Courtship and Curses (4 page)

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 mine,” 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.

“Good God—are you injured? I’m so sorry! Please, let me.…” He bent to grab her upper arms and hoisted her to her feet. Sophie stumbled, trying to find her balance, and winced because one of her long ringlets was caught somewhere.
Drat
them anyway.

“Did I hurt you? How could I be so cursedly clumsy to you, of all people.…” He pushed her tumbled hair out of her face, his other hand still firm on her shoulder, and she saw that his eyes weren’t pale blue as she’d guessed but gray, gray like morning fog over the meadows at home, deep-set under dark brows drawn down in concern.…

And something else. She’d felt it on her ungloved hands just before she fell, a blast of cold, charged air.…

Magic.

There had been an unmistakable aura of magic in the air, tingling against her bare palms as if someone had just done a spell in the immediate vicinity, barely a few feet away.

“Lady Sophie?”

Sophie blinked. The young man was staring at her, and she realized that he still held her by the shoulder, absentmindedly smoothing her hair back from her face. “It wasn’t you, was it?” she blurted.

“What?”

“The spe—um, nothing, sir. I beg your pardon—I’m a little overset—” She moved slightly. The young man started and dropped both his hands.

“You—Lansell—Lord Palmerston—I was afraid you—he—” His cheeks bloomed red above the points of his crisp collar. “Did—did I hurt you, falling over you like that? I’m sorry to have been such a clod.”

“No, it was my fault entirely.” Sophie tore her eyes from the young man’s face, realizing as she did that the orchestra had stopped playing and that a jostling, murmuring crowd had gathered around them and Papa and the broken remains of Zeus on the floor. A deep gouge marred the herringbone parquet where the bust had struck, and its head had rolled some distance. Dear God—if Papa had not been shoved aside—