The ballroom had four huge doors, all thrown open as the air was balmy; the vast chamber was made of white marble, the fixtures of gold, which scintillated with the brilliance of a zillion candles in sconces and chandeliers. That much candlelight has a silvery sheen, flattering people with golden warmth as they strolled up and down the marble hallways.
I cruised the entire perimeter, but didn’t see Alec anywhere. His secret meeting had to be in an antechamber, probably behind closed doors.
To my surprise (and relief) it was a good twenty minutes later that Aunt Sisi and co. crossed the mile or so that lay between Mecklundburg House and the palace. I assumed that the time had been spent in attempting to sober Percy up, for he walked a lot straighter. I zipped around a corner before they spotted me.
People dressed in historical costume thronged the ballroom in graceful groupings, chattering and laughing. Jewels flashed and glittered, brocades and velvets hushed by in graceful swirls. I was tickled by a glimpse of two young guys who, resplendent in barbaric Cossack garb, were practicing clicking their heels and bowing before the long mirrors set into the paneling of a small anteroom.
I had slipped on my mask, but everyone seemed to know who “Queen Sofia” was: I heard a few muted “Lady Aurelias” and everywhere I went crowds parted, deferring with bows, smiles, nods, and “good evenings.”
Then the orchestra in the overhead gallery struck up. A footman in eighteenth-century livery, complete to white wig, rapped on the marble floor three times and announced sonorously, “Avec la permission de sa Majesté, la bal commence! Promenade royale!” Interesting that German had been replaced as the language of government, but French lingered on at events such as these.
Alec appeared with Aunt Sisi on his arm. As they took their positions, people converged into partnerships; I was paired with an eighteen-year-old scion of the House of Trasyemova who peered at me with such shy and awkward admiration that I spent most of that first dance cracking jokes in French-laced Dobreni to get him to relax. This dance, the royal promenade, was a simplified minuet. The slow, dignified steps and the poses and bows were easy to pick up.
With the second piece of music the rococo gave way to the nineteenth century. As the orchestra began an introduction in waltz time, Aunt Sisi guided Alec toward Phaedra. Alec bowed slightly, said something polite, and left them. They watched as he crossed the room to my side.
My young partner backed away, eyes wide, making me smother a laugh. Alec bowed to me, his face solemn, except for his eyes.
I smothered a laugh behind my fan. As I placed my gloved fingertips on his gloved wrist, I muttered, “This is political, isn’t it?”
“A reminder to Aunt Sisi that though she can manage the masquerade, it’s best not to attempt managing me. Do you mind?”
“Not a bit. The sooner I get to waltz in this dress, the better.”
The betraying smile in his eyes intensified, then his expression smoothed as he guided me to the center of the room.
I minced on my toes so that my wide skirts floated and did not swing like a bell. As we took up waltz position other couples formed up and joined us, the floor soon so crowded that when the music began we were hardly dancing so much as moving in a circle. After we’d been bumped two or three times, and my hem nearly stepped on, I took my hand off his shoulder and scooped up the back part of my skirts.
Alec was no more romantic than the dance—he seemed absent, his gaze flicking about the room over my head.
After a round of the entire room, he smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to ignore you—thought you wouldn’t mind while I do a reconnaissance.”
“No problemo. You’re managing real well with that pig-sticker. No livers cut out yet, and in this crowd that’s a feat. You said once you know how to fence. Did you compete?”
“I had a few bouts here and there.” A hint of grin. “It’s my grandfather’s blade. Family legend has it he fought a couple of duels with it.”
“I wouldn’t mind trying a few passes with it.”
“Oh yes. The trophies—I take it those are real?”
“Real,” I repeated in mock horror. “I’ll have you know I was picked to try out for the Olympics, but Gran’s illness intervened, cutting short what surely would have been a gold medal career.”
He laughed.
I told him about Percy, the cutlass, and the curtains. Alec enjoyed that, and as a space momentarily opened up he maneuvered us deftly into it. His clasp was light and his leading seemed effortless—but my following was effortless as well. That physical awareness was there again, but less intimate in these surroundings, and therefore less demanding. I know how trite it sounds, but I truly did feel as light as a feather, and we whirled and turned as if we had practiced together all our lives.
Then the music ended and I was besieged by hopeful partners. I didn’t sit down for a long time, and never noticed the need. The shoes had stretched, or my feet decided to cooperate.
Not that it was all joy. Far too frequently for my taste I found my hand summarily claimed by von M’s, mostly Robert and Percy. Rank was supposedly relaxed, but when any of that gang approached me, would-be partners always deferred. I was determined to be polite—but Robert gave me no chance for a polite “no.” He’d take hold of me and start dancing, sticking me with another long session of cigar breath and his clammy hands getting chummy, especially during what I decided would be our last waltz, when his alcohol fumes were almost as strong as the cigar.
Then there was drunken Percy, who wasn’t a letch, but they hadn’t been able to sober him up completely. Liquor made him even more awkward than usual, and his pirate boots threatened to smash my feet until I started dancing with my toes turned outward in first position.
After a couple of hours the white-wigged, liveried servants opened up a punch room, serving iced wine punch out of cut crystal bowls, along with coffee and tea. Percy thanked me sweetly for the latest dance and wandered over to take up a station there. Relief!
But I would have rather had him as a partner than Robert, who bulled aside a nice-looking fellow my age coming toward me. I pointed meaningfully at the restroom, from which I peered out until Robert got tired of waiting and vanished into the punch room.
The ballroom had gotten warm by then. The footmen threw open the doors to the terrace that aproned out into the garden, which was lit by hanging paper lanterns. With almost a collective sigh the guests began spilling out into the cool night air. People danced on the terrace, from which the orchestra could be heard splendidly, and others strolled out into the balmy darkness along the ordered paths.
Safe from Robert, I had slipped out again and was claimed for the last of that dance by my eighteen-year-old Sergei. Shyness now banished, he began telling me eagerly about engineering studies, and how if the Stadthalter got his way over the old dodderers on the council, the wind turbines plus the hydroelectric plant would soon guarantee even the meanest Dobreni house would have electrical lights, if they wanted them. Many didn’t, he explained. So many of the old folks thought electricity mere foolery—
He stuttered to a stop, his gaze riveted over my shoulder. His head moved as he tracked someone, and I noticed two young and only superficially demure Victorian ladies strolling close by, bustles undulating either side of cinched-in waists. Languishing looks were cast at my partner, followed by giggles; one of the girls was fanning herself so hard her friend’s hair was blowing. The advantages of modern electricity? Gone with the wind.
I used my trusty restroom excuse, freeing him up to join a friend his age. From the safety of the inner door I watched in amusement as he gestured briefly and violently, then both young men started off in the direction the girls had taken.
It wasn’t until he was gone that I wondered if Ruli would have handled the encounter the same way.
The orchestra next played a local dance, which I recognized as a refined version of one played at Anna’s wedding. In the garden three or four young ladies partnered one ano
ther, splitting and reforming, to an admiring circle. The second verse had begun when a short, elderly Napoleon presented himself to me, asking with old world charm if her majesty Queen Maria Sofia would consent to dance with a mere upstart of a Bonaparte. I laughed and held out my hands, enthusiastic when I discovered that he was light on his feet, his grip gentle and impersonal.
Eleven o’clock came and went; when I spotted Robert on the prowl, I asked Napoleon for the next dance, though etiquette seemed to be that you didn’t dance with the same person twice in a row.
He hesitated—glanced at Robert bearing down on us—and then with a cordial smile held out his hand again. I relaxed and enjoyed the dance.
His French was good, his conversation centering on the delicate and peril-fraught hobby of growing orchids. He talked about kinds, colors, et cetera, as I listened politely, grateful that he’d rescued me from Emperor Octopus Hands. His politeness had extended into the detail of the enthusiast as I gazed past his shoulder for Alec, who I hadn’t seen for some time.
My gaze crossed Aunt Sisi’s once, and she nodded and smiled at me. Elegant and queenly, she was surrounded by a group of men who had to be Council Staff, wearing swallowtail coats and baldric-type sashes with medals pinned on that seemed impressively authentic.
As the next piece of music began—and Napoleon stayed with me—Alec reappeared in the ballroom. He moved at an unhurried pace among the guests, exchanging comments and salutations. He tapped my partner on the shoulder, and Napoleon gave way with a smile and an airy gesture.
Alec held out his hand, and I laid mine in his. Light, music, and air swept us into the center of the floor. Once again attraction flared between us, strong and bright as flame. I fought for equilibrium—grasped at humor. “Don’t tell me. You’ve been hiding in the card-room Aunt Sisi had opened up,” I said with fake asperity. “If so, better watch out for your feet.”
“All I’ve been playing is political pundit,” he returned—and paused, looking past my shoulder. I sneaked a look. A guy in livery waited a respectful distance away, but his body language was broadcasting loud and clear: Urgent Message Alert!
Alec shifted his attention back. “Don’t cripple me, please, at least not before I find out if you’ll save the Midnight Waltz for me. Unless someone’s beat me to it?”
“Midnight—oh, unmasking?”
“Unmasking,” he repeated, giving the word an entirely different meaning. Then I remembered old novels, and how unmasking at midnight had often meant a kiss.
“I’ll be waiting,” I said, and I was scarcely prepared for the power of the response. He said nothing, but I felt his reaction through his hands.
The music ended, and, with an unhurried gravity Alec raised my hands and kissed them, sending through me an anticipatory frisson. Then he bowed and walked away toward that side door, where not one but two of those messengers closed in around him.
THIRTY-ONE
I WATCHED UNTIL he vanished into an anteroom, then turned toward the kaleidoscopic whirl of guests beginning another waltz. At the edge of the crowd was a still figure: I was caught by Aunt Sisi’s gaze.
She stood by the door to the punch room. The chandelier light reflected in her wide eyes. I wondered if I should go over to her and say something polite about how much fun I was having at her masquerade, or thank her yet again for the loan of the gown. Her steady gaze was unnerving. That and the stillness of her stance made me wonder if Alec’s gesture, so public, so deliberate, had made her angry.
Oh, right, Murray. He’s engaged to her daughter.
But he didn’t mean it—it’s the night, the dance, the costumes—All these excuses streamed through my mind, to vanish again into the night. He did mean it. I didn’t know what it meant for me.
Then she smiled, her chin lifting. It was a triumphant smile, and she raised her hand in salute, the queen’s gesture. I flashed a smile back, relieved nothing was wrong, and glad she could enjoy the achievement of a successful ball. She’d certainly worked hard enough to bring it off.
She tapped her fan on the arm of one of those swallowtailed men, and included his buddies in her smile. I had to admire her skill in group management—in ten seconds flat, she was the center of their circle and had them all talking and laughing.
I turned away, spreading my fan and flapping it slowly. Bad news: I discovered that I was surrounded by von M’s. Good news: they were at a safe distance, each busy with a partner. Including Robert, actually dancing with his wife.
I wandered in the direction of the terrace, seeking cooler air—glad to have a breathing space—then spotted a familiar plume-hatted pirate making his way directly for me.
“Percy.” Cursing inwardly, I headed for the restroom. At least he appeared to have sobered up again, enough to walk straight—his stride increased and he neatly cut me off.
With a leisurely bow and a flourish of those ridiculous gauntlets, Percy reached for me.
“Pardon,” I began as he took my hand. His grip was firm; resisting the urge to yank my hand free (and cause everyone in the room to stare) I said, “I was on my way to the restroom.”
Percy didn’t answer this obvious lie. He slid the other hand around me and moved gently in place—step-two-three, step-two-three—the waltz time was irresistible, and he seemed to have lost his clumsiness. Maybe he’d switched to swigging coffee. Since the dance was half over, I shrugged and gave up—and with a sweep he whirled us out onto the floor.
How do you tell a guy you don’t know that when he’s sobered up he dances a thousand times better? Not only expertly, but with panache.
Percy headed straight down the middle, and everyone gave way before us. I became aware of his altered grip, his hand on my waist drifted up my back in a caress.
I looked up sharply—to meet the leering pirate mask, and to hear his breathing. He stepped neatly aside as the music dipped and he handed me in a twirl under his arm. Long years of training made my feet and body respond automatically, my skirts flaring. He promptly sped up.
I danced on my toes, my feet almost leaving the floor. A silent challenge had been issued, and I met it by matching his pace. When we reached the other side of the floor he whirled me into another turn, and when I came out of it, locked me against his lean body with unexpected strength. The stupid toy pistol jutted uncomfortably against my ribs as we spun into a series of tight turns.
Waltzing with Alec had been friendly, then romantic, then sexy. This dance wasn’t the least friendly, it zoomed past romance straight to sexy. Now I understood why people had spent all night waltzing a hundred years ago. If a drunken fumbler could exude this much firepower, maybe waltzing should be outlawed, I thought hazily as the world spun past. Gran must have danced right here with Armandros when she was sixteen—
I gave myself up to the giddiness this time, enjoying the melding of colors as the background whizzed past and we danced out onto the terrace, and into the cool night air. The music wound down to a close; Percy slowed. I blinked as the torchlit garden revolved gently. “Dizzy,” I murmured. “I think I’d better sit down.”
Percy took my elbow and guided me down a garden path. “Where are the benches?” I was glad to be outside. Not only was the air cooler, but I needed to make a quick adjustment to my gown before I experienced a serious costume malfunction.
He passed a couple of benches that had flirting couples on them, even though there was plenty of room. While he was looking around I gave my bodice a couple of surreptitious yanks and tugs.
We passed an empty bench, golden-lit through the window panes in the palace on the other side of the garden. And then the lit windows came to an end. We’d reached the side building, where plain doors opened onto modest parterres.
I was about to protest when he opened the first door we came to, leading into a dimly lit servants’ hall. My feathers brushed the low ceiling, and I clasped at them quickly, but too late: the waltz had loosened them, and they came off the headdress altogether. By then Percy had found the d
oor he was looking for, and opened it. Assuming this was a lounge, I walked in.
To find an empty room.
“Hey,” I began.
“Hey what?” a laughing English voice answered.
I knew that voice, and it did not belong to Percy.
“Tony! What scam is this?”
The room was a parlor with a window giving onto a courtyard garden. As I glared at Tony, he gave a sigh of relief, yanked off the plumed tricorn, mask, and wig, and tossed them negligently onto the table. “Damn mask is hotter than hell. But it was worth it.” His smiling face was flushed.
“I’m so glad for you. Not.” I waved my feathers at the door. “Now, if you’ll kindly step aside . . .”
“I could listen to that accent of yours forever,” he replied, thumping his back to the door. “To answer your question: I wanted to dance with you.”
“All right, so you did. Let’s go back.”
Tony, convulsed with laughter, took a casual step toward me.
Gliding backward, I snapped, “What’d you do to poor Percy, mug him in the men’s room and pinch his costume?”
“Admit that you preferred me as a partner.” He spread his hands.
“Okay.” I shrugged. “Much. And now, if you don’t mind stepping out of the way so I can return to the ballroom—”
He pulled off one of his gauntlets. As he thrust it into a huge pocket of his pirate coat, I swept my skirts aside and ducked around him.
Or tried to. He stretched out an arm to block my way. “I did want to dance with you. I couldn’t resist. But I also had in mind some conversation.”
“About what?” I snapped with hostility, retreating into the room.
He slid back a lace-wristed pirate sleeve to look at his watch, then smiled at me. “I wondered if you have found your proof yet? I did promise to help you look, and I’d hate to duplicate efforts.”