Falling Stars

by Anita Mills

  “Oh, Peg—I cannot! I look like the veriest frump!”

  “Here now—none of that, miss. A bit of the rouge pot’ll fix that.”

  “And my hair—’tis naught but tangles!”

  “I’ll comb it fer ye—all ye got ter do is sit a minute,” the maid promised.

  “I’m hopeless!”

  “Not if his lordship was ter want decent conversation,” Peg murmured, dragging the brush through Kate’s dark hair. “We can pin it a bit here and there. Besides, you’ll be wearing a hat.”

  The woman’s hands worked dexterously, hiding the smashed curls beneath a high-crowned hat. When she moved away, Kate made a face at herself in the mirror. There was no hiding it—she was an Antidote.

  Peg studied her for a moment, then reached for the rouge pot. “Just a dab,” she promised. “Too much and you’ll look like one of them fancy pieces.”

  Despite everything, Kate told herself that she did not look as bad as she thought—she could not. Rising, she settled her shoulders and took a deep breath.

  “Go on with ye—all ye got ter do is talk to ’em,” Peg said firmly.

  On the stairs, Kate stopped to wipe wet palms against her dress. Behind her, Claire called out, “Wait for me—I am quite ready also.”

  Kate half turned, and what she saw made her heart sink to her stomach. Claire wore a blue-figured muslin that set off her pink blondeness to perfection. In one hand, she carried a matching parasol, and in the other, a broad-brimmed, fiat-crowned hat, its blue ribbons trailing. She looked like a painting.

  Kate wanted to flee, to run back upstairs and hide, but her mother’s voice stopped her. “There you are, my love—you dear, naughty child,” she chided. For a moment, Kate thought she spoke to Claire, but when she turned to face her, her mother was smiling up at her.

  “Mama—” she began desperately.

  “Dearest Kate, Count Volsky and Lady Malenkov have waited an age for you.”

  There was an unmistakable edge of warning. Swallowing, Katherine nodded and moved slowly down the stairs. Count Volsky had come out into the hall and was looking upward. Claire, ever conscious of the effect she had on men, waited until Kate was nearly down before she hailed him.

  “So kind of you to call, my lord,” she said, smiling, drawing his attention.

  “Miss Winstead,” he acknowledged before turning his attention to Kate. “And you, ma petite, the headache is gone?” he inquired solicitously. “They said you left before we went to sup.”

  “Yes.”

  “I should hate to think the fault mine, for you seemed to be in health when we danced.”

  “No—no, of course not.”

  Her hand felt like ice as he possessed it and bowed low over it. “You should have apprised me, and we could have sat instead.”

  “I scarce thought it your concern, sir.” Aware that she sounded stiff and wooden, she tried to make amends. “That is, I did not expect you to concern yourself.” That sounded worse. “I mean, we are scarce acquainted, and—”

  “I am sure Count Volsky quite understands, Katherine,” her mother said frostily. Smiling almost rigidly, she added, “I have ordered cakes in the front saloon.”

  But Volsky shook his head. “The morning escapes, Madame Winstead. Tell me, Ekaterina,” he murmured, addressing Kate, “do you take pity on this visitor to your city? Can you find the time to show Galena and myself this St. James Park?”

  “Of course she can!” Lady Winstead insisted. “Though I am not sure St. James—well, I mean there was that unfortunate business about the Pagoda—”

  “The fire? Yes, yes—Platov told me of it,” he said dismissively. “But we do not go to see the building, I think.” Once again, his clear blue eyes sought Katherine’s. “We go for the flowers, n ‘est ce pas?”

  “Uh—yes, yes, of course. I—uh—I should be delighted, sir,” she stammered. “But—”

  “Good. And I am called Lexy by nearly everyone, Ekaterina.”

  “I am afraid we are a trifle more formal here, Count Volsky,” Claire said, moving to stand beside him. “As she is the elder daughter, she is Miss Winstead.”

  “Ah, but there should not be such formality among friends, I think,” he responded smoothly. “I shall address her as Ekaterina—unless she should object, of course.”

  He’d set-down Claire. As the younger girl’s face flushed, Kate hastened to ask him, “And your sister, sir—she is well?”

  “Ah, cherie, so kind of you to inquire,” Galena Malenkova answered softly from the saloon door. “But of course I am always in health, little one.” She hurried forward to plant a quick kiss on Kate’s cheek. “It is you who have worried Lexy. When he heard you were unwell, nothing would persuade him we must wait until after the noon to see for ourselves.”

  “It was nothing, madame.”

  “I am glad to hear of it. Lexy has rented a troika—well, it is not a troika exactly, for there are but two horses,” she corrected herself.

  Clarissa made one last effort. “Poor Kate—she will not tell you when she is feeling not at all the thing, Count Volsky, but as you can see—” She paused, giving him time to look at her plain sister. “Well, I should be happy to show you and madame the park, sir.”

  “The offer is appreciated, Miss Winstead, but I am promised to Ekaterina—n ‘est-ce pas, little one?”

  Before Kate could answer, Madame Malenkov spoke up. “Alas, but the conveyance is crowded, else we should take you also, Miss Winstead. Perhaps another day.”

  Clarissa’s face fell, then her lower lip protruded in a pout. Her mother touched her arm in warning, insisting to the count, “I am sure Claire would not wish to intrude, my lord.”

  “Exactly,” Galena Malenkova murmured. “Such a lovely child.”

  “Well, then—shall we proceed, Ekaterina?”

  “I should be delighted, sir.”

  Alexei Volsky offered Kate his arm, promising her mother, “I shall take care not to overset the conveyance, madame.”

  “We shall have her back before the sun sets,” Madame Malenkov added.

  “So long?” Lady Winstead frowned. “I am not at all sure—that is, I would not have it bandied about that she is fast, madame. You understand, of course.”

  “Of course. And no one who should see your daughter could think her anything but proper,” the Russian woman reassured her. “But there is so little time in your wonderful country. Lexy had thought perhaps a visit to the park, with a nuncheon in a basket provided by your Gunther’s—and later we should like to partake of ices in his establishment. And if it is convenient, perhaps we shall make her known to the grand duchess. I shall need to stop at the hotel again, I think.”

  Lady Winstead’s mouth gaped. “The czar’s sister?” she asked weakly.

  “Perhaps. And who knows—? If Alexander is there, perhaps him also.”

  “Mama!” Claire wailed.

  “Be still, you foolish girl!” her mother snapped. Seeing the tears that threatened to spill over, she added more kindly, “While Katherine is out, I daresay we might go to Hookham’s.”

  “I don’t want to read a book!”

  “Clarissa!” Turning to Count Volsky, Lady Winstead apologized, “You must forgive my daughter, for she is overtired from so many parties.”

  “He did not note it,” Madame Malenkov assured her.

  As Dawes, her mother’s butler, held the door for them, Kate could hear Claire. “Well, I never! Are they blind?”

  To which Lady Winstead replied, “I can scarce credit it myself. Even Townsend waltzed with her last night—while you were conversing with Lord Hargrove and his mother.”

  “Bellamy Townsend!” Claire cried. “I don’t believe it!”

  “Most improperly, I might add,” her mother recalled. “Indeed, if Mrs. Drummond-Burrell can be believed, it looked as though he kissed her.”

  “Kissed her! Mama! And—and you did nothing?”

  “Well, I did not see it, of course—and it was bu
t a peck on the cheek, I am told. Besides, I did not wish to create an unpleasant scene there, and she was already asleep when we came home.”

  “If Bellamy Townsend has kissed Kate, the whole world has gone mad!” the girl declared forcefully. “Mad!”

  At the curb, Alexei Volsky handed his sister up, then reached for Kate’s elbow. Leaning closer, he murmured, “I shall hope to enjoy the flowers.” As her eyes widened, he favored her with an almost conspiratorial smile. “You did promise me flowers, did you not?”

  Despite the quickening of her heart, she tried to keep her voice light. “I hope you will not be disappointed,” she answered sincerely.

  His other hand possessed hers. “Nyet.” Still smiling, he added, “Someday, my little Angleechahnka, you must learn to speak Russian.”

  The sun was bright, the sky unclouded, and the scent of the flowers seemed to permeate the clear, warm air. Moreover, the company was light. Madame Malenkov walked ahead toward the ruined pagoda, where the Prince Regent’s earlier fireworks display had gotten quite out of hand, burning the five-story building.

  Katherine walked more slowly, keeping pace with Alexei Volsky, who seemed inclined to linger. Ahead of them, three bucks of the ton strolled, and to her chagrin, one of them was Bellamy Townsend. Galena Malenkova stopped to exchange pleasantries, prompting Kate to frown.

  “I am not at all certain I should recommend Lord Townsend to your sister, sir.”

  Beside her, Alexei Volsky stopped. Looking down into her eyes, he smiled. “He is a rake? It does not matter, I think. I would not expect Lena to encourage him before my eyes.”

  “No, of course not.”

  He reached to take her hands. “My apologies, Ekaterina. It is kind of you to wish to warn Galena. You do not mind that I call you Ekaterina, do you?”

  “No.” She dared to look up at him. “Indeed, I rather like the sound of it.”

  “And forget what your sister tells you—I am Lexy—or Alexei, however you prefer to say it.”

  There was such warmth in the blue eyes that Kate wished he could stay in England forever. Afraid that the Russian could somehow see into her thoughts, she looked down.

  “I should not have spoken, I know. It was that I have known Viscount Townsend much of my life.” As his eyebrow went up, she hastened to explain, “He is my brother’s dearest friend, you see. But even Harry would agree Bell has the most inconstant heart.”

  “I think he is more inclined to note Sofia Verenskaya, little one.”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “Marshal Sherkov’s wife. She was at the ball last night.”

  “Oh.”

  “And before you worry for her, Sofia will probably seduce this Townsend before he seduces her. She is, I am afraid, the pretty young wife of an ill-tempered old man.”

  “Oh. Well, if she is lovely, she will have no difficulty getting his attention. She has his paramount requirement,” she observed. “He has an affinity for married ladies.”

  “There you are—Galena is a widow.”

  “But she is so beautiful. I cannot think Madame Sherkov could compare with her.”

  He looked to where Townsend, accompanied by lords Leighton and Carew, stood pointing out the charred ruins to his sister. “Galena,” he said slowly, “is different. Since Cyril’s death, she devotes herself to me.” Turning back to her, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, then patted her fingers. “But why must we speak of others on such a fine day, I ask you? No, Ekaterina, but we must enjoy ourselves.”

  She was acutely aware of the nearness of him, so much so that she could scarce think. He was so tall, so straight, and so solid. And when the sun caught the gold braid on his uniform, he was as handsome as any.

  “I must rely on you to name the flowers, little one.”

  “What?” She flushed, feeling caught at thinking of him. “Oh, I do not know all of them, I’m afraid. I merely like to admire their beauty.”

  “Then let us admire whatever they are together.”

  They walked amid the brightly blooming plant beds saying little. From time to time, she noted the admiring glances cast Count Volsky’s way, and she could not help the surge of gratitude she felt. On this day at least, she knew she was envied.

  At one end of the walk, there was a small booth for selling flowers. He stopped before it and turned to her. “Which are your favorites? Must I guess, or do you tell me?” he asked, smiling. “Roses?”

  “Actually, I have scarce met a flower I did not like,” she admitted.

  He studied the assortment, then selected a small bouquet of mixed blooms. “For you, Ekaterina,” he said softly as he presented them. “You like the country blossoms, eh?”

  Embarrassed by his kindness, she bent her head to sniff the heady fragrances. “Yes,” she answered simply.

  “So do I,” he admitted as he started to walk again. “At my home, there are many, many flowers, but alas, the season for growing them is much shorter than here.” Finally, he gestured to a bench. “You must be tired, Ekaterina.” Stopping to sweep it off with his hand, he murmured, “I hope you are enjoying this as much as I.”

  “Oh—I am—I am,” she said sincerely.

  “Good. Then you shall not mind it if I ask you to ride in Hyde Park tomorrow?” His blue eyes twinkled as he added, “I show to much greater advantage when I am on a horse, I promise you.” His hand covered hers where she gripped the bench. “When I was young, my tutor told me all Englishwomen ride well.”

  “I love to ride, but I cannot vouch for how well. I can sit a horse, but we do not keep one in London—other than the carriage pair, that is.”

  “Then I shall obtain one.”

  “I am not at all certain that Mama—” she began doubtfully.

  “Galena will come for your English propriety, little one.”

  “I would that you did not call me that,” she blurted out. As he looked down at her, she colored uncomfortably. “Mama hates it that I am short, and she is forever remarking on it, you see. As though that will make me grow—which it does not, of course.”

  “Poor Ekaterina,” he said soothingly. “What is it that you would be called?”

  “Kate—or Ekaterina.”

  “Kate.” He appeared to consider it for a moment, then shook his head. “It sounds strange to me, but perhaps I will get used to it.” He reached to lift her chin with his fingers, making her look at him. “There is nothing wrong with being small, Ekaterina.”

  “Perhaps not, but when you are small and plain, I suspect life is different. Everyone seems to favor beautiful people, you see.”

  “How tall are you?”

  “With or without my slippers?” she countered, smiling. “I like to say I am five feet and one inch, you know, but truth to tell, I am merely five feet in my stockings.”

  “And I am six English feet in my boots,” he admitted. Cocking his head to look at her, he decided, “You have a lovely smile, Ekaterina—you must employ it more often. And the dark eyes, I like them also. There is a mystery to dark eyes, I think.”

  “My nose is too long.”

  “It is defined, that is all,” he assured her. “Who would wish for a short one?”

  “I must admit I have never thought about it in quite that way,” she murmured.

  He was silent for a moment, then he said quietly, “Galena could make you pretty.” His finger moved from her chin to trace her jaw, then to her nose. “I can see it.”

  She wanted to believe him, but her good sense told her differently. Still, she managed to hold her tongue.

  “Ah—you think I am offering you this Spanish gold—no?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think perhaps I would seduce you?”

  “Of course not.” Embarrassed, she tried to draw away from him. “Hopefully, you would wish to be friends.”

  “Lexy! My poor feet must rest, and we have wandered everywhere looking for you. Ah, you have bought her the lowers—how very gallant you are.” Galena appro
ached, smiling at the men with her. “Not that the escort is not charming, of course. You are acquainted with Ekaterina Winstead, n’est-ce pas?” she asked them.

  “Don’t know her precisely,” Lord Carew murmured, ‘but I am acquainted with Baron Winstead.”

  “Miss Winstead,” Lord Leighton greeted her.

  “And of course you know her,” Galena reminded Bell Townsend.

  His gray eyes rested on Katherine, and he nodded. “I ran tame at Monk’s End long before she was out of the schoolroom. Hallo, Kate.”

  His carefully brushed Brutus was now tousled by the soft breeze that wafted over the canal. It gave him that boyish look that endeared him to all the ladies—the dangerous combination of angel and devil in one.

  He turned to Volsky. “Harry tells me she is a veritable bluestocking—but I’ve never persuaded her to share much beyond a sharp tongue with me.”

  “Bluestocking?”

  Knowing full well that any pretense to intellect was offensive to fashionable men, she sought to turn the charge aside. “Well, I would not say that precisely. I like to read, that’s all.”

  “Ah—the English romantic novels,” the count murmured, nodding.

  “Doing it too brown, Miss Winstead,” Townsend insisted. “I have it on excellent authority that you are as well-read as an Oxford don.” Once again, he grinned at her companion. “Likes politics, too—though a trifle radical, I am told. The Whigs, isn’t it?”

  “Townsend—” Her voice was little more than a growl.

  He grinned. “You are overmodest, Miss Winstead.”

  “Well, now that you are found, Lexy,” Galena spoke up, “I think we should discover a place to eat. Lord Townsend tells me there are bugs in the grass.”

  “Fiddle.” Kate shot the viscount a defiant look. “As a dandy, he is afraid to get his clothes dirty.”