Prince Michael, arms folded across his chest, sat back in the cumbersome coach as it lumbered over the narrow road from Versailles to Paris. At his feet rested the leather chest He was glowering in the dim interior of the vehicle. The leather curtains covered the windows, protecting the occupant from the curious stares and insolent observations of passersby on the carriage's frequent enforced stops at crowded intersections.
Two outriders attempted to clear the roadway ahead of the carriage, but often enough their whip-cracking orders were ignored by sullen-eyed peasants driving their cattle or produce to market They stared at the gilded coach with the von Sachsen arms emblazoned on the panels, and one or two surreptitiously spat into the ground beneath the large painted wheels of the aristocratic conveyance.
Michael swore under his breath as the carriage slowed yet again. He still found it difficult to believe that he was driving to Paris to act as nursemaid for his children in the middle of the wedding celebrations. He could not believe that he had been manipulated by a schoolgirl-by two schoolgirls. That arrogant chit of a dauphine had definitely played her part. He could still see the complicitous glance she'd exchanged with Cordelia. They had been laughing at him. But he who laughs last laughs loudest, he told himself grimly.
He had no choice but to obey the king's orders, but if he could remove Cordelia from Versailles, then, of course, his children would have no reason to remain. He would have all three of them back in the palace on the rue du Bac, and he would make damn sure that they stayed there. His wife must become indisposed. An accident that would force her removal from Paris. A concussion, such as might result from a fall from a horse. Easily arranged if one knew the right people.
The coach lurched forward again. It was only a temporary solution to the problem of Cordelia. She was in her way every bit as unsatisfactory a wife as Elvira had been. For the moment, he still enjoyed bedding her, but that would pall eventually. He needed a son, and once she had supplied him with the child, he would be free to dispose of her. If he could arrange to leave Versailles, return to Prussia, he could concoct an accusation of adultery and banish her to a convent. It would be a neat solution and a very appropriate punishment for such a willful and flighty creature. It would take time to arrange his transfer out of France. He would have to petition his own sovereign, and Frederick the Great was not known to heed the personal wishes of his servants if they went against his own. But he could set the process in motion.
He closed his eyes, his foot unconsciously resting on the chest as the carriage jolted in a pothole.
It was midafternoon when he reached the palace on the rue du Bac. The household had been alerted by a runner of the master's impending arrival, and when he entered the cavernous hall, even his most critical eye could see nothing amiss. Monsieur Brion remained in Versailles, but his second-in-command was bowing respectfully even before the prince set foot in the house.
"When would you wish to dine, my lord?"
"Later," the prince said with an irritable gesture. "Bring claret to the library and send for Madame de Nevry immediately."
The majordomo went off to inform the harassed cook that he'd better delay the spit-roasting ducks, and sent a footman posthaste to the schoolroom.
Louise was nursing a cold, her head wrapped in a turban, a blanket around her shoulders, a tisane, heavily doctored from her silver flask, in her hands. The little girls sat at the table, laboriously copying their letters. There was a lowering silence in the room to match the overcast sky beyond the shuttered window.
"My lord commands the governess to attend him in the library," the footman intoned from the door in a tone of studied insolence. The governess was ill liked in the household and treated with scant respect.
The children looked up, curiosity mingling with anxiety in their bright eyes. Louis sniffed and stared at the footman. "Prince Michael is at Versailles," she said thickly.
"No he's not. He's in the library and he demands your presence immediately." The footman sneered. The smell of brandy in the room mingled unpleasantly with the powerful distillation of herbs that the sufferer was periodically inhaling to relieve her congestion. He offered a mocking bow and departed, carelessly leaving the door ajar.
Louise rose to her feet in a flurry. The blanket dropped to the floor, her fingers scrabbled at the tightly wound turban. "Oh my goodness. What could have brought the prince here so unexpectedly? How can I go to him like this? Where's my wig? Oh my goodness, in my old gown, too!"
The girls watched, sucking the tips of their quills, their eyes shining with enjoyment at their governess's frantic antics. Their father's unexpected arrival meant little to them except that they would probably have to endure one of the dreaded presentations in the library that evening.
Fluttering, complaining, Louise crammed her wig onto her sparse gray hair. "I mustn't keep his lordship waiting, but, oh dear, how can I go to him in this old gown? What will he think?"
Her audience didn't venture an opinion, just continued their bright-eyed observation of the spectacle. Finally, Louise's mutterings faded as she scurried down the corridor, frantically smoothing her skirt, wondering if the mud on the hem of her petticoat was too noticeable. She'd worn it in the rain the previous day, but linen was expensive to launder and it hadn't occurred to her that she would see anyone but her charges for the next few days.
Amelia and Sylvie threw down their pens, simultaneously leaped to their feet, and did a silent dance around the gloomy room, celebrating their moment of freedom. It was a ritual they performed whenever they were free of observation.
"Do you think Madame Cordelia came with Papa?" Out of breath, Amelia fell in a panting heap into a chair.
"Yes, yes, yes!" squealed her sister excitedly, still dancing like a dervish in the middle of the room. "And Monsieur Leo too!"
Amelia jumped up again, grabbed her sister's hands, and they twirled in a circle, skirts flying, hair escaping pins, chanting the names of the two people who lightened their daily drabness.
"If she did, she'll come to see us soon." Amelia, a little less robust than her sister, collapsed onto the floor in a puff of stiff tarlaton skirts.
Sylvie dropped beside her, her legs sticking out in front of her like thin sticks from beneath her own ruffled skirts. "I wish," she said. "I wish wish wish!"
"I wish wish wish," her sister repeated fervently and they both sat still, closing their eyes tightly.
"What are you doing on the floor?" The outraged tones of their governess destroyed their dream. They both scrambled to their feet, guiltily brushing down their skirts, standing, hands folded, to gaze penitently at their governess.
Louise looked as if she'd suffered an acute shock. Her wig was slightly askew and two bright spots of color burned on her powdered cheeks. "Sit down at the table," she snapped, "and continue with your lesson." She turned back to the open door and called shrilly, "Marie… Marie… where are you, girl?"
"Here, madame." The flustered nursery maid came running.
"Pack Mesdames Amelia and Sylvie's best clothes and all necessities for a journey."
The nursery maid stared, mouth ajar. The prince's daughters had never left the palace on rue du Bac except for sedate walks in the park with their governess and the occasional drive with Viscount Kierston.
"What's the matter with you, girl? You look like a halfwit. Do as you're told."
"Yes, madame." The girl bobbed a curtsy and scuttled away.