The Diamond Slipper

Chapter Twenty-three

Michael took a glass of burgundy from a passing footman and drank deeply. It was his fourth glass in an hour, but contrary to medical opinion it didn't seem to strengthen him after the bleeding he'd undergone that morning. He still felt weak and his hands had an uncharacteristic tremor to them.

"I trust you are feeling better, my lord." His wife spoke at his elbow. Her eyes were more gray than blue this evening, reflecting the almost opalescent misty gray of her gown. The side panels of the gown were drawn up over her hoop to reveal an emerald green undergown sewn with seed pearls. A tiara of emeralds nestled in the black hair, a matching collar was clasped at her throat, and on her wrist she wore the serpent bracelet; the diamond slipper, the silver rose, and the emerald swan caught the candlelight whenever she moved her gracefully rounded forearm.

Elvira had worn the intricate bracelet with its strange, almost sinister medieval design with flamboyance. She had worn it constantly and flourished it as she flourished the male admiration that flowed over her. Admiration that she had played up to with all her seductive wiles. Cordelia was also never seen without the bracelet. She touched it frequently but almost absently, as if it were a kind of talismanic ritual.

Whenever he looked at the bracelet, he became superstitiously convinced that some dreadful mischance had brought it into his life. Both women who wore it with such constancy were corrupt. Both were as devious, as faithless, as manipulative as the Eve it represented.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he grasped the back of a chair.

"You are unwell, my lord. Perhaps you should retire." Cordelia spoke again, not that she gave a damn whether he was on his deathbed. One thing was certain, he was not going to come to her bed tonight, not in his present state. The relief made her want to sing.

And then he looked at her and the familiar nausea and tremors began anew. He loathed her. The malice in his eyes was worse than she'd ever seen it. He seemed to look right through her, into the darkest corners of her soul. "I will retire in my own good time, madame," he said. "And I will come to you in my own good time. You will await me."

Cordelia turned away, unable to bear those eyes. She didn't think he was capable of hurting her tonight, but she was no longer certain of it.

Michael's mouth twisted. He moved around the chair he held without releasing his grip and sat down heavily. Passports. The child had prattled to Leo about passports. A promised present from her uncle.

Leo Beaumont had escorted Michael's wife all the way from Vienna. Twenty-three days in her company. More than long enough to form a liaison. Had she since confided the dark secrets of her marriage? Of course, she would have confided in a lover. And the impulsive lover would scheme to take her away.

The fat maggots of suspicion writhed in Michael's head as they had done since he'd overheard his daughter's question that afternoon. Elvira had been deceitful. Elvira had been unfaithful. Why should her brother be any different? Michael had never liked Elvira's brother. He had made use of him, but he had never really trusted him. And most particularly not since Elvira's death. There was a slyness to him. And definitely something peculiar about his besotted attention to a pair of infants. What grown man without an ulterior motive would be so attentive to such unrewarding objects?

Suspicion once aroused grew and grew as it had done over Elvira. Michael's head became filled with it, a great gray mass of twisting, gut-churning suspicion that in a few hours had become conviction. It was perfect logical reasoning.

Leo was planning to kidnap his sister's children, and he was going to run off with Michael's wife. Michael knew he was right. He'd been right about Elvira. He was always right to trust his instincts. He knew in his blood when something threatened his habits, his choices, his dignity, his very self. He had known since he was a small child when someone or something menaced his chosen path. And even as a small child, he had known how to fight back.

He was always right to act upon these instincts.

His wife had been virgin on her wedding night, he would swear to it on his mother's grave. But if she had not kept exclusively to his bed since then, she could even now be carrying Leo Beaumont's child. He would not give his name to another's bastard. He wanted an heir, and there must be not the faintest taint of suspicion as to its lineage.

Tonight he would make sure of it. Then he would make sure of Elvira's brother. His eyes closed, his head pounded mercilessly. He leaned back against the chair, resting his head, but the tormenting images of his wife's pale body moving against Leo Beaumont's sinuous flesh wouldn't leave his mind. They seemed to take him over, fill him with an all-consuming rage, so strong he thought he would vomit. His fingers curled over the arms of the chair.

"Prince, you seem unwell."

Michael opened his eyes. One of the king's equerries was examining him with an air both concerned and displeased.

"His Majesty noticed," the equerry said in explanation. The message was clear. Either the prince became his usual lively and diplomatic self, or he removed his feeble and offending carcass from the king's sight.

Michael rose, unable to disguise the effort it cost him. "I find myself a little fatigued," he said. "I beg His Majesty to excuse me." He walked toward the door of the salon, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

Had that deceitful wife put a curse on him? He couldn't lose the suspicion however firmly he told himself it wasn't rational. But witchcraft wasn't rational, and it was still a fact. That woman of Cordelia's-that Mathilde. There was a witch if ever he'd seen one. Perhaps she'd put the evil eye on him when he'd dismissed her. He'd find her. She had to be around somewhere, starving in some alley in the town. She couldn't have gone far.

He staggered into his own apartments, summoned Brion to bring him cognac, and shut himself up in his dressing room. He had some preparations to make before his wife came upstairs.

Leo, frowning, had watched Michael's departure from the salon. The man was clearly still far from strong, and Leo found himself cursing Mathilde's potion. Paradoxically, since without it, he wouldn't be contemplating Michael's destruction. A destruction he couldn't effect until the man was well and strong again.

Could Michael have heard Amelia's burble about passports? The child had spoken quite softly, and why should Michael have broken the habit of a lifetime and actually listened to her? It would be the supreme irony that a man who never paid the slightest attention to his daughters' verbal forays should have heard the one thing he didn't need to hear. But if he had…

There was nothing to be done about it. After the play tomorrow afternoon, it wouldn't matter.

"Leo, Michael's gone." Cordelia spoke breathlessly at his shoulder. "I can't believe he would leave me unwatched, but he has."

"I saw." He looked at her and he wanted to hold her. To snatch her up and taste the warm sweetness of her mouth, feel the supple slenderness of her body, inhale the fragrance of her skin. She read his eyes and her own filled with hungry longing.

"Where can we go?"

He almost laughed, it was so typical of Cordelia. No preliminaries, no forethought, just the simple question that she assumed he was asking himself. But the time for laughter and lovemaking had passed, and would not come again until their future was assured.

He shook his head and saw disappointment vanquish desire on her open countenance. "My sweet, we can take no risks now. Stroll with me along the gallery." He offered his arm.

Cordelia took it, swallowing her disappointment. "You have a plan," she stated, as they moved among the crowds. "For tomorrow. Tell me about it."

He paused by a deep window embrasure and looked out attentively, murmuring into the air ahead of him. "Tomorrow afternoon I want you to take the girls and go to Mathilde and Christian, as I said earlier." "But why?"

"To see if it can be done," he said simply. "A trial run, if you like." He ticked off items on his fingers, his voice quiet and authoritative. "We need to be certain that we have the governess's cooperation. We need to be certain that you can all leave the palace without drawing comment. And we need to be certain that the children don't make difficulties when it comes to the real thing because they don't understand what's happening." He turned his head. "Is that clear enough, Cordelia?"

"I suppose so," she said a little doubtfully. Why did she have the feeling he was hiding something from her? She looked up at him. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Leo?"

"Why would I do that?" He raised an eyebrow, his voice slightly sardonic.

Cordelia shrugged. "I don't know. But she still wasn't satisfied.

Leo resumed the stroll. He had been racking his brains for a way to ensure that Cordelia and the children didn't attend the play the following afternoon. The children must never ever gain so much as a hint of what their father had done to their mother, and he couldn't risk Cordelia's presence. One impulsive move when she understood what he was doing could reveal their liaison and totally discredit his challenge to her husband. Once the challenge was issued, the arrangements for the duel in place, then she and the children must start for England with Christian's escort… just in case anything went wrong…

But it wouldn't. Desperate determination sent a grim jolt to his belly.

Cordelia took her hand from his arm. "You are lying to me," she accused, barely raising her voice above a whisper. "I can feel it. I can see it in your eyes."

He shook his head. "You're tired, Cordelia. You had little if any sleep last night and it's been a long and emotional day."

All of which was perfectly true. And yet she knew she was right. "If you don't trust me, there's nothing I can do about it." Hurt glistened in her eyes. "I'll do as you ask because I happen to trust you. I'll bid you good night, my lord." She curtsied and walked away.

Leo swore under his breath, wondering if he could have handled that any better than he had. Cordelia was so damnably intuitive.

A great wave of weariness washed over Cordelia as she walked away from Leo. Weariness, disappointment, and now loneliness. She wanted Mathilde with a piercing, tormenting need. She wanted to go to bed and have Mathilde bring her hot milk, and put a cool, lavender-soaked cloth on her forehead, and tuck her in, and tell her everything was going to be all right.

Instead there was only Elsie. Well-meaning but clumsy, who didn't know how to brush Cordelia's hair with the soothing strokes that took all the tension from her scalp;

who didn't have the clever fingers that unknotted the tight muscles in her shoulders and neck.

Oh, she was being childish! Cordelia took herself roundly to task. Leo was right. She'd had no sleep the previous night and the day had been overloaded with emotional tensions. She would go to bed and sleep off this presentiment of doom, this ridiculous sense of injury. Of course he hadn't been lying to her. Why would he do that? She was imagining things because she was exhausted and overwrought.

With sudden decision she turned aside toward the staircase leading away from the state apartments. At least tonight she was safe from Michael, and poor little Elsie did her best.

She greeted the girl with a determined smile as she entered her bedchamber and fell back onto the sofa. "Help me with my shoes, Elsie dear. I can barely move a muscle."

"La, madame! Whatever have you been doing to yourself?" Elsie rushed over solicitously and, despite much fumbling and self-recrimination, finally managed to ease her mistress out of her heavy court dress, unlace her corsets, and help her into her nightgown. "Shall I brush your hair, madame?"

"Yes, but very gently." Cordelia sat at the dresser. Her scalp felt tight and sore with tiredness. Elsie tried but she couldn't emulate Mathilde, and after a minute Cordelia took the brush from her and finished the task herself.

She climbed into bed with a sigh of relief, her body sinking into the deep feather mattress. "Blow out the candles, Elsie, and pull the curtains."

The maid had barely done so when Cordelia fell into a black and dreamless sleep.

Michael waited, dozing in the armchair in his dressing room. He needed his wife to be asleep because tonight he wasn't strong enough to overpower her without restraints and she would fight him. With Elvira, he had administered the initial doses of poison in the burned champagne that she enjoyed so much. After a couple of days, when the mixture had started its work and she was too weak to resist even if she'd known what he was giving her, he'd administered it neat. But she still hadn't guessed what he was doing to her. Not until those last hours, when he'd seen some dawning realization in her hollow eyes.

But there was no reason to conceal from Cordelia what he intended for her. In fact, he had no desire to do so.

He was beginning to feel that his draining weakness was abating as the hour approached two o'clock. Each time he awoke from a short doze, he felt stronger and more confident, and to his great relief the dizziness seemed to have disappeared. His head no longer swam when he stood up. He must have caught some minor infection, he decided. It was absurd to have contemplated witchcraft. The infection had weakened his brain.

The palace was quiet, his own apartments absolutely silent, the servants long gone to their beds. Cordelia had been in bed for an hour. She would surely be asleep now.

He picked up the four lengths of thinly braided rope, testing them between his hands. They would hold Cordelia's slight frame despite her supple strength. He looped them over his arm, then took up a shallow silver cup waiting on the dresser. He sniffed its contents. A bitter smile touched his lips. The juice of the herb savin. Not for nothing was it nicknamed Cover Shame in the underworld of procurers and midwives. It was well known as a "restorative of slender shapes and tender reputations," and it would suit his purposes this night.

He walked softly through Cordelia's dressing room and turned the handle on her door. The room was in darkness, relieved only by the faint moonlight from the open window. He padded to the bed and soundlessly drew the bedcurtain aside at the head of the bed. Cordelia was a still shape within the white covers, deeply asleep on her back, her arms thrown most conveniently above her head.

He moved behind the bed and had secured her right wrist to the bedpost before she awoke.

Cordelia struggled up from a deep sleep as the sense of something terrible forced its way through her unconsciousness. She was only half awake, disoriented, struggling to discover what was wrong, when the rope went around her other wrist. It was fastened to the bedpost before she could open her mouth to scream.

"Scream if you must. No one will pay any heed." Michael's cold voice came to her as if from some long tunnel. She struggled, writhed, and then he came into view. He stood looking down at her and his eyes were filled with indescribable menace.

Oh God, what was he going to do? He was going to kill her.

She pulled frantically at her imprisoned wrists, brought up her legs to kick at him. He grabbed one ankle and laughed, a harsh rasp of satisfaction, and she knew she was giving him what he wanted. Bitter experience had taught her that her resistance heightened his pleasure.

"No!" The scream of protest burst from her as he pulled her leg straight and fastened her ankle to the post at the end of the bed. "No!" But he had secured her other leg before the cry had died in the air, and she lay spread-eagled on the bed, shaking with terror, staring up at him, her eyes dark with fear.

"Now, my dear." He sat down on the bed at the head. "I am going to give you something to drink. The sooner you drink it, the sooner this, unpleasantness will come to an end."

She shook her head, her tangled hair framing her face, blackest black against the ghastly whiteness. He was going to kill her as he'd killed Elvira.

She tried to scream again, but the sound was thick and somehow curdled in her throat, so great was her terror. She tried to turn her head aside as he brought a shallow silver cup toward her.

He leaned over her and pinched her nostrils between finger and thumb. She gasped for breath, her mouth opening. And he poured the contents of the cup straight down her throat. She choked, swallowed before she drowned. It was bitter, herbal, medicinal.

He held her nose until he was certain she had swallowed every drop, then he let go and stood up. "You'll not breed a bastard," he said cruelly. "Whatever you're carrying, you'll lose before morning. And then, my deceitful whore of a wife, you'll lie beneath me night and morning until you carry and deliver my son."

Uncomprehending, she stared up at him, the horror of what she had endured, of what she feared, indelible in her eyes. "I'll leave you now to your reflections." He unfastened the ropes that held her, then stood looking down at her with his asp's smile. "I doubt you'll pass a comfortable night, my dear, but I believe the punishment is appropriate to the offense."

He walked away. She heard him lock the door to the salon, then he left through her dressing room. The door clicked shut behind him and the key turned from the outside. She was alone.

Merciful God, what had he given her? She fought to control the panic that threatened to overwhelm her, to banish all rational thought. What had he said? "You'll not breed a bastard."

Now she understood what he'd done. He had given her something to abort a pregnancy. A bastard pregnancy. He must have discovered her relationship with Leo. But how? And she didn't even know if she was pregnant, and, oh God, the final irony. If she was carrying a child, it would be Michael's. Leo was too careful.

She sat up, looking around the familiar room. When would it begin to work? What would it do to her? The thought that some alien substance was working within her to cause damage and destruction was so terrifying that the black mists of panic this time nearly engulfed her, but she pushed them away with every fiber of her being.

What would happen if she screamed? Nothing. He'd locked the doors, taken the keys. And besides, the servants were accustomed to the sounds that came from this chamber during the long hours of the night. And they were far too terrified of their master to intervene. Her alliance with Brion didn't encompass his risking his livelihood.

She closed her eyes on the bitter tears and tried to empty her mind so that she could sleep. Even ten minutes would be ten minutes gone of this interminable night.

The cramping began just before dawn. She groaned, curling onto her side over the pain, trying to ease the muscles in her belly. The pain was more violent than her customary monthly terms, and the flow of blood felt stronger. She was suddenly too debilitated to move, to examine what was happening to her. The sheet beneath her was soon soaked and sticky, and the great waves of lassitude broke over her, rendering her almost immobile.

She was going to bleed to death, helpless on this bed.

Cordelia opened her mouth and screamed. She screamed and screamed until her throat was sore. And now there were sounds from the salon. Voices, footsteps. The handle turned, met the resistance of the key. She screamed again.

The door to the dressing room was flung open. Michael strode in. "Stop your caterwauling, whore!" He flung back the sheet and stared at the red mess beneath her. Then he looked up into her face and said with quiet satisfaction, "You'll be breeding no bastards."

Cordelia had little strength left, but she screamed again. It seemed it was the only thing she knew how to do. She screamed in pain, in fear, and in hatred.

Michael looked down at the blood again. There was surely too much. He didn't want her to bleed to death. He hadn't finished with her yet. He flung open the salon door and bellowed, "Brion, fetch the physician."

Cordelia hauled herself onto one elbow. Her eyes fixed on him through the tangle of hair. "If you don't want me to die, fetch Mathilde." She spoke slowly, with an effort, the words dragged from her. "Mathilde will know how to stop it," She fell back again.

Michael hesitated. He didn't want her to die. He wanted to hurt her. To punish her. To tear from her any life that might not be of his own blood. But he wasn't finished with her yet.

"Where is she?"

Even through the agony, Cordelia knew that by divulging Mathilde's whereabouts, she was putting all their plans in danger, but she did not want to die. And only Mathilde could help her. It was possible Michael was tricking the address out of her, but it was a risk she had to take. "In. the town. At the sign of the Blue Boar." She closed her eyes against the tearing pain in her vitals.

When next she opened her eyes, her blurred gaze fell onto Mathilde's face, and unstoppable tears spilled down her cheeks. Mathilde bent and kissed her cheek. "It's all right, my babe. It's all right."

"Am I going to die?"

"Bless you, no." She smiled, but the smile didn't diminish the grimness in her eyes. "It's slowed now." "How?"

"I have my ways, child. Sit up and take some of this." She slipped an arm beneath her and lifted Cordelia up against the pillows.

The sheets were clean and crisp beneath her, her nightgown freshly laundered. There was no sign anywhere in the chamber of that blood-soaked, pain-filled terrifying horror of the night. Except for the red liquid Mathilde was holding to her mouth.

"What is it?" With instinctive revulsion she tried to push it away.

"Drink it down. You need your strength."

"Is it blood?" She looked in disgust at her nurse.

"And a few other things."

Cordelia closed her eyes and tipped the warm, evil-smelling liquid down her throat. Curiously, it didn't taste bad at all. Didn't taste salty like blood.

"You'll drink some more in an hour." Mathilde took the cup away.

Cordelia lay back against the pillows, feeling warm and sleepy. "Mathilde?"

"Yes, dearie?" Mathilde came back to the bed. "Was I? I mean did I lose…?"

"If you were carrying, my dear, it was too soon to tell," Mathilde said briskly. "Where's Michael?"

"That bastard son of a ditch-born drab!" Mathilde was not given to swearing, but her face was as harshly savage as her words. "I've not finished with him yet."

"Is he here?"

"No. He's gone to the king's levee, and I'm to be out of here before he returns," she said dourly.

"Did he say anything else to you?"

Mathilde shook her head. "Just told me he believed you were miscarrying and I'd better do something about it."

"He gave me something to make it happen," Cordelia said dully. "I don't know what it was. But he must know about Leo."

Mathilde looked up, and her eyes, bright, black, and utterly unreadable, rested on Cordelia's face for a minute. Then she nodded once and, with the same inscrutable expression, returned to her task. She was packing things in the leather bag that accompanied her everywhere. Over the years, Cordelia had grown to trust the contents of that bag as she trusted the woman who administered them. "That girl?" Mathilde gestured with her head toward the dressing room. "Is she as gormless as she seems?"

A weak smile flickered. "Yes, but she's very willing and good-hearted."

Mathilde clucked crossly. "Well, I'd best tell her what to give you and when."

"Tell me. I feel quite strong now."

"You lost a power of blood," Mathilde stated. "And you need to put it back." She flourished a jar of the red liquid. "Take a glass of this every hour until it's finished."

"What is it?" Cordelia asked again.

"Marrow, ground liver and heart, salsify, ginger… Oh, a host of things that you needn't trouble yourself about." Mathilde placed the jar on the bedside table. "Now, if the bleeding becomes heavy again, more than your usual terms, send the girl for me."

Cordelia nodded. "Mathilde, Leo wants the children out of the palace this afternoon. Their governess believes they're going to a music lesson. I gave Christian a note yesterday afternoon, asking him to notify the Nevry woman formally that he will be giving them a lesson at three o'clock this afternoon in his lodgings in the town. I was going to escort them myself, but I don't think I can. Will you make sure they get there?"

"Aye, leave it with me." Mathilde bent over her again, brushing her hair from her face. "Tell me where to find them in this warren."

Cordelia gave her precise instructions, Mathilde nodding her comprehension. "I'll see to it, child. You've a bit more color in your cheeks now. How are the pains?"

"Just the usual dull kind of ache."

"Rest in bed for today and you'll be right as rain tomorrow." She kissed her nursling and patted her cheek. "We'll come through this, never you fear."

Cordelia's smile was a trifle wan. Mathilde's complete lack of reaction to Michael's part in all this was surprising, but Mathilde was often surprising. Now the nurse gave her another brisk kiss and bustled away into the dressing room.

Cordelia heard her giving slow instructions to Elsie as if the girl was in possession of only half her senses.

She would not come through this unless she could escape her husband. Cordelia knew this as she had never known it before. There was nothing that Michael would not do if he felt in his vile, twisted mind that it was necessary.

And Leo was planning something. He had not been giving her the entire reason why he wanted her out of Versailles this afternoon. She had tried to convince herself that he had told her the whole truth, but she knew that he hadn't. She closed her eyes again, thinking. There was to be a play in Madame de Pompadour's theater at four o'clock. Toinette had been thrilled with the exquisitely designed and decorated theater, eagerly reliving the theatricals of their childhood in the little theater at Schonbrunn where all the royal children had entertained visiting dignitaries as well as members of the royal household.

There was the play. And nothing else until the usual evening festivities.

But why would Leo not want her to attend the play?

"Is there something I can get you, milady?" Elsie bobbed a curtsy beside the bed, and Cordelia opened her eyes.

"Yes, pour me some of that foul mixture in the jar," she said. If she was to get herself out of bed and to the play, she was going to need all the strength she could muster.

When Prince Michael returned at noon, he found his wife peacefully asleep. The nurse had done her work well and had then disappeared as ordered. He surveyed Cordelia. She looked almost herself, her cheeks slightly pink now against the white of the pillow. If the woman had failed, she would have ended her days in the Bastille. But she had succeeded. He would reward success in this instance. For as long as she kept out of his sight, he would leave her be.

Cordelia's eyes fluttered open and for a moment fear stood out naked in their blue depths as she saw her husband's frowning regard.

"You are better, I see."

She nodded weakly. The frailer he believed her, the more likely he was at this point to leave her alone.

"You will keep to your bed," he declared, then turned on his heel and left the chamber.

She would keep to her bed until close to four o'clock. Then somehow she would drag herself to the theater.