by Jane Feather
"Your pardon, sir, but… but I wondered what music you would be playing?"
Christian turned at the timid voice behind him. A slight brown-haired girl stood there in a simple gown of white muslin, her hair drawn back to reveal the pale oval of her face. "Why, Clothilde." He smiled with pleasure and was infused with a wonderful sense of his own strength and experience beside this fragile young creature. He was a man with a mission.
"Good afternoon, sir." She curtsied gracefully.
"There's no need to be frightened, child." Child. He relished the sound of it on his tongue. He tipped her chin, lifting her face, and smiled down at her. What a little thing she was. So young, so timid, and her eyes were filled with awe as they fixed on his face-the face of an acknowledged genius, one who had played for royalty across the continent.
"I've never danced privately for royalty, sir," She confided, curtsying again, her tiny slippered feet peeping from beneath the hem of her gown.
"There's nothing to be afraid of," he said from the vast wealth of his own court experience. He'd been playing for imperial audiences since childhood… "What would you like me to play?" He took her hand gently, drawing her over to the harpsichord. "What do you intend to dance?"
"Anything that you wish, sir," Clothilde said, still as tremulous as before. Christian felt himself growing, expanding like some tall protective tree that would shelter this shy woodland creature.
He sat down at the harpsichord, took her hands between his, and drew her beside him. "Let me play a little of a ballet by Cavalli and see if you know it."
Clothilde listened her head on one side as he played. Her smile was radiant. "I know it well, sir."
"Then we shall entertain the company with Cavalli," he said with another flashing smile. "How old are you, Clothilde?"
"Fourteen, sir."
The same age as the dauphine, Christian reflected. But this child seemed so much younger, so much more innocent.
A stir came from the anteroom adjoining the music room. Christian stood up as the dauphine entered on the arm of the dauphin, their entourage flowing behind them, He bowed, Clothilde curtsied, and the dauphine acknowledged them with an inclination of her head before seating herself in the first row of chairs.
Cordelia, dressed in canary silk, topaz circling her neck, glowing in her ears, entered the room on her husband's arm, the two little girls walking just behind them, their eyes sometimes fixed on their feet, sometimes gazing more boldly around at the glittering throng.
Toinette beckoned Cordelia, calling in her clear high voice, "Come and sit with me, Cordelia. And the children too."
Cordelia glanced up at her husband. His face still had a gray cast to it, and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, but his eyes were as pale and cold as ever. "You will excuse us, my lord," she said punctiliously before escorting Amelia and Sylvie forward.
They settled excitedly on footstools at the feet of their stepmother and the dauphine. The dauphin shifted uneasily on his little gilt chair, nodding briefly to Cordelia when she curtsied. It seemed an unfriendly acknowledgment, but she guessed that he was still ill at ease in his wife's company. They certainly didn't appear close, exchanging not so much as a smile or a touch as they sat stiffly side by side. The poor boy must be aware that his lack of interest in the bedchamber was now the talk of the court.
Michael took a seat two rows behind the royal couple. He could see the back of his wife's head, the dusky ringlets piled atop the slender alabaster column of her neck. He looked sharply at the musician, recognizing him as the young man whom Cordelia claimed as a childhood friend. His mouth tightened. He had to get Cordelia away from Versailles, but he felt too damnably ill to gather together a coherent plan. But ill or not, he wouldn't let her out of his sight. He folded his arms grimly and stared fixedly ahead.
Leo entered the music room a few minutes later. He stood at the back, leaning against the door, his gaze flickering over the scene. The sight of Cordelia with the dauphine and away from Michael brought him some comfort, although he knew it was spurious. She was never in danger from her husband in public.
"I thought you would wish to sit apart from your husband," Toinette said in an undertone.
"Call Signor Percossi over," Cordelia whispered. "I wish to say something to him but my husband has forbidden me to speak with him."
Toinette obliged without demur. She knew that Christian and Cordelia had been friends at Schonbrunn.
Christian came over, bowing low. "Your Highness, you do me too much honor."
"Not at all," Toinette said with a smile. "We are always delighted to support our friends from the past." She turned to her husband. "Monseigneur, may I present Christian Percossi. He was a most particular protege of my mother's."
Christian flushed with pleasure. The dauphin accorded him a short nod and a movement of the lips that could have been interpreted as a smile. Christian turned to bow to Cordelia.
She smiled at him from behind her fan and gave him her hand. He bowed over it, receiving the slip of folded paper in his palm with all the discretion of an experienced conspirator. Then he returned to the harpsichord.
The audience stirred and settled like so many birds coming to roost in a spinney. With considerable address, Christian greeted them and introduced the dancer. Smiling warmly, he drew her forward to make her blushing curtsy. "Clothilde is a little shy, my lords and ladies," he said. "But I know you will be entranced by her performance."
He began to play, and he played for the girl who danced. Every note was a note to inspire, to enable her to lose herself in the magic of the music. For the first time in his life, he was not playing simply for himself and Cordelia, who had listened to him so many times, listened to his private self-critical practices, his agonies of creation. Now Clothilde brought an extra dimension to his art. It flowed from his fingers, shone in his rapt eyes, and his audience was spellbound, entranced by the exquisite dancer who seemed to fly on the notes he played, an embodiment of the music.
For a moment Cordelia could forget Michael's steady gaze on the back of her neck. Only when Christian's hands finally came to rest on the keys did the sense of danger return, lifting her scalp. She knew Michael was plotting how to hurt her, as he gazed at the vulnerable, exposed column of her neck, and it was all she could do to keep her seat. She couldn't flee yet. The plan was not in place and every detail had to be worked out if they were to avoid the horror of recapture.
She felt him come toward her and stiffened. Instinctively, she placed her hands on the girls' shoulders as they still sat at her feet. "I trust you enjoyed the recital, madame." Michael
spoke with cold indifference.
"Very much so," she returned blandly, rising from her seat.
"Mesdames, the king's daughters, have expressed a desire to meet my children," the prince informed her. "You had better take them over and perform the introductions." He took a pinch of snuff, regarding his daughters with the same dispassion as they rose hastily at his approach and now stood attentively hand in hand. "Much as I disapprove of children in adult company, I suppose one must indulge a royal whim."
Cordelia dropped an ironic curtsy, took the children by the hand, and led them away to where Mesdames de France, the king's unmarried daughters, were gathered in a circle before the window, sipping champagne and nibbling savory tarts from a tray held by an immobile footman. He might just as well have been a stuffed dummy as far as the royal princesses were concerned. They turned in unison as Cordelia approached with the children.
"What dear little things," Princess Adelaide declared. "Such perfect identical little dolls. Have a sugared almond." She took two sweetmeats from the salver and popped them into the girls' mouths. Sylvie and Amelia looked startled but gratified. It seemed that since they'd arrived in this enchanted palace, they were always being fed sweetmeats from royal fingers. They sucked the sugary nut with solemn pleasure and received the shower of compliments from the princesses in wide-eyed silence, remembering to curtsy whenever it seemed required.
"Goodness me, how do people tell you apart?" Princess Sophie exclaimed, clapping her hands in exaggerated astonishment.
"With difficulty." Leo answered the question with light amusement. "Mesdames." He bowed to the royal sisters. "And my little mesdames." He offered the same courtesy to the children, who giggled, before turning to Cordelia. "The dauphine wishes to speak with you, Princess. May I escort you?"
"Leave the children with us while you talk with the dauphine," Princess Sophie insisted. "Come, my dears, would you like to see my songbirds?"
"And I have a pet monkey," Princess Louise put in. "A most amusing little thing, you'll love him."
It seemed that the princesses, always on the lookout for new amusements, had decided to vie for the attention of Prince von Sachsen's identical twins. The novelty probably wouldn't last long, but Michael couldn't object to Cordelia's leaving his daughters to bask in the royal competition to amuse them.
She put her hand on Leo's arm and allowed him to lead her away. "I have a plan," she said in a low voice. Large groups were ideal for exchanging secrets so long as one kept one's expression bland and one's voice an undertone. No one took a blind bit of notice of what anyone said anyway, unless it was the juiciest morsel of gossip. "I will bring the children to Christian's lodgings in Versailles on the pretext of their taking a music lesson. The Nevry woman will cooperate. I gave Christian a letter explaining the plan; I'm sure he'll agree to do what he can to help."
"Good. I want you and the children to leave the palace tomorrow afternoon. Take nothing with you and go directly to Mathilde and Christian. They will know what to do."
"But what are you going to do?"
They had reached Toinette, and Leo didn't answer; instead he said, "Madame, I bring the princess to you, as commanded."
"Oh, good, I wish to play piquet, Cordelia." Toinette flourished a pack of cards. "It's been ages since we played together."
"I wonder if you cheat each other as well as everyone else," Leo commented carelessly, drawing out a chair for Cordelia at the card table.
"What calumny, Lord Kierston," Toinette declared, quite pink cheeked. "Whatever makes you say such a thing?"
"A long journey in the company of the princess," Leo responded with an amused smile.
"As it happens, Toinette and I never have the slightest need to cheat with each other," Cordelia said with a dignified tilt of her head, slipping easily into the role he was dictating. Light, slightly flirtatious banter was enjoyed by everyone at court. "We developed the strategy, as I told you, to combat the underhand dealings of others. Fight pitch with pitch, my lord." She glanced over her shoulder as she said this, and her eyes held a very different meaning. Leo merely smiled, bowed, and moved away into the main body of the room.
Tables were being set up for gaming. The children seemed to have vanished with the royal sisters. Michael was sitting at a whist table. It seemed to Leo that the man was having difficulty sitting up straight in his chair. His shoulders kept slumping. For the first time, Leo remembered Mathilde's potion and how Cordelia had said it had kept Michael from the boar hunt. So many momentous things had happened since then, he'd completely forgotten.
There were as yet only three people at the table just behind Michael's. Leo went over. "May I join your rubber? Or are you waiting for someone?"
"Not at all, dear fellow. But all means, sit." A snuff-stained whist player waved jovially at the empty chair. Michael glanced over his shoulder and acknowledged Leo's smiling greeting with a stiff bow. He looked ghastly, Leo thought. And then he thought grimly that if Michael was ill, he couldn't be expected to fight a duel. Leo would be expected to hold his challenge until his opponent was fit and well.
But he could still issue it. Once the challenge was issued, Cordelia would be beyond danger. The matter would fall under the king's jurisdiction until it was resolved.
He picked up his cards and sorted them. He intended to make his accusation in the most dramatic way possible. The following afternoon, after the play, on stage, he would speak out. He had his speech prepared and it would create a stir that would live in the memory of this court into the next generation.
He laid an ace of spades on top of the ten and took the trick. A hand touched his arm. A tiny dimpled hand. "Monsieur Leo."
He looked down at the twins, standing together at this chair. They curtsied as his eyes fell upon them, and then they gazed at him solemnly, as if a little unsure of their welcome. "Madame Cordelia said we could come and pay our respects, sir. We have something most particular to ask you.
"These are your nieces, I understand, Lord Kierston." A dowager duchess put up her lorgnette and examined the children, who were so fascinated by the ostrich plumes in her powdered mountain of hair that for a moment they stared unabashed as the feathers bobbed perilously close to the rim of a glass of champagne.
"Make your curtsies," Leo reminded them softly, and they did so hastily.
"May we watch?" Amelia inched closer against his arm, gazing up at him with Elvira's eyes, where appeal and mischief mingled.
"If no one else objects," he said, glancing at Michael's back at the next table. He didn't seem to be aware of his daughters' somewhat unort�
�hodox arrival.
"Not in the least," the duchess said airily. "Have a comfit, mes petites." She selected two chocolate dragees from a silver dish. The girls, experienced now, opened their mouths to receive the sweet and smiled politely at their benefactress.
"What's a passport, Monsieur Leo?" Sylvie asked when she'd swallowed her chocolate.
Leo's hand froze in the act of scooping up his new hand. "Why do you ask?"
"You said to Madame Cordelia that you were going to get us one," Amelia put in. "Is it a present?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Amelia," Leo said with a slight, dismissive laugh, examining his cards-"And children with big ears certainly aren't given presents.
They both looked crestfallen, but that couldn't be helped-
"Go back to your stepmother now," he instructed. "You're disturbing my play."
They curtsied disconsolately and scurried off, but recovered sufficiently to take strawberry tarts from a salver that a footman obligingly held down to them.
"pretty little things," the dowager duchess said. "So like their mother. The same eyes." She leaned sideways and bellowed at Michael's averted back. "I was just saying, Prince. Your daughters… such pretty little things… the image of their mother-may she rest in peace," she added piously, crossing herself.
Michael looked over his shoulder. His eyes were blank. "How kind of you to say so, madame." He turned back to his cards.
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.