"Oh dear." Cordelia rubbed her temples. "I'm sorry, Christian, you'll have to start out on your own."
"But… but, Cordelia, I'm no nursemaid!" he exclaimed, running a distracted hand through his crisp curls. His soulful brown eyes were filled with dismay.
"You have to do it," she said. "The children won't be any trouble. Will you?" She smiled reassuringly at the twins, who shook their heads in vigorous agreement. "They'll be dressed as boys, so they won't have all those laces and buttons to worry about. You'll be their tutor, taking them on a journey to visit relatives. No one will be looking for such a party, and no one will suspect your involvement. It's safer than if we all traveled together."
She turned back to the children before Christian could respond. "How would you like to dress up as boys? Boys have much more fun than girls. I've always thought so. And their clothes are so much easier to wear. You can run and jump and climb trees in britches."
Their mouths dropped open at this catalog of unimaginable activities.
Cordelia took Christian's hands in a tight grip. "Please, Christian. In the name of friendship."
It was not an appeal he could resist. And her reasoning was impeccable. No one would be looking for a tutor and two small boys. "Get them dressed," he said. "Their clothes are in Mathilde's bedchamber. I'll summon the coach and get the papers together."
She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. "I'll catch up with you at Calais. But don't wait there if there's a favorable wind and you can get immediate passage. Wait for me at Dover." Somehow she and Mathilde would get there if they had to.
And the two of them could travel much faster than Christian and his young charges.
Christian nodded grimly. If he had to sail to England, his career as protege of the Due de Carillac would be over. He could explain a journey to Calais and back, but a sea voyage? However, in this catastrophic situation, personal considerations must be ignored.
Half an hour later, a tutor and two silent but wide-eyed little boys left the town of Versailles in an unmarked coach drawn by a team of swift horses.
Cordelia returned to the palace to wait for sunrise.
In the kitchen of the Coq d'Or, Mathilde sat comfortably beside the range, chatting with the cook, whose acquaintance she had made some days earlier after her banishment from the prince's household. Her previous association with that household made her a welcome guest this evening. The entire town was salivating at the events of the day and the prospect of the morrow's duel. The merest tidbits of gossip were received as holy gospel, and Mathilde could spin a tale when necessary with the best of them.
Frederick, the prince's valet, was also in the kitchen, his opinions also much in demand. There was much juicy talk about the poor princess and how she suffered nightly at the hands of a brutish husband.
"Such a poor young thing," the cook declared, slapping a rolling pin over the pastry dough on the scrubbed pine table. "Only sixteen, you say, Mathilde."
"Aye." Mathilde obligingly stirred the contents of a soup kettle on the hob beside her. "And as pure and innocent as a lamb."
"But she stood up to the prince," Frederick stated, raising his nose from a foaming tankard of ale. "Old Brion said it was a treat to see it."
There were renewed sighs and murmurs around the warm, fragrant kitchen, its vaulted ceiling blackened with wood smoke. "What we'll be doing if the viscount kills him, I don't know," Frederick commented dourly. "It's a fair bet he hasn't remembered us in his will." He gave a crack of sardonic laughter at such a novel idea.
Mathilde merely smiled and stirred her pot.
In a private parlor upstairs, Prince Michael was eating his dinner when the landlord knocked and entered the room. "Is everything to your satisfaction, my lord?" His little eyes gleamed with curiosity and the satisfaction of having such a celebrity under his roof. His taproom was doing better business this night than it had in months.
"Well enough." Michael took a forkful of his mutton chop braised with onions and artichokes. "But bring me another bottle of that claret."
"Yes, my lord. At once, my lord." The man picked up the empty bottle. "Will you require anything else tonight?"
"No, just bring me the bottle and tell my man to wake me at four o'clock with beef and ale."
The landlord bowed with some respect. The prince's legendary dueling record was clearly not exaggerated. It took a supremely confident man to face death on a dueling field with a full belly.
He went downstairs to relay these instructions to Frederick, who received them with a taciturn grunt. The kitchen would be up and running an hour before then, so he was in no danger of missing the call.
Mathilde settled back in her chair and prepared to doze the hours away.
Michael poured the last of the claret into his glass. He drank slowly, staring into space. His eyes were clear, his head was clear-he felt no effects from the two bottles of wine. But he hadn't expected to. He always drank deep before a dawn meeting. It relaxed him. His gaze roamed the room, rested on the leather chest that had so nearly proved his downfall. He still couldn't guess how Leo had read the journals. But it didn't matter now. The prideful fool had passed up the opportunity to condemn his sister's murderer by choosing such a ridiculously uncertain path to retribution as a trial by arms.
His gaze moved on, fell upon the long tooled-leather case standing against the wall beside the chest. An uncertain path for Leo Beaumont, but not for his opponent. Michael smiled slightly, took another sip of wine. He was not prepared to put his life in the hands of his own skill, however highly he regarded it. Leo was younger, lighter, possibly with more stamina. Even if he wasn't as good a swordplayer, those could prove decisive advantages, and Michael was not going to play against uneven odds.
, Setting his glass down, he rose from the table and went to the case. He opened it and drew out the two rapiers it contained. Deadly blades of chased tempered steel, their hilts plain silver. No jewels or engraving to dig into the hand. Just smooth, cool metal. He weighed them in his hands, flexed them, lunged with each one, touched the wicked points with the pad of his thumb.
The grace and speed of his movements were unaffected by the wine he had taken, and he smiled with satisfaction. As the defendant, he would have the advantage of fighting with a familiar blade. Leo had never handled these weapons. He would have to become accustomed to the weight, the feel of the hilt in his hand. But even that advantage wasn't sufficient.
After five minutes of exercise, Michael laid one rapier down carefully across the table. The other he propped against the wall. He bent to the leather chest, opened it.
When he straightened, he had a small vial in his hand. He set it down and bent again to the chest, bringing out a pair of kidskin gloves. He drew them on, flexing his fingers to get a tight fit. Then he turned again to the rapier on the table.
He unscrewed the top of the vial, picked up the rapier in his other hand, and dipped the point into the vial. His face was closed, intent, his eyes like pale quartz.
Curare. The smallest amount inserted through a cut would bring paralysis and death. One nick was all it would take, and Leo would begin to falter. His movements would slow, and as it seemed he was tiring, his opponent would administer the coup de grace. It would be a clean fight. There would be no suspicion of foul play. The prince would have lived up to his reputation and the viscount have proved himself the lesser swordsman. And Michael would have proved his innocence of all charges in the ancient way. There would be talk, of course. The king would not receive him for some time. But he could wait. He would have Cordelia. Alone, unprotected. His.
He took a piece of thread from his pocket and tied it around the hilt of the clean rapier, leaning against the wall. Then with his gloved hands, he very carefully replaced both weapons in the case and softly clicked the case shut.