"Why would her husband forbid us to talk to each other?" Christian took another tack. "I know I'm a humble musician, but I have some status. If I have the duke's patronage, I shall be at court. I shall play at court. Why should we not be able to talk to each other?"

"Prince Michael is very conscious of his social status," Leo said lightly. "It's a Prussian characteristic. But Cordelia, I'm certain, will win him over, once he's become accustomed to her and she to him. Until then…" He paused, picking his words carefully, "Until then, it would be wise of you to keep your distance. For your own sake as well as Cordelia's. Carillac is a close friend of Prince Michael's. You don't want to ruin your chances there."

"Have you seen her since her marriage?" Christian raised his head from his gloomy contemplation of the table. He'd asked the question once already but hadn't received an answer.

"This morning." Leo drank his wine, keeping his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "Is she well?"

"Perfectly. And looking forward to going to Versailles."

Christian still looked doubtful. "I wish I could speak to her myself. Do you think I could write to her?"

"Give me a letter and I'll see she gets it." Leo wondered ruefully why he would suggest playing postman. Except that he knew how it would please Cordelia to be able to communicate with her friend.

Christian's face lit up. "Then, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'll go back to the inn and write at once. I can give it to you when I see you this afternoon."

Leo inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I'll come for you at three o'clock."

Christian, burbling his thanks, hastened away, leaving

Leo staring into space. He couldn't shake his own uneasiness, despite his dismissal of Christian's fears.

"Raoul!" he bellowed across the noisy taproom. "Another bottle. And drink it with me. I've a wine thirst this afternoon and a need for company."

Chapter Thirteen

It was late morning when Cordelia stepped out of the carriage in the great court of the palace of Versailles. They had left rue du Bac before dawn, and the thirty miles from Paris had taken hours as the long procession of carriages had wound its way single file along the narrow road. Half of Paris, it seemed, had come to see the dauphin wed. Burghers, merchants, even tradesmen mingled in the court with elegantly dressed courtiers, the women sporting plumed headdresses and skirts so wide they needed at least six feet of space around them.

The palace of Versailles was a city in itself, its doors ever open to the populace who wandered freely through the great rooms, uninhibited by the careless dismissal of courtiers and the haughty glares and commands of powdered liveried flunkies. The people of Paris regarded their king in the light of a father, and his palaces and entertainments were as much for their benefit as his. A royal wedding was a party to be enjoyed by everyone.

Cordelia listened to the buzz around her as she waited for Monsieur Brion, who had accompanied his employers, to summon carriers and footmen to deal with their luggage. The people of Paris had fallen in love with the dauphine, it seemed. They talked of her sweetness, her beauty, her inevitable fertility that would provide for the succession with a line of healthy sons.

Cordelia repressed a shudder as her husband came up behind her and only with the greatest difficulty kept herself from flinching when he put his hand on her shoulder. She knew now that any show of fear excited him, just as the merest hint of rebellion brought hideous punishment.

He punished her with his body in the dark cave of the bed-curtains, subduing her resistant flesh with a savagery that seemed to feed on itself. Only when she was reduced to a disgusted, pitiable quiver of mortification would he achieve his climax, and then, smiling smugly, he would leave her and return to his own bedchamber.

But this morning Cordelia sensed that he was preoccupied by much more than the perverted pleasures of ruling his wife. "We must get out of this crush." He raised a pomander to his nose with a fastidious sniff. "The people stink. Brion will direct you to our apartments, where you must wait until it's time for us to go to the chapel. I must go immediately to the Cabinet du Conseil to pay my respects to the king." He turned and vanished into the throng, the pomander still held to his nose, liveried flunkies clearing a path for him with shouts and swinging staffs.

"This way, my lady." Monsieur Brion set off for the flight of steps leading into the palace. He walked slowly so that Cordelia on her high heels could keep pace as he cleared the way for them. He knew full well that if he lost sight of the princess, it might take hours to find her again, and she would quickly become lost in the warren of staircases and passages in the vast palace. Newcomers were generally issued maps and could be seen scurrying along the corridors from one function to the next, their eyes glued to the parchment.

The prince's apartments were spacious and elegant, located on the north staircase, very close to the royal apartments. They looked out over the sweep of gardens at the rear of the palace, where myriad fountains played in the soft air and the parterres were massed with color. In honor of the occasion, a series of trellised arches ran along both sides of the canal. They were decorated like Venetian windows, and Cordelia could see the little lanterns that would illuminate them at night.

Two bedchambers, each with a dressing room, opened off the salon-a square, comfortable room with a dining alcove at one end. There was even a small kitchen where their own cook could prepare meals if the prince and princess were not dining elsewhere. The servants' quarters consisted of cubbyholes at the rear of the kitchen, furnished with sleeping pallets and very little else.

Mathilde arrived in a very few minutes under the escort of a footman, who carried on his shoulder the ironbound leather chest that Prince Michael kept in his library in the rue du Bac.

Mathilde was panting after the long haul up the stairs. "Goodness me, I must have walked miles." She plumped herself down onto a chair, fanning herself with her hand. "What a place. And the crowds! Everywhere. A body can't move. I can't think what the empress would have to say." It was clear her comparison of the orderly Schonbrunn with the chaotic magnificence of Versailles was not favorable.

Cordelia murmured a companionable agreement, watching as Frederick, the footman, under orders from Monsieur Brion, staggered with the chest into the prince's dressing room. His papers must be of vital importance if they had to accompany him everywhere, she reflected.

"We'd best touch up your dress," Mathilde said, finally dragging herself to her feet. "Your hair is coming loose too."

It had been four in the morning when Mathilde had dressed Cordelia for the wedding in a sacque gown of crimson damask open over a petticoat of ivory silk sewn with pearls. A pearl tiara glimmered in her black hair, pearls encircled her throat and nestled in her earlobes. But the long carriage journey had inevitably caused some disarray.

"I would kill for a cup of coffee," Cordelia declared. "Can it be arranged, Monsieur Brion?"

The majordomo hesitated. It went against the grain to admit that he couldn't fulfill his employer's every wish, but on this occasion the cook and the servants had not yet arrived or were still struggling to make their way through the crowds.

"I don't know if the kitchen is ready for use, madame."

"Oh, you leave it to me. Just show me the way, monsieur." Mathilde brushed off her hands with an air of unmistakable competence.

Monsieur Brion had decided early on that Mathilde should be left to her own devices. She was no ordinary servant and he sensed that his customary authority wouldn't wash with her; in fact, they were all just a little frightened of the princess's abigail, although she was always perfectly pleasant and never put on airs, but sometimes there was a look in her sharp eyes that gave a man the chills.

Cordelia wandered into the bedchamber that by its feminine hangings was clearly intended for herself. She wondered if Elvira had used it, if it was the same now as it had been in Elvira's time. Or whether the prince had had the delicacy to change the decorations. That thought brought a grim turn to her mouth. Delicacy was not one of Prince Michael's hallmarks.

She explored her own dressing room and then on impulse pushed open the connecting door that led to the prince's. The chest stood beneath the small, high window. She stepped hesitantly into the room. Even though Michael hadn't entered it as yet on this visit to Versailles, it felt as if she were trespassing. She hadn't set foot in his bedchamber in the rue du Bac, not that she could ever imagine wishing to. She grimaced in disgust.

She bent over the chest, examining the small padlock, then with a shock realized that it hung loose in the lock. Had Michael forgotten to lock it the last time he'd used it? Or had it broken open on the journey? Unable to help herself, with a sense of almost delicious terror, she lifted the lid and gazed at her husband's secrets laid out before her.

A key, presumably a spare one for the padlock, lay on top of a purple bound book. She picked up the key and tried it in the padlock. It was a perfect fit. An idea nibbled at the back of her mind. She picked up the purple bound book and stared at the title. The Devil's Apothecary. Whatever could it mean? She flipped open the pages and her jaw dropped. It was a poisoner's manual. She flicked through the book, hardly aware that she had almost stopped breathing. There were enough poisons to do away with an army in any number of ingenious ways. Each substance was meticulously described, its various dosages and effects analyzed with a chilling objectivity.