrated until he saw only the opposing blade, flashing, flickering, always looking for an opening. He reduced his opponent simply to a blade, as he knew he must do when this practice became reality. Then he would be watched, and by an audience much less disciplined that these fellow fencers. There would be rustling skirts and whispering women, languid comments from the fops and dandies who preferred the less active pursuits at court. All of those he must block out.

And all thoughts of Cordelia.

His blade faltered. Monsieur Leclerc slipped beneath Leo's guard, and the slender foil bent in a graceful arc as the button pressed into his ribs. He dropped his point, held out his hand. "Well fought, monsieur."

"Something happened in your eyes, milord," the master said simply. "Only you know what."

Leo gave a brief nod and picked up his coat from a chair. He responded casually to the greetings of friends and acquaintances, mopped his brow again, put on his shoes, then rested for a moment perched on the windowsill, his long legs, ankles crossed, stretched out in front of him.