Cinderella Six Feet Under (30 page)

“Better, eh? Then perhaps I shall take the opportunity to ask you an important question.”

Oh.

“You must be aware, Mademoiselle Stonewall, how taken I am by you. How enchanted. You are a prize among women, a flower, a gem, a pearl, an
angel
—”

Ophelia parted her lips.

“Ah!” Griffe pressed a gloved finger to her lips. “Allow me, I beg of you, to finish, before I lose my—how do you say?—nerve.” He dug in his waistcoat pocket. Extracted something. A small, sparkling something. “Your papa is across the sea so I cannot do this properly by first begging for his approval. I must ask you now and perhaps later, during our betrothal, your papa might make the journey to France—or we could sail, if you like, together to Cleveland.” He knelt down on one knee. “Mademoiselle Stonewall, will you do me the very great honor of giving to me your hand in marriage? Of becoming the Countess de Griffe?”

Ophelia stared at the ring he held up. A berry-sized ruby glistened darkly. There were smaller diamonds, too, a constellation around the ruby, all set in dark gold. If a lady slid that onto her finger, it'd weigh her down like a ball and chain. Still, Ophelia had never, ever owned something so fine, or even
touched
something so fine.

Griffe held his breath, hound eyes pleading.

Penrose appeared at the top of the steps and passed across the terrace several paces behind Griffe. He didn't see Ophelia, but she felt again that stabbing pain, that plummeting sense of inadequacy. Penrose went inside.

Ophelia looked down at Griffe and said the rottenest thing she'd ever said in all her days. “Yes,” she said.
“Yes
.
”

T
he next two hours passed in a ruby-tinted, champagne-heated haze. Ophelia danced waltz after waltz with Griffe, who was tender, charming, and solicitous. She was having a fine time pretending she hadn't a care in the world, and the champagne quite numbed her sore toe. She ignored the awful thought that she would have to break things off with Griffe. Why had she said yes?

Professor Penrose was nowhere in sight, but Ophelia glimpsed Eglantine and Austorga seated on chairs against a wall. They were bickering, although Austorga's face was hopeful. Miss Smythe, beside them, gazed dully through her spectacles into the swirling throng. Mrs. Smythe read a book.

When Ophelia and Griffe sailed by a wine table, Ophelia caught sight of a pair of cunning, whiskey-colored eyes that she'd know anywhere.

She nearly tripped on her own feet. “I must go arrange my hair,” she said to Griffe. She left him standing in the middle of the dance floor. “
Henrietta!
” she whispered at a cascade of chestnut curls.

Henrietta turned. She wore a pink brocade gown that displayed her bosom like a bakery shop window. Her delicate eyebrows lifted. “My, my. Ophelia Flax. The things you see when you—”

“What're are you
doing
here? I ought to be happy, but I'm furious! I've searched Paris high and low for you! Prue thinks you could be
dead
.” Ophelia snatched Henrietta's wineglass and took a gulp. Why not? She wasn't in New England anymore.

“Of
course
I'm here, darling. I wouldn't have missed this for the world. Goodness. I've never seen you looking so
feminine
, Ophelia.” Henrietta's voice was the same as ever: silky, and clear enough to project to the uppermost seats in a theater. “You never used to be much for making an effort with your looks. I figured you were one of those girls who attempt to get by on cleverness.”

“Do you know your daughter Sybille is dead?”

“Yes. I saw the newspapers.
So
sad.”

“But you'd met her. You'd given her Howard DeLuxe's name.”

“How did you dig that up? Yes. Sybille wished to leave Paris. Man trouble.” Henrietta poked out her lower lip. “But
come
now, Ophelia.
Must
we speak of such rotten, gloomy things?”

“That tone of voice isn't going to work on me. I'm not one of your dullard gents.”

“Speaking of which, who was that long-haired gentleman I saw you dancing with? He looked rich.”

“He's my . . .” Ophelia swallowed. “My fiancé.”

“Oh! Well done, Ophelia, well
done
.” Henrietta clapped her gloved hands.

“Only, he believes I'm an heiress from Cleveland.”

“A trifle. I once told a fellow my family owned a million acres in California.
That
tale was worth a Mediterranean yacht cruise.”

Ophelia gulped more of Henrietta's wine. Was this what she'd become? Simply another opportunistic actress? Ugh. “I want a full story about where you've been, and why,” she said.

“You've always been such a schoolmarm, Ophelia. Why don't we simply enjoy ourselves? This ball is magical! I—”

“
Now
,” Ophelia said. She took Henrietta by the elbow. Henrietta swiped another glass of wine from the table, and Ophelia steered her through the mob and onto the terrace.

“Start at the beginning,” Ophelia said.

“I met Malbert in New York. He swept me quite off my feet.”

“Hard to picture.”

“Well, you know. His title. And he mentioned a mansion in Paris.”

“Did you know he was already married?”

“Goodness! You don't beat about the bush, do you?”

“No.”

“At first, Malbert told me his wife was dead. When I pressed him for details, he confessed. I was rather relieved, because once we'd actually arrived in Paris it became quite, quite clear that he's broke, and those daughters of his did not take a shine to me. Nor I to them. I did, alas, make the error of confessing to that devious little
couturière
, Madame Fayette, that I was not truly a marquise, and that I had a daughter in the
corps de ballet
at the opera house, for which I paid a pretty price.”

“Your diamond bracelet.”

“My, you've been
busy
, Ophelia. Yes. At any rate, playing at marquise provided me with a splendid vantage point to scout out new opportunities.”

“Is that where you've been for the last week and a half? Scouting a new opportunity?”

“Well, it didn't start
out
that way. I was simply visiting my dear friend, the authoress Artemis Stunt, at her château in Champagne.”

Artemis Stunt? Now why did that . . . ? “Did Artemis Stunt happen to pen a book entitled
How to Address Your Betters
?” Ophelia asked.

“Ingratiating drivel, but she's earning buckets from it.”

“And do Artemis's friends call her Arty?”

“Yes. But more important . . . we were in
Champagne
, darling. Do you understand what they've got locked up in their cellars? Champagne as far as the eye can see! It's like paradise. It just so happened that Artemis's new husband—some old Frenchman who looks like a scarecrow—had a gentleman friend—”

“All right,” Ophelia said. She could guess the rest. “Back up a little. What about the lawyer, Monsieur Cherrien?”

A crease appeared between Henrietta's eyebrows. “How do you know of him?”

“You are his client? But surely not for divorce—”

“Obviously not. I shall tell you, but you must keep mum. Promise?”

Ophelia crossed her fingers. “Promise.”

“Cherrien wrote me, out of the blue, three or four months ago, and offered to pay a staggering sum for an ugly diamond stomacher kept in Malbert's bank box.”

“You sold it to the lawyer?”

“It's a
hideous
thing, Ophelia. Only grannies would wear it.”

If only that were true.

“The sum from Cherrien has tided me over quite nicely, since Malbert cannot afford me. Cherrien wrote to me last week and asked if there were any other antique items I would be willing to sell. It seems his client is excessively interested in the Roque-Fabliau estate. Inexplicably, of course. Those mice! All the
droppings
.”

That explained the half-burned envelope Ophelia had found in Henrietta's grate. But Ophelia wouldn't tell Henrietta just yet that Prince Rupprecht was Cherrien's client. She didn't wish to stem the flow of Henrietta's confessions.

“I'm done with Malbert,” Henrietta said. “And selling off
one
piece of jewelry seemed my due. But two?”

“Malbert thinks you're dead, you know.”

“But I
told
him, and his two ugly daughters, that I was going to Champagne. Or, I told the daughters. Perhaps they forgot to tell Malbert.”

“Forgot? No. They've been keeping it a secret.” One of the stepsisters must have removed Artemis Stunt's book from Henrietta's dressing table. They must have feared that if Ophelia or Prue saw the book, they might deduce where Henrietta was. “Why would Eglantine and Austorga neglect to tell Malbert where you'd gone?”

“Isn't it obvious? They didn't wish for me to come back.”

*   *   *

“I'm mighty thirsty,”
Prue said to Dalziel. She'd polished off the entire roast fowl that a footman had wheeled into the guest chamber, along with a dish of the most luscious gravy. But the gravy had been as salty as the seven seas, and now she was absolutely parched. She eyed the turtle's swimming basin. Fresh water in there . . . no. She just couldn't.

“Take a glass of wine,” Dalziel said.

“Can't. I've got my big performance coming up. Won't you get me a cup of water from somewhere? How about a whole pitcher? Maybe with some ice?”

“Your wish is my command, Miss Prudence.” Dalziel headed for the door.

“Don't be too long,” Prue called after him. “It's fifteen minutes till midnight.”

Once Dalziel was gone, Prue changed out of the nun's habit and into her costume. It was tight in the waist, and since it was a ballet costume it exposed her bare feet and ankles. Luckily, Prue wasn't shy about her ankles.

A knock on the door. Dalziel was back already?

She swung the door open. No one was there. The long corridor, with its painted panels and elephant-sized furniture, was empty.

She was shutting the door when she saw a blue brocade pillow with tassels on the corners and a pair of sparkling shoes sitting on top.

“Hello?” she called down the corridor.

No answer.

Prue broke into a smile.
Dalziel
. He felt bad about her not having shoes for the ball. These were a little gift from him. She leaned over and wiggled her right foot into a slipper. It was awfully tight, but by golly was it pretty, with clear glass beads stitched all over in a flowery design. She had to cram her toes into the ends and then hook her finger around back like a shoehorn—but she got it in. Same with the left one.

Ouch.

She hobbled back into the chamber. The door had almost fallen shut when she heard a wheezing sound.

Her ticker gave up for a few beats.

Slowly, she pushed the door back open and stuck her head out.

“Cendrillon!” Lady Cruthlach said. “You naughty, naughty girl. You will be late for the ball! The prince awaits.”

Prue took a step back. “Prince Rupprecht?”

“Whoever he is.” Lady Cruthlach's face had more color than the last time Prue had seen her. She wore a small, pointy black hat, a lavender cape, and she held some kind of stick. A . . .
wand
? “It does not matter. The important thing is that the story continues without error.”

“What story, ma'am?”

“The Cinderella story! Don't you know who you
are
, girl?”

“I sure do, but it seems like
you
don't.” Prue moved to shut the door. Instead, it burst open and Hume shoved in, reaching out for Prue.

Prue dodged him and dashed across the chamber. Hume trundled after her.

“Hume shan't allow you to miss the ball, my lovely,” Lady Cruthlach called.

Prue made it to the fireplace. She snatched up a brass coal shovel from a rack, and the rack crashed to the floor. She lifted the shovel high.

Hume smiled. One of his front teeth was missing.

He didn't think she was going to do it. “This is for all them kidnappings, you ogre!” Prue yelled. She took a mighty swing and smashed Hume across the side of his head with the shovel—
clang
.

To her amazement, he thunked to the floor.

“Oh!” Prue dropped beside him. Thank goodness. He was still breathing. She scrambled to her feet, tottered across the chamber, and pushed past Lady Cruthlach in the doorway.

“Cinderella did
not
do that,” Lady Cruthlach said.

“Who cares, you old bat?” Prue set off down the corridor. There went that wheezing again, and a creaking-basket sound. Prue stole a look over her shoulder.

Lord Cruthlach bore down on her in a wicker wheelchair. He was just as scrawny as ever but his eyes had life in them now, and he spun the wheels with gusto. Lady Cruthlach wasn't far behind. Her little pointed hat hung on the side of her head, and her eyes looked mean.

Prue ran as fast as the tight, glass-beaded slippers could go.

*   *   *

At two minutes
till midnight, the orchestra finished playing and shuffled offstage. The crowd watched and whispered as footmen cleared the dais of the musicians' chairs and stands. Fans flicked. Ladies giggled nervously.

Prince Rupprecht strode up onto the dais in his white evening jacket, crimson sash, golden epaulets, and medals.

Ophelia's palms sweated. Would her plan work?

Prince Rupprecht began a speech in French, and Griffe whispered a translation in Ophelia's ear.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Prince Rupprecht said, “at last the moment has arrived that we have all been anxiously awaiting. The moment when I, Prince Rupprecht of Slavonia, announce the identity of my cherished, my love, and, yes, my intended.”

Feminine yelps rang out. A glass splintered somewhere.

“At the stroke of midnight,” Prince Rupprecht said, “I shall identify my cherished one, the only lady of flawless beauty, the only lady with a foot small enough to fit”— he extracted a tiny, shining shoe from his pocket—“this glass slipper.”

The crowd erupted like a tree full of chickadees.

“Silence!” Prince Rupprecht boomed.

The crowd hushed.

“At the stroke of midnight, I shall fit this dainty slipper to my darling . . . Cinderella.”

Ophelia craned her neck to see the huge golden clock on the wall. One more minute.

“Are you well?” Griffe whispered.