“Will you be quiet?” Sophie said, so sharply that Parthenope looked at her face and fell into obedient silence. Glancing nervously back at the door, Sophie told her about Amélie and the ballroom floor. Parthenope listened with a puzzled frown creasing her brow.
“So you think Amélie—or Nalini—might be a witch. Apart from it being a coincidence that you and she are both witches, I don’t understand why you’re so upset.”
Sophie restrained an urge to shake her. “Don’t be a dunce! Remember London? All of Papa’s colleagues from the War Office nearly being killed—and Papa too—with magic? Who is going to be among the guests tonight—someone rather intimately connected with the war?”
Parthenope whistled. “The Duke of Wellington! Good God, you don’t think—”
“I don’t know. But I’m afraid.”
Parthenope continued to frown, staring at the floor and tapping her foot. “You’re sure you felt something magical up there?” she asked.
“Yes! Why do you think I’m so overset?”
“Well, why don’t we take Hester up there and let him have a look? Here, better yet, I’ll carry him up and you lie down. You look absolutely done in.” She pushed Sophie toward the bed and went to Hester’s perch, where the parakeet was hunkered down with his head tucked under his wing. “Come on, lad. We’ve got some work to do,” she crooned, pressing her finger against his feet. He raised his head and regarded her with an almost palpable air of displeasure, but stepped onto her hand and let her carry him out of the room.
Sophie sat down on the edge of the bed, and then stood up again in agitation as another thought struck her. Peregrine … he thought that Amélie was responsible for the accidents to Papa and the others, and she had dismissed his accusation as being groundless because Amélie could not do magic. But what if she’d been wrong? What if Amélie was a witch and had been trying to kill Papa and the others, as Peregrine had guessed?
Then she’d lost him for no very good reason, and might have put Papa back in danger again—not to mention England and all of the Allies, if something were to happen at the party tonight to the Duke of Wellington and his officers. On the ballroom floor, where tonight Amélie would be dancing.…
Amélie—Sophie could not imagine her ever hurting anyone, much less trying to kill someone. But that was what spies were supposed to do—blend in, be the last people one would suspect of wrongdoing. If Amélie were a witch, of course she would be at great pains to conceal it. And as Peregrine had said—oh, God, Peregrine.…
Parthenope was back in a very few minutes. “I walked around the room with him till we found the spot. Yes, he definitely thinks there’s something there—did the pricking thumb speech and everything,” she announced, stroking Hester’s feathers. “And whatever it was, he didn’t like it. Said it was cold, or something like that. Poor baby, you’re shivering. Come sit in the sun, little man.” She moved his perch closer to the sunshine by the window and set him on it, then turned to look at Sophie. “Oh,” she said, and sat down next to her on the edge of the bed, then handed her a handkerchief.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said a few minutes later, still sniffing. “I just realized exactly what I’ve done.”
“What?”
“Per—your cousin. He was right all along, and I refused to believe him. My only consolation is that at least he’s safe back in London. I’d been worrying about him, even though I knew it was foolish of me.”
“Twaddle,” Parthenope said firmly. “It wasn’t foolish of you. And to be honest, whatever is in the ballroom, I don’t believe it’s Amélie’s doing.”
“If it isn’t her, it’s Nalini, which comes down to the same thing. But I don’t think it’s her. She wasn’t at any of the accidents, and Amélie was. And Hester’s right. It’s what I felt too—like there was some large, cold space hidden in the spell.” Sophie shivered. “It was—I wish I could describe it. So what should we do?”
“I don’t know. If only your magic were working, so that you could make it go away,” Parthenope said, sounding hopeful.
Sophie shook her head. “I wish I could. But even if I did, I couldn’t get a clear look at what the magic does. If I can’t see its purpose, I can’t change it or nullify it.”
Parthenope blew out her breath in a sigh. “Then we can’t do anything, can we?”
“But—”
“But we don’t know what the magic is, or who did it. It could have been Nalini, you know, and you just came in too late to see her do it. For all we know, it might be something protective, not harmful. Unless we know Amélie is responsible for it and that its intent is malicious, we shouldn’t say anything to her. It’s a case of—oh, how does it go? Cum … cum hoc ergo propter hoc. It’s Latin, and it means thinking that just because two things happen near each other, one caused the other—but that’s not true.” She slipped an arm around Sophie’s waist. “And I’ll say it again—I don’t think it was Amélie. Peregrine’s wrong.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because … because I am.” She jumped up from the bed. “Why don’t we just plan to keep a close eye on things? I’ll set Hester’s perch up there for the evening. He loves parties, and if there really is magic being done, he’ll sense it. Now, I’ve got something important to discuss too.” She crossed to the wardrobe.
“As important as a possible threat to the Duke of Wellington?”
Parthenope pursed her lips, but said firmly, “Yes. Here, try these on. I want to make sure they fit properly.” She pulled a paper-wrapped parcel from under her shawl, which she’d tossed carelessly on a chair, and brought it to Sophie.
“What is it?” Sophie untied the string securing it and unfolded the paper. “My—my shoes for tonight. Why shouldn’t they fit?”
“Dunce,” Parthenope said, a little crossly. “Look at them again.”
Sophie looked, and realized that the sole of one of the slippers was now much thicker than the other. Her breath caught in her throat.
“It was Amélie’s idea,” Parthenope said, a little hesitantly. “She and the shoemaker between them thought it up. I just did the trotting back and forth to the shop. The shoemaker had to estimate how thick to make it so that it matched your good leg, of course, but he was pretty confident he got it close to right. He said to come back so he can measure you properly and maybe alter your other shoes the same way if you’re happy with these.” Parthenope touched the shoe. “It’s cork, by the way, covered with leather, so that it won’t be very heavy for you. I don’t know that you’ll be able to do completely without your cane, at least at first, but maybe with time, you won’t need it at all and will only limp a little bit. Come on, put them on. I’m dying to see if they work.”
Sophie’s eyes weren’t working right; the shoes in their paper nestled on her lap had gone blurry as Parthenope’s words echoed in her head: Maybe with time, you will only limp a little bit.
“Sophie?” Parthenope stooped to peer into her face.
“Parthenope!” Sophie wailed, threw her arms around her friend’s neck, and burst into tears again. For a minute they hugged each other, and Parthenope sniffed furiously several times before pulling away.
“We must stop this, or we’ll have red eyes for tonight,” she scolded.
“I don’t care.” Sophie touched the shoe with the built-up sole. Why had no one thought of this before? Not her aunts, not Papa … not even herself.
Parthenope whisked them off her lap and knelt in front of her. “Very well. If you won’t try them on, I’ll try ’em for you.” She pulled off Sophie’s slippers and gently fit the new green ones to her feet. “He added ribbons to lace them around your ankles so that you wouldn’t step out of them,” she said, crossing the ribbons and tying them neatly. “Just like regular dancing slippers.”
Dancing slippers. Sophie felt a little dizzy at the thought. “Do you think I’ll ever be able t—”
“Let’s make sure you can walk before you think about anything else.” Parthenop
e rose and held her hand out to Sophie, who took it and stood up. “How is it?”
“I … don’t know.” Sophie felt as if her center of balance had shifted violently to the left; accustomed to trying to pull herself straight, having her shoe do it for her made her feel distinctly odd. “I think it will take some practice.”
Parthenope looked anxious. “Do they hurt? Is it—”
“No, it’s not that at all! But it’s like learning to stand and walk again.” She held on to Parthenope’s arm and took tentative steps around the room. “I think I’d maybe better use my cane tonight, but even so … oh, don’t scold, but I think I need to cry again.”
“Pooh.” Parthenope led her back to the bed, then handed her a handkerchief. “You may cry for precisely two minutes, but that is all.”
Sophie laughed through her tears. “Horrid thing. How can I ever thank you?”
“And Amélie—I told you it was her doing. Do you see why I don’t think she’s our assassin? Why should she care so much about trying to help you if she’s trying to kill your father? Now, are you going to have a rest, or do I need to club you over the head with your cane and make you take one?”
Sophie smiled, reached down to unlace and remove her slippers, and obediently lay down on her side of the bed. But even after Parthenope had done the same and was gently snoring, she could not rest; the same unanswerable round of thoughts whirled and tangled in her head.
She knew what she had seen that afternoon: Amélie kneeling on the floor, Amélie distracting her to get her out of the room, the strange magic she’d found there … and also the shoes that would help her walk more normally and keep her from standing out like a freak at a village fair. Could the woman who’d done that for her as well as so many other kindnesses be a murderess? Parthenope was right: It didn’t seem to make sense.
But what if it was Amélie? Not only would that mean Papa might be in danger once more, as well as the Duke of Wellington, but … but it would mean she had been wrong and sent Peregrine away because of it, and she wasn’t sure which made her feel closer to despair.
Chapter
18
Four hours later, a still-unhappy Sophie stood with Papa and Amélie and Aunt Molly at the head of the stairs by the ballroom to greet their guests. Not even the knowledge that she was looking her best could counteract the uneasiness that had taken hold of her since that afternoon’s discovery.
Of course, Amélie had complimented Sophie on her appearance and asked her anxiously if she liked the new built-up slippers when she came down to dinner. Half of Sophie had wanted to throw herself into Amélie’s arms to thank her, and half wanted to demand an explanation for what she had been doing in the ballroom. Neither happened, of course. Instead she’d mumbled her thanks, and felt even more miserable at the expression of concern tinged with hurt that Amélie tried to hide.
She shifted uncomfortably, which did not escape Parthenope’s notice. “Are your shoes pinching?” she asked, craning her neck to see who was ascending the stairs.
“They’re perfectly comfortable. It’s the rest of me that isn’t.” Sophie surreptitiously tried to stretch without being obvious. As she’d guessed, the new shoes were making her carry herself differently. Her body was so used to the slightly twisted posture caused by her shorter leg that it would take time to accustom itself to straightness again.
Of course, trying to twist herself so that she could see into the ballroom from their place by the stairs wasn’t helping matters either. Parthenope had brought Hester’s perch up and set it near the magicked spot so that he could give the alarm if anything strange happened on it, but she needed to keep a watch out in case he did.
Parthenope peered down the stairs. “I say, there are the Barkers … and, oh, lud, Norris Underwood is with them. How did he manage that? I would have thought he might have fallen by the wayside what with the Richmonds about, but evidently not.”
“You’re the one who wanted to invite him,” Sophie murmured. “He doesn’t give up easily, as you might recall.”
While he and Mrs. Barker exchanged pleasantries with Amélie, Kitty Barker made a beeline for Sophie and Parthenope. “It’s so perfect!” she chirped. “I declare, I think this house must be the perfect size for a ball—just enough people to make a little crush, but not too bad … and your dresses are just perfectly—”
“Perfect.” Norris Underwood finished for her as he came up. He bared his teeth in something passing for a smile as he nodded to Sophie and Parthenope and continued, “I was not aware you were such great friends.”
“Of course we’re great friends,” Kitty said. “Why, it was Lady Sophie and Lady Parthenope who introduced me to all the lovely people I know now, like Lady Jane and Lady Georgiana and their brothers.… Oh, let me tell you quickly, before she comes—Aunt didn’t say no when I told her that Lord John had asked if I would give him a waltz tonight! I don’t know that I can do it very well, but he promised he would hold me very tightly and not let me fall if I got dizzy. Wasn’t that perfectly kind of him?”
Parthenope did not trouble to conceal her grin. “Most gallant,” she agreed. “And I am sure your aunt will let you waltz—in fact, I shall speak to her myself about it. It’s much better to learn at a private party, I expect she’ll agree.”
Mr. Underwood shot her a venomous look, then turned back to Kitty. “In that case, then I must claim one too.”
“Yes, if you like,” Kitty agreed carelessly. “Oh, look! There’s Jane and Georgy! I must just go see which dress Jane chose—she wasn’t sure if it would be the lilac or the blue. Excuse me.…” She fluttered away from them.
“So,” Mr. Underwood said, staring after her, “I suspected as much, but now I know whom to thank for setting the foxes on the chicken.” There was a peculiarly unpleasant note in his voice.
“Really, you’re becoming quite ridiculous. If we’d thought you’d held her in the least bit of esteem, we would have been happy to stand by,” Parthenope said, sounding bored.
“There are plenty of other cits’ daughters with comfortable fortunes. Go find yourself one who knows exactly what kind of a husband she’d be getting, not one who might fancy herself in love,” Sophie added.
“How do you know she wasn’t in love?” he demanded, drawing himself up.
Parthenope snorted, but Sophie shook her head. “If she loved you, she’d never have fallen to the foxes, as you put it. She’d be here with you right now, looking forward to her first waltz. I am glad she escaped with her heart intact.”
“Indeed,” he sneered. “I was not aware you knew anything about hearts, Lady Sophie.”
Next to her Parthenope moved sharply, and Sophie knew she was a bare second from slapping him across the face. She reached out to take Parthenope’s arm—Norris Underwood was not worth the days of gossip smacking him would lead to—and said, not looking at him, “My heart has nothing to do with this. I merely think Kitty deserves to keep hers.”
“Or is yours just made of wood? Isn’t that what you witches—”
“Good evening,” someone said quietly. Mrs. Barker had appeared at his elbow. She nodded to Sophie and Parthenope. “You are both very handsome tonight, as Kitty said you would be. Has she already been to make her duties to you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sophie inclined her head toward the ballroom doors. “She vanished with Jane and Georgiana Lennox in that direction. I expect you’ll find her safe with them.”
“I’m sure I will find her quite safe.” Mrs. Barker’s voice remained blandly polite, but Sophie understood her double meaning clearly. “Mr. Underwood, won’t you give me your arm so that I may see for myself?”
He had no choice but to do so, and pointedly did not look at Sophie and Parthenope as Mrs. Barker gave them a last smile and turned to the ballroom.
The comte arrived then, and Sophie was glad to turn from the unpleasantness of Norris Underwood to the pleasure of greeting him. Aunt Molly would not let him go into the ballroom, but looked mutino
us as she peered down the stairs. “Don’t you think everyone’s arrived by now? Do I really have to stand here any longer?”
“Yes,” Parthenope whispered to Sophie. “Otherwise she’ll start pacing back and forth in front of the potted ferns muttering to herself and making the musicians nervous. She’s afraid someone will jostle them once the dancing starts—the ferns, that is, not the musicians.”
Sophie smiled, as Parthenope seemed to expect it, but a loud laugh drifting up from the front door caught her attention. Only one person in Brussels possessed such a distinctive guffaw. She had a moment to wonder if it had anything to do with his equally distinctive nose … and then the Duke of Wellington was on the top stair, elegant in evening clothes and smiling jovially, trailed by several of his dashing young aides-de-camp in their bright uniforms.
“Lady Mary! Madame Carswell!” He bowed over their hands with practiced grace. Though not particularly tall, he had a presence that made him seem larger. “Delighted to be here! You will set a high bar for entertainments in Brussels tonight, I expect! Good evening, Lansell.” He shook Papa’s hand. “You know Lieutenant-Colonel Gordon and Captain Hill and Lieutenant Cathcart, don’t you? Ah.” His eyes lit on Sophie and he moved toward her. “Lady Sophie, I hear from George Lennox that you’re tying his brother March around your finger. A smile from you is bringing him down, when years on the Peninsula couldn’t. Maybe I need you and your friend the Hardcastle girl on my staff, eh?”
Next to her Parthenope made a small sound. Sophie hoped she wouldn’t swoon. “I’m sure we would set you all to rights very quickly, sir, given half a chance,” she replied demurely.
He laughed. “So you would! I’d better let my boys know the danger they’re in. Ah, there you are, Lady Parthenope. What do you say? Report to me at headquarters tomorrow at eight sharp, so we may give you your orders.” Chuckling, he wandered into the ballroom, and Sophie watched the inevitable wave of movement toward him that always occurred as soon as he entered a crowded room.
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