“Oh. Yes, quite. Is that the style for ladies now? I can’t keep up with them anymore, I confess,” he said, trying to sound jovial.
Amélie coughed delicately. “Indeed, monsieur, one hears that in London the styles change sometimes over the course of an evening. Sophie may find it necessary to redo her hair at least twice tonight. It is fortunate that I brought a comb just in case.”
Sophie met her eyes. Amélie’s expression hadn’t changed, but it didn’t need to. Dear, dear Amélie.
They arrived at the Whistons’ house shortly thereafter. Lady Whiston had been caught up in the craze for Egyptian antiquities that had followed Napoléon’s conquests there, and her London house showed it: The classical Greek columns lining her entrance hall had been remodeled with plaster and paint into lotus-topped Egyptian ones.
Aunt Molly squinted up at them as they finished being welcomed by Lord and Lady Whiston. “Wrong number of petals for a lotus,” she muttered.
“It’s just a decoration, Molly,” Papa replied patiently.
“Hmmph. That’s no excuse.”
“Perhaps it is a different species from what you know,” Amélie suggested.
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that! Maybe I ought to have another look.” Aunt Molly started to veer back toward the entrance hall.
“Later, my dear.” Papa took her arm and guided her toward the grand staircase that led to the ballroom.
Sophie gazed up at the tall bank of stairs with dismay. She knew that ballrooms were generally on an upper floor—knew it, as their ballroom at home was. So why had she made the idiotic decision to leave her cane at home tonight? Vanity, of course … but having to cling to the banister all the way up the stairs would look even less attractive. What an entrance to make to her first event of the season.
“Sophie.” Amélie stood next to her. When Sophie looked at her, she held out her arm. “Will you go up with me? I dislike to go alone to a room full of strangers.”
“Oh, Amélie … I was an idiot,” Sophie whispered. “I should have brought my cane, but who brings a cane to a ball? And mine’s so ugly—”
“Sssh. It is not important now. Besides”—her voice dropped—“we can look out for Lady Whiston’s boudoir, in case the fashion for hair changes in the next few minutes. I have a presentiment it may already have.”
The Whistons’ ballroom was devoid of lotuses, adorned instead with botany-free copies of Greek and Roman statuary (apart from a stylized laurel wreath on an Apollo’s head). They found seats under a bust of Zeus set on a very tall pedestal.
Aunt Molly plumped down onto one of the delicate chairs and started fanning herself violently. “Shockingly hot in here with all these people. I’d forgotten what balls were like. Don’t stand there, Gil—you’re blocking the air.” She closed her fan and thwacked Papa’s backside with it.
“Sorry, Molly.” He stepped to the side, under Zeus.
Sophie chose a chair on the opposite side of the statue from Aunt Molly and slid it as far back against the wall as it would go. Once everyone’s attention was occupied, perhaps she could at least take off the wreath and hide it under her chair. Or else she could do a quick transference spell and relocate it … except that any spell she tried probably wouldn’t work, or would go awry and plop her wreath on top of the lobster patties in the supper room.
But this was an emergency. If she didn’t do something about her hair soon, she’d shrivel up and die of embarrassment. She leaned close to Zeus, slightly behind Papa, who was standing in front of the statue’s plinth, then bent over as if to examine one of her slippers and yanked the wreath off her head and under her chair in one motion. There! Now if only her head would stop hurting and she and Amélie could escape and fix her hair, then she could relax and at least enjoy watching the crowds at her first party of the season—
A flourish of music made her look up. A minuet was commencing its graceful ordered steps, and she watched the dancers keenly. Hmm, she could maybe consider dancing that if the orchestra could be convinced to play a little more slowly, but the turns could prove to be tricky if she used a cane, which she’d have to.
“Your dress is among the prettiest,” Amélie murmured, sitting down next to her. “Did I not tell you it would be so? Over there—that young man has been gazing at you for the last several minutes.”
Sophie sat up straight, very quickly. A young man? Looking at her? “Where? Which one?”
“There—doucement, Sophie, do not turn so sharply in your seat—that young man with the dark hair, not too far away. See?”
Sophie tried not to stare too conspicuously, but it wasn’t easy. “I can’t … oh—is he wearing a dark blue coat?”
“I think so. He looks very sincere, I think, as well as handsome. Do you know who he is? No? We must find out. And see how those young women over there—to your right, by the statue of Venus—are looking at you.”
“They’re whispering behind their fans,” Sophie muttered back. “It’s probably my hair they’re discussing, not my dress. I managed to—er, remove the wreath, but can’t we slip away now and fix—”
“Lansell!” A burly, graying man in a maroon coat and limp cravat strode up and bowed to Papa. “A surprise to see you here, sir!”
“Sir William.” Papa bowed as well.
“So they let you out of Whitehall occasionally, do they?” Sir William laughed and elbowed him. “A man’s got to get a breath of air occasionally, I suppose … though I wouldn’t take it amiss if old Boney stopped breathing. À la lanterne, wasn’t that what the frogs used to say during their filthy Revolution? Hang him from the next lamppost! So when do we go to war?”
Sophie felt Amélie wince at the man’s mangled pronunciation of the French phrase.
“That would not be my decision,” Papa said. “My task is to ensure that we can go to war, if the government and Allies decide—”
“Allies, my foot! It’ll be us who’ll pull their chestnuts out of the fire once again, mark my words! I don’t know why someone didn’t do something about Boney back on Elba. A pillow over his face in the middle of the night would have done the trick in about two minutes—”
Papa bowed. “Quite possibly, but just now it is only two minutes before the ladies have my head for talking politics in a ballroom.” He turned slightly and held out his hand. “May I present Sir William Branstead? Sir William, my sister Lady Mary Rosier, my daughter Lady Sophie, and our friend Madame Carswell, just arrived from India.”
Perhaps Papa had hoped the reference to India would distract Sir William, but something else caught his attention first. “Madame Carswell?” he asked, almost accusingly.
“My husband was English, Sir William, but I myself am of French birth,” Amélie replied politely.
“Hmmph.” Sir William’s eyes narrowed. “Not many Englishmen I know of go about marrying Frenchies. At least not loyal ones.”
Sophie gasped aloud before she could stop herself. Amélie’s expression did not change, but her shoulders stiffened.
“John Carswell was my best friend when we were boys,” Papa said. His tone remained light and pleasant, but the temperature around him seemed to have plummeted. “And I am honored to have his widow as a guest in my home. I would also be most honored if she would give me this next dance. Madame?” He gestured to the center of the room where lines were forming for a country dance, bowed, and held his hand out to her.
Amélie hesitated. Sophie knew that she’d had no intention of dancing and had not even planned on attending any balls because of her recent bereavement—one simply did not dance in black gloves. Still, it was the perfect dismissal for this horrid man—Papa was making it clear he preferred dancing with Amélie to continuing the conversation.
Sir William knew it too; he flushed, and his bushy gray eyebrows lowered and bunched like aggressive caterpillars. He bowed shortly and turned away without another word.
Sophie quickly unbuttoned the tiny buttons at her wrist and yanked off her gloves. “Wear min
e,” she said, handing them to Amélie. “They’re not perfect, but they’ll do.”
Amélie’s stiffly held shoulders relaxed. “Sophie, ma petite—”
“I don’t need them while I sit here. Please?”
Amélie hesitated a moment longer, then without another word stripped off her black gloves and slipped Sophie’s on. They were snug and too long, but would do for one dance. As Papa led her out to the lines, she glanced back at Sophie. Her eyes were suspiciously bright.
“There you are!” Aunt Isabel loomed out of the crowd like a warship emerging from the fog. She surveyed Sophie’s dress keenly and said, “Hmmph.” Sophie knew it was because she couldn’t find anything to criticize about it and smiled to herself.
Deprived of that, Aunt Isabel turned to Aunt Molly. “Where is my brother?” she demanded.
“He’s dancing with Madame Carswell. Isn’t that lovely?” Aunt Molly replied cheerily. “I don’t think he’s danced since—”
“But she’s in mourning!” Aunt Isabel looked happily scandalized and settled in the chair next to Aunt Molly to wait, no doubt, to deliver a lecture when the set was over. Sophie sighed and sat back to watch the dancing. Papa moved awkwardly, as if he had forgotten how to dance, but Amélie glided with smooth and lively grace through the figures, nodding encouragement to Papa whenever he hesitated. Look, he was actually smiling down at her now as he took her hand to lead her up the center of the rows of dancers. Maybe that dreadful Sir William had done them all a favor by being so unpleasant.
She let her gaze wander the ballroom. Where was that young man whom Amélie said had been watching her? She hadn’t been able to catch more than a fleeting glimpse of him, enough to see that he had dark, almost black hair above a high forehead and very dark brows that appeared even darker above startlingly light eyes—blue, probably, though it would be, um, interesting to get another look and confirm the impression. But annoyingly, he was no longer there. Had he been looking at her, really? Or was he just an art enthusiast admiring the ballroom’s statuary? He couldn’t have been admiring her—at least, not with her hair in its present state. As soon as Amélie and Papa came back, they had to escape and find the ladies’ withdrawing room—
“What lovely girl?” drawled a voice to her right. “There? Oh, that’s Lansell’s daughter, Lady Susan … no, Sophie. Just out, they say. Always helpful to get an early look at the year’s crop of girls, don’t you think?”
Sophie sat up and tried to look in the direction of the voice without turning her head, but another statue on a plinth hid her view. Another voice, much quieter, said something she couldn’t hear. The drawling voice chuckled.
“Unexpected, en’t it? I’d heard she was a sickly little scrap that drooled, but it looks like she’s quite a taking chit, even with the outlandish hair. Of course, with the marriage portion she’s sure to have, even a humpbacked simpleton would be worth a go, eh? I might cast a lure or two myself and see if the tasty little fish bites. Shame to let all that brass go to waste, and I’m sure she’d be grateful. I say, I’m dry as a desert. Care to find something to drink in this crush? No? Well, excuse me, then—”
Sophie was not sure how she did it, but she calmly and unhurriedly opened her fan and waved it gently in front of her face, hoping to conceal the angry flush and tears that the overheard words had raised. What horrible things to say about anyone! If she ever heard that voice again, she’d—she’d do something nasty to him. In the meanwhile, all she wanted to do was leave, or at least go up to Lady Whiston’s room to do her hair. Or just hide.
Two long, final chords from the orchestra announced that the opportunity might occur soon. The dancers made their reverences to each other, bowing and curtsying, and the lines dissolved as the gentlemen escorted the ladies back to their seats. Papa was still smiling down at Amélie as he led her by the hand, weaving past other couples. Sophie noticed women casting speculative glances at them and remembered Lady Lumley. In another five minutes, they’d probably be inundated by ladies stopping to chat and bat their eyelashes at Papa. Yes, look—one was stopping him now, just a few paces away from where she sat. She’d never make it to Lady Whiston’s room at this rate.
“Lord Lansell! What a delightful surprise!” the woman said, gazing up at him through her lashes as she dropped him a slight, graceful curtsy.
She was accompanied by two men, the taller of whom greeted Papa enthusiastically. Sophie tensed, wondering if this would be another Sir William, but his cordial tone was much more sincere. “A pleasure to see you outside of Whitehall, sir! You’re just the man I was hoping to see tonight. May I present the Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux? He’s on a mission from Ghent,” he added in a lower tone.
Sophie knew that the rightful king of France, Louis XVIII, had fled France when Napoléon returned and had settled in Ghent, just over the Belgian border … close enough to hurry back to England if necessary, where he’d lived in gloomy splendor all through the years of the Directoire and Empire. This comte, who must be working for him, was a compact, handsome man with a thick gray streak in his dark hair and soft, rather sad eyes.
As he moved forward gracefully to return Papa’s bow, Sophie heard a clatter, and Aunt Molly gasped, “Auguste!” She turned and saw that Aunt Molly had jumped up from her chair, knocking it over in her haste, and was staring at the Comte de Carmouche-Ponthieux.
He turned too, and the blood drained from his face. “Marie!” he whispered, staring. “Mon Dieu, Marie, est-ce vous?”
“Yes!” she cried, holding her hands out to him. “Oh, Auguste, it’s your petite Marie! I can’t believe…” She trailed off, her mouth working and tears starting up in her blue eyes.
He stepped forward and took her hands, gazing down at her raptly. “Mon ange,” he said softly. “I thought I would go to my grave without seeing your face again. Have I died without knowing it, then, and gone to heaven?”
Sophie goggled at them as they stood with clasped hands, staring at each other. Good heavens, was he talking to her aunt Molly? Who was this comte, and how did he know her … unless … could this be the lost love of Aunt Molly’s youth, the reason she’d remained an old maid?
Aunt Isabel had stood up too. “Who is this, Mary? What is going on?”
The tall man raised an eyebrow. “I think the comte is known to some of you, then, Lansell?”
Papa smiled, but his eyes were troubled. “I think so, Palmerston. Unless I’m wrong, I’d guess it’s been more than twenty years, though.”
Ah. So this was Lord Palmerston, the Secretary at War and Papa’s superior at the War Office. Sophie spared him a quick glance, but she was more interested in Aunt Molly and her comte. Over twenty years—so this must be Aunt Molly’s lost love. What had happened to separate them?
The comte lifted one of Aunt Molly’s hands and kissed it, then turned to Papa and bowed. “You must forgive me, sir … the name Lansell, I did not remember it—only Rosier. We met once or twice, I recall, but you were not yet the marquis.” He looked back at Aunt Molly, and a soft, incredulous smile touched his mouth. “It is a miracle, is it not? You have not changed a bit. I would know you anywhere, my Marie.” Then he straightened, and a somber look crossed his face. “But I should not call you so. Surely you are a duchess now, or at least a countess, with a family and—”
“No, Auguste, I’m still just Mary Rosier,” Aunt Molly said. A tear slipped down her cheek. “I was sure that you were dead,” she whispered.
“I nearly was, petite—more than once. But God spared me. Now I know why.” He smiled at her, then turned back to his companions. “Milady West—Lord Palmerston—Lord Lansell—I would ask your indulgence for a few minutes. This is a thing extraordinary—” He offered Aunt Molly his arm and drew her a few feet away from them.
“Upon my word!” Aunt Isabel said, staring after them. “Gilbert, do you know who that is? Are you just going to stand there and let them talk?”
Papa raised an eyebrow. “What would you like me to do, Isabel?�
� He turned away without waiting for an answer. “Lady West, it is a pleasure to see you. May I present my daughter, Sophie, and our friend Madame Carswell? Sophie is making her come-out this year.”
Sophie rose to her feet—not easy to do gracefully without her cane—and curtsied. As she did, a soft, grating sound from nearby startled her. Zeus’s heavy marble pillar seemed to tremble, then tip away from the wall … and straight toward where Papa stood with Amélie and Lord Palmerston.
Chapter
3
Time seemed to slow to a horrible crawl as Zeus teetered, then tumbled through the air.
“Papa!” Sophie shrieked, or tried to—but her voice would only come out in a whisper. What could she do? A shielding spell would protect him … but a transference spell would cast the statue aside completely, if only she could get the words out in time.
Then a voice called, “Sir!”—a male one, she thought—and the urgency in it seemed to free her own frozen voice.
“Transfe—” she shouted and launched herself forward.
Or tried to. But her right leg would not hold her, and she fell heavily to the floor, her spell cut off midword.
As she fell, she saw a dark-haired man appear from nowhere and shove Papa and Amélie to the side, out of Zeus’s path. It was the beautiful young man in the blue coat who had been watching her earlier—she was sure of it.
His momentum carried him toward her, and she saw his eyes widen in surprise just before he tripped over one of her sprawled limbs. A dull, booming THUD! punctuated his fall as Zeus struck the floor as well.
“Uhhf!” Sophie gasped, and tried to push herself up. Gracious, were her limbs showing? Could everyone see her twisted right leg? Oh, please, anything but that!
“Uhhf!” the young man grunted, and Sophie realized that he was practically half atop her, his legs tangled with hers. The same realization also seemed to strike him at that moment, for he all at once scrambled to his feet as if the floor were the surface of a griddle and stood over her, breathing hard.
Courtship and Curses Page 3