"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.
"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.