by Jane Feather
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.
Chapter Twenty-two
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.
No one looking at him taking his ease, watching the swordplay, would guess at the hot red anger in his soul at his mistake. An anger that had its roots in fear. Fear of his own death. He could defeat Michael only as long as he allowed nothing to interfere with his concentration. The prince was a superb swordsman, renowned throughout the Prussian army for his skill. He was older and heavier now than in his youth, when he'd dispatched ten of his fellow cadets to their deaths on the dueling ground in as many months. But he was still almost matchless. He still practiced religiously. And he could kill.
But he must put all thoughts of Cordelia from him. He must ensure that she and the children were safely out of the way. If he fell to Michael's sword, then Cordelia and the children would be defenseless unless they could disappe�
�ar into thin air. His sister would hide them if they could reach England, and they would be safe for a while. At least until the immediate hue and cry had died down.
He must put from him the knowledge that if he succeeded in killing the prince, Cordelia would be free.
Elvira would be avenged; Cordelia would be free; Elvira's children would come under his own protection. All three goals achieved with one thrust of a rapier. But he must concentrate only on avenging Elvira-on punishing her murderer as was his legal and moral right. If he allowed himself to think beyond that, to a future-a life of love with Cordelia, where their children could grow in love and security-then he risked losing the concentration that was as great a weapon as his sword. A concentration that was all that stood between him and Michael's death cut.
"I was watching you fence, Lord Kierston."
Leo glanced up. Christian Percossi was smiling somewhat tentatively. He was still rather shy of the viscount. "I don't mean to be impertinent, but you seem very ferocious, as if it was not sport."
Leo pushed himself off the sill. "How observant of you. Walk with me awhile. There are some matters I need to discuss."
Christian, gratified at such in invitation, accompanied Leo from the gallery. But now the viscount's face was dark and closed, his eyes hard as iron, and those who glanced up as he passed felt a cold shiver as if an icy wind gusted in his wake. And Christian's blood stirred with foreboding.
They strolled along the gravel paths between the fountains, two courtiers engaged in conversation like any of the other couples around them. But this was no ordinary conversation.
"I intend to challenge Cordelia's husband under the ancient law of trial by duel," Leo was saying, his voice perfectly calm although the subject matter was incendiary. "It has to be a public accusation before the king, and a public trial. Cordelia must not be there. If I should lose, she will be in immediate danger from her husband and must be in a position to flee France with her stepdaughters."
"You would accuse him and fight with him because he mistreats Cordelia?" Christian asked hesitantly. Surely such a statement would immediately give rise to speculation about the relationship between the viscount and the prince's wife.
"No," Leo said flatly. "I will accuse him of murder. Of murdering his first wife, my sister."
Christian paled, his jaw dropped. "He did such a thing?"
"Yes." Leo plucked a rose from the trellis of the arbor under which they now walked. "He did such a thing. And I will claim my family right to avenge the death of a sister."
"But… but surely it would be simpler… less uncertain… to accuse him before a court of law?" Christian stammered.
"Maybe. But he took the blood of my sister, and I will take his." Both voice and face were expressionless, and it seemed to Christian that the viscount was encased in ice. An ice sculpture far from the reach of ordinary human contact. A man contained by a most terrible rage.
"What… what would you have me do?"
Leo's response was succinct, his voice still without expression. "In the event of my death, I would like you to escort Mathilde, Cordelia, and my nieces to the coast and there arrange passage for them on a packet to Dover. You will be pursued by Prince Michael, but you'll all have correct papers and passports, you'll need to be disguised in some way, and you'll need to travel warily. Do you think you can undertake such a task for Cordelia?"
"Yes, yes, of course I would try," Christian said. "But
Cordelia will want to make all the arrangements. She always does." He looked stricken at this admission, as if he was in some way failing Leo, but the viscount smiled for the first time. It was a fleeting smile, but it somewhat reassured Christian.
"Yes, I'm sure she will. But I need to know that you'll assist her in whatever ways are necessary."
"You have my word on it." Christian impulsively stuck out his hand. Leo took it in a firm, dry clasp.
"Good. Thank you, my friend." He shook the musician's hand briefly, then dropped the rose he'd been holding to the gravel. With a short nod, he turned and strode away in the direction of the palace.
Absently, Christian bent to pick up the fallen rose. He sat on a low stone bench in the arbor, inhaling the flower's delicate scent. He would have to get a leave of absence from his patron, who might well be displeased, since Christian had been such a short time in his service. He couldn't tell the Due de Carillac the truth, of course, so he'd have to invent some foolproof tale. But when was the viscount intending to drop his bombshell? Christian kicked himself for not asking. He didn't know whether he had a day or a week or a month in which to prepare.
He glanced at his fob watch and leaped to his feet with an exclamation of horror. It was just after half past two and he was to play for the dauphine at three o'clock. He couldn't possibly be late. He set off at a run, arriving breathless and sweaty in the small oval music room off the Hall of Mirrors.
Mopping his brow, he examined the harpsichord. It was an elegant instrument, with glowing inlaid wood and soft ivory keys. The disturbing conversation with the viscount faded into the background of his mind as he sat down on the blue velvet stool and played a few chords, his head tilted as he listened to the notes.
"I trust the instrument is to your satisfaction, Signor Percossi?"
"Yes, thank you," he replied absently to the hovering footman, only vaguely aware of the activity in the room behind him as servants arranged little gilt chairs in rows and set out decanters and platters of fruit, tarts, and sweetmeats.
"If you wouldn't mind moving for one minute, sir, we need to roll up the rug," an apologetic footman murmured.
Christian looked startled, but he stood up and moved aside obligingly as the Turkey carpet was rolled back to reveal the smooth oak floorboards. "Why are you doing that?"
"For the dancer, Mademoiselle Clothilde, sir."
Oh, yes. How could he have forgotten? Christian smiled involuntarily. He had arranged for Clothilde to dance this afternoon through the influence of his patron. The girl's father had been delighted at the honor done his daughter and was inclined to look upon young Signor Percossi with a favorable eye. Christian was not as yet sure how Clothilde viewed him; she was as timid as a fawn. But Christian had discovered in himself all the patience of a skilled hunter.
He moved away from the harpsichord and went to look out of the long window opening onto a flagstone terrace. The scene was as tranquil as always, the lawns and pathways dotted with bright-plumaged figures, hooped skirts swaying gracefully, the silks and satins of their escorts glowing like so many jewels under the late afternoon sun.
It was all so rich
and artificial, Christian thought. Life centered around frivolities; no one had a serious thought in his head. Hunting, gaming, feasting, dancing, and the endless gossip occupied them from the moment they opened their eyes on the day until the last courtier had vanished from the marble corridors with the first birdsong.
A shiver ran down his spine as he remembered Leo's face, heard his voice again. There was nothing artificial or superficial about the viscount's deep, cold, contained rage, and his vengeance would shatter this peaceful, orderly world as effectively as a hurled boulder would smash one of the great mirrors in the gallery. And there was nothing playful, no hint of fantasy, about the responsibility he had laid upon
Christian. A life-and-death responsibility to save Cordelia and two small children from a murderer.
The last time he'd seen Cordelia had been in his lodgings when she'd come to visit Mathilde. He knew then that something definitive had happened between her and the viscount, and he had known then that the situation was so fragile that something would have to break. Leo, Cordelia, and Mathilde had been drawn together, forming an intent circle from which he had felt excluded. They seemed to share a knowledge, an experience of an evil that had not touched him directly. But now he had been touched by it. Now he was no longer excluded. And he would play his part. The fire of determination smoldered in his belly, giving him courage and the exulting sense of being someone he wasn't. Of breaking through some barrier of his character.