Jane Feather: The Diamond Slipper

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?

"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.