The Diamond Slipper, page 43
"Simply inform the prince that all is in order for our departure. Have the coachman drive through the town. Make sure that the coach is seen to leave, make sure that you are seen to leave with it. Oh, and you'd better take Madame de Nevry," she said in afterthought. "Tell her that on the prince's orders you're fetching the children from their music lesson and taking them with her to Paris. When you drive through the town, if possible, drive past the inn where the prince is staying, but too fast for him to hail you. Whether you choose to go on to Paris with the governess, to return, or to get off somewhere else, is your business and I shall not inquire." She sank into an armchair, weakened by the effort to gain this vital support.
"Very well, madame." Brion bowed low. "And may I say it's been a pleasure to serve you."
Cordelia smiled in surprise and caught a flickering response from the majordomo. "Thank you, Brion."
"May I wish you the happiest outcome tomorrow,"
he said.
"Thank you," she said again. He left and she sat back, regaining her strength, certain that he would do his part. She was safe from Michael for the moment.
And now she had to go to Leo. Tell him what she had done. Arrange for the children's departure. She closed her eyes again.
How could he have done this thing? How could he sacrifice their love, their future?
Must she believe that that love and that future took second place to his love for his murdered sister?
Chapter Twenty-five
"Where's Cordelia?" Leo asked as he entered Christian's lodgings at the Blue Boar. He didn't need to look to know that she wasn't there. He didn't need eyes to detect that vibrant presence.
"Monsieur Leo!" The girls bounced up from the spinet stool. "We're having a music lesson. We're learning lots, aren't we, sir?" They turned confidently to Christian, whose teaching methods concentrated on praise rather than criticism. As a result he had two utterly devoted pupils.
For once, their uncle had neither smile nor greeting for them. "Where is she?" he demanded again.
"She's kept to her bed today, my lord," Mathilde informed him with customary placidity.
"Is she ill?"
"Woman's trouble," the woman returned. "She needed to rest."
Leo stared at her, trying to absorb this and the implications of Cordelia's absence from his carefully laid plans. He had ridden with Cordelia, loved with her, spent days in her company, and not once had she suffered from "woman's trouble." Or at least not so that he was aware of it. "She's been in her bed all day?" Harsh anxiety rasped in his voice.
Mathilde nodded. "As far as I know, my lord. I've been here with the little ones since early afternoon."
"Did you do it?" Christian asked, almost hesitantly.
Leo nodded curtly. "The king has ordained sunrise tomorrow. I want you to take the children and Cordelia away now. They will have a good twelve hours' start."
"But we don't have Cordelia," Christian pointed out.
"Mathilde, go and fetch her. The prince has been banished from court, as have I, so he won't be in the palace." But supposing he had taken her into exile in the town with him?
"Hell and the devil! Why does Cordelia never cooperate!" he exclaimed, unjustly he knew, but his frustration was beyond all bounds. He became aware of two pairs of bright blue eyes regarding him solemnly and with a degree of injury.
"Isn't that a bad thing to say, Monsieur Leo?" Sylvie-or at least he assumed it was Sylvie-asked. "Isn't what?"
"Hell and the devil," Amelia supplied. "Melia!" exclaimed her twin, and they both dissolved in giggles.
Leo raised his eyes heavenward. "Here's Cordelia."
Leo strode to the window where Christian was looking down on the street. Cordelia had just turned the corner of the street below. She wore a dark cape over her riding habit, and a capuchin hood drawn close over her head. Relief flooded him. Now he could act.
But when she pushed open the door and entered the parlor, her pallor, the deep black shadows under her eyes, that beautiful mouth drawn with suffering, her obvious frailty, brought him forward with a cry of dismay. She looked as she had done when he'd found her on the windowsill waiting for Mathilde. That night seemed to have happened in another lifetime and yet, incredibly, was no more that a week past.
"Sweetheart, you are ill." He took her hands. "What are you doing running through the streets?" He forgot how he needed her here, forgot everything but the pain radiating from her.
"I am not ill!" she said with a vigorous impatience that belied her appearance. "At least, not so it matters. What have you done, Leo?" She hadn't meant to reproach him, but the words tumbled forth regardless. "I was there," she said fiercely. "I saw you. I heard you."
"I'll be taking the children into the garden," Mathilde said, with a significant nod at Christian, who needed no prompting. They left the room without Cordelia or Leo being aware of it.
Leo released her hands and moved back to the window. "I asked you not to be there."
"You deceived me." She wanted to weep. She hadn't meant this to be bitter, but suddenly all vestige of understanding was leached from her.
He stood by the window, the evening sun falling across his left cheek, his strong white hands resting on the sill behind him. Angrily, with shaking fingers, she untied the strings of her hood and threw it back. The turquoise silk lining contrasted with the black hood and cape, framing her face, accentuating her pallor and the blue-black shadows beneath her hollowed eyes.
"I did not deceive you, Cordelia. I asked for your trust," he said flatly. "I could not have my challenge compromised by anything that you might have done or said."
"And you would not take me into your confidence?" Her voice was as bitter as aloes.
"I could not," he said simply.
"Because I would have said to you then what I'm saying to you now." She stepped toward him. "You cannot do this, Leo. You can't fight Michael. You might not win." She held out her hands in appeal, her eyes desperate. "You cannot, Leo. Surely you see that."
He didn't take her hands. He said simply, "It's what I'm going to do, Cordelia. I will be avenged upon my sister's murderer."
"But you won't be if he kills you!" she exclaimed, grabbing his arms, all possibility of dignity, of graciousness, of understanding vanquished under this desperate need to keep him with her. "You'll be dead, and Elvira will be dead, and Michael will go scot-free." She tried to shake him, but it was like shaking an oak tree.
"This is the way I have chosen," he said, his voice suddenly cool and dispassionate, distancing her. "And I will take my chance."
Her hands dropped from his arms. "Why couldn't you have simply enacted a warrant, had his journals seized in evidence? Why couldn't you have let justice take its course?" But she heard the defeated note in her voice.
"I could not," he said simply.
"I don't understand."
"We're all a mystery to others, Cordelia. I don't expect you to understand how I feel. It's enough that Elvira would know and understand." Elvira would applaud it too. He could almost see her little nod of comprehension and approval. They had always understood each other's motives, even when they hadn't shared them.
Cordelia's eyes were dark with emotion. So she must believe that their love and their future took second place to his Jove for his murdered sister.
"You don't love me," she stated quietly.
He felt her dreadful hurt, but for the moment he could do nothing to help her understand. "I love you," he said flatly. "But I must avenge my sister's death. Once that is done, we will have everything."
"We will have nothing if you die."
It was hopeless and they both knew it. Leo moved into the room again, and now his voice was even, brisk. "You and the children will leave with Mathilde and Christian tonight. You will be long gone by the morning."
"The children may go. I will not."
"Cordelia, for God's sake!" He took a step toward her.
"You expect me to accept your needs, my lord. You must accept mine. If I have to, I will watch you die." She turned from him, drawing up her hood. "Christian and Mathilde can escort the children. Michael assumes that the children and myself have gone to Paris, so they will have an even longer head start. And if Michael lives, then it matters not what happens to me." She shrugged. "If I can run, I will. If that will make you die easier, my lord." She left without another word.
Leo turned back to the window, watching for her to reappear in the street. His heart was a black void. He had drained all possibility of emotion, of feeling, from his soul. He had been so afraid it wouldn't be possible, but in the end it had been simply a matter of mentally returning to the fencing school. There he had trained himself to see only one thing, his opponent's blade. He had trained himself to be aware of his opponent only as a thinking weapon. He had learned to close out all else from his sight, both physical and mental.
He had closed out Cordelia. He could hear her words in his head, the power of her love behind them, but they existed as mere words. They had no connection for him with the woman who formed them. Thoughts of Cordelia, thoughts of any possible future, would not now intrude in the fight for his life and Michael's death. There would be no muddying of the purity of his motives and his purpose. Only thus could he accomplish Elvira's revenge.
As Cordelia was going downstairs, Mathilde came in from the garden, Christian and the children behind her. Cordelia's face was ghastly in its pallor, her eyes large holes filled with pain. "Oh, my babe!" Mathilde ran forward to embrace her. "It will be all right. I promise it will be all right."
Cordelia shook her head. "I… I thought he loved me. I couldn't see how… I still can't see how… I could love him so much and he could be untouched." She raised her head, a face a mask of bewilderment and hurt. "He was so cold, Mathilde. So cold. How could he not feel as I do, Mathilde?"
"A man with a mission, dearie, is not an easy man for a woman to understand." Mathilde caressed the back of Cordelia's neck, stroked her back.
"Have I just been a fool?" Cordelia asked bleakly. "A naive, self-deluded fool?" She pulled out of Mathilde's embrace, her expression now stark. "You and Christian must take the children away tonight."
"You'll be staying here?" Mathilde knew the answer already. "Then I'll be staying with you, child."
"No, you must go with the children." Cordelia turned to where Christian stood, with an air both stricken and helpless, in the doorway behind her, the two little girls staring solemnly at the scene. "You have papers, Christian?"
"Yes, yes, of course. But you must come too. The viscount said you must." He tried to sound authoritative, but it was not a role he had ever played with Cordelia, and he knew it was doomed before he began.
"Leo knows I'm staying. But the children must go."
"Where are we to go?" piped Sylvie.
Cordelia came over to them. She bent to take their hands, bringing her face to their level. "On an adventure," she said. "You're to go and visit your mama's sister in England. Your aunt Elizabeth."
"Does our father know?" Amelia was scared; her lip trembled, her eyes glistened.
"Yes," Cordelia said firmly. "And I will be coming with you later. I'll catch up with you before you go on the ship."
"On a ship?" Some of the alarm faded from their eyes.
"An adventure," Cordelia affirmed, smiling. "It'll be so exciting and there's nothing to be frightened of. Is there, Christian?"
The children immediately looked up at Christian, their eyes demanding confirmation.
"Of course not," he said with an attempt at joviality. "It'll be fun, you'll see."
"And Mathilde will be-"
"I'll be staying here," Mathilde interrupted stolidly. "The young man can manage for the first stage. We'll be catching up with him soon enough."
"But Mathilde-"
"I've work to do here," the elderly woman declared through compressed lips. "And I'll be off about it now. You get yourself back to bed, Cordelia, and don't expect to see me until the morning." She marched out of the inn without a backward glance.
"Oh dear." Cordelia rubbed her temples. "I'm sorry, Christian, you'll have to start out on your own."
"But… but, Cordelia, I'm no nursemaid!" he exclaimed, running a distracted hand through his crisp curls. His soulful brown eyes were filled with dismay.
"You have to do it," she said. "The children won't be any trouble. Will you?" She smiled reassuringly at the twins, who shook their heads in vigorous agreement. "They'll be dressed as boys, so they won't have all those laces and buttons to worry about. You'll be their tutor, taking them on a journey to visit relatives. No one will be looking for such a party, and no one will suspect your involvement. It's safer than if we all traveled together."
She turned back to the children before Christian could respond. "How would you like to dress up as boys? Boys have much more fun than girls. I've always thought so. And their clothes are so much easier to wear. You can run and jump and climb trees in britches."
Their mouths dropped open at this catalog of unimaginable activities.
Cordelia took Christian's hands in a tight grip. "Please, Christian. In the name of friendship."
It was not an appeal he could resist. And her reasoning was impeccable. No one would be looking for a tutor and two small boys. "Get them dressed," he said. "Their clothes are in Mathilde's bedchamber. I'll summon the coach and get the papers together."
She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. "I'll catch up with you at Calais. But don't wait there if there's a favorable wind and you can get immediate passage. Wait for me at Dover." Somehow she and Mathilde would get there if they had to.
And the two of them could travel much faster than Christian and his young charges.
Christian nodded grimly. If he had to sail to England, his career as protege of the Due de Carillac would be over. He could explain a journey to Calais and back, but a sea voyage? However, in this catastrophic situation, personal considerations must be ignored.
Half an hour later, a tutor and two silent but wide-eyed little boys left the town of Versailles in an unmarked coach drawn by a team of swift horses.
Cordelia returned to the palace to wait for sunrise.
In the kitchen of the Coq d'Or, Mathilde sat comfortably beside the range, chatting with the cook, whose acquaintance she had made some days earlier after her banishment from the prince's household. Her previous association with that household made her a welcome guest this evening. The entire town was salivating at the events of the day and the prospect of the morrow's duel. The merest tidbits of gossip were received as holy gospel, and Mathilde could spin a tale when necessary with the best of them.
Frederick, the prince's valet, was also in the kitchen, his opinions also much in demand. There was much juicy talk about the poor princess and how she suffered nightly at the hands of a brutish husband.
"Such a poor young thing," the cook declared, slapping a rolling pin over the pastry dough on the scrubbed pine table. "Only sixteen, you say, Mathilde."
"Aye." Mathilde obligingly stirred the contents of a soup kettle on the hob beside her. "And as pure and innocent as a lamb."
"But she stood up to the prince," Frederick stated, raising his nose from a foaming tankard of ale. "Old Brion said it was a treat to see it."
