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?"