The Amaranth Enchantment (20 page)

I held her face with both hands. "I don't want to lose you, Beryl."

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She gently removed my hands from her face and pressed them between her own.

"Nor I you," she said. "Remember that. Don't be afraid, and don't lose hope. I may be able to do something about Coxley. Hush now." She dabbed at me once more with a kerchief.

"Carriage!" Peter called once more.

"Coming," Beryl replied. She opened a drawer on Mama's dressing table and pulled something out. "For your hands," she said, offering me gloves, and then, "for your face." She held up a black feathered mask attached to a slim wand.

I tested its appearance in the mirror. It gave the stranger in the red gown an exotic, mysterious look.

"Was this Mama's?" I asked, incredulous.

"It certainly isn't mine," Beryl said.

"I'm going without you," Peter called, his voice now coming from the hallway.

"Now," Beryl whispered, "go give that prince of yours something to think about."

My jaw dropped. Beryl winked, and beckoned me out the door.

I followed her into the candlelit hallway. There stood Peter, his hands on his waist, posing for us in his finery.

And not without cause. I wouldn't have recognized him. His once-mangy hair was washed and shining, tied in back with a black ribbon. He wore a resplendent
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amber coat with broad cuffs and lapels, all magnificently embroidered with 223

black and purple twist, and a snow white lace cravat at his throat, over black hose and gleaming shoes with silver buckles.

I was trying to think up a suitable compliment that wouldn't inflate his vanity too much when I noticed his expression.

He was gaping at me. Specifically, at my dress. His eyes bulged like a fresh-caught fish's.

I pulled my wrap tight around me and brushed past him down the stairs.

"Weren't you the one in a great hurry, Peter?" I called over my shoulder.

I reached the door and looked back. Peter descended in a daze, nudged along by Beryl.

"If you dawdle any more you'll miss the reception line," she said, nearly pushing Peter headlong down the stairs. "Then you won't be presented to the king and queen."

"Reason enough for me," I said, heading back up the stairs. "I'm not sure this dress fits, let's go find another one...."

Beryl blocked my path with a smile on her face that didn't hide her resolve.

"The dress fits," Beryl said. "Doesn't it, Peter?"

"Um-hmm," Peter said, his face flushing.

I glared at him.

"W-well enough, I mean to say," he stammered.

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I groaned. Reception line? Presented to the king and queen? "Beryl, must I go?"

She nodded. "You must. If only to show the palace how you look tonight."

"That's a ridiculous reason and you know it," I said. "Must I go with him?

He's sure to steal my earrings." I bit my lip to hide a grin.

Beryl fixed Peter with a stern look. "Peter, do you promise to steal nothing this night?"

Peter's forehead creased with thought. "I promise not to steal... from Lucinda."

"Fair enough," Beryl pronounced. She reached for the doorknob and shooed us both out.

The cold sent a shock through me. It made the night sky feel huge and barren.

Even so, far beyond my reach, millions of stars blazed in the heavens. The moon, just past full, hung low and fat over the house.

"Don't come back until midnight at least," Beryl called. Peter sprinted down the walk toward the carriage and held the door for me, shivering.

At the sight of the carriage, I drew in my breath. It was pale and glistening, small and graceful, like my pearl dancing shoes. A team of four white mares with braided manes stamped their hooves, eager to get moving. The driver, swaddled toe to chin in wraps, waved to us.

I allowed Peter to help me in. He fell into the seat beside me as the horses took off. With four of them

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pulling such a light vehicle, we fairly flew over bumps in the road.

"Where'd she find this carriage?" Peter said. "It beats Prince Gregor's by half."

"Does it?" I remembered my earlier ride. "You seem to be a connoisseur of carriages."

"Plan to have some of my own, someday," Peter said.

This caught my attention. "With all your thieving and profiteering, you ought to live like a lord. What d'you do with all your money?"

"Save it," he said.

"Such discipline! What for?"

"Just what you said. I ought to live like a lord. And I aim to."

That Peter had a driving ambition fascinated me. There was a purpose to his depravity! "So, you'll buy yourself a chateau somewhere and live a life of retirement and ease?"

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"I don't know about 'retirement,'" he said. "I'll keep busy enough. But I don't just want to live like a lord. I want to be one."

I turned to face him, but of course, he was only a hole in the darkness. "You what?"

He hesitated. "I want to be one. Be a lord." He sounded defensive.

I tried not to laugh. "But how can you?"

"Buy a peerage."

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He made it sound like the most mundane thing imaginable, like buying a spool of thread or a pennyworth of salt. Buy a peerage. Buy a named title and the lands and estates that went with it. Why shouldn't a street thief do that?

"But surely," I said, "a peerage itself would be a vast amount. And then you'd need capital to live on, to invest, to build, to operate. Why not keep the money and simply live as a rich man in a fine house somewhere?"

The fervor in Peter's answer surprised me. "Because my whole life I've looked around me and thought, 'What puts you here at the bottom, Peter, and those high-and-mightier up top?' Are they cleverer than me? Not likely. Harder working? Not on your silver buttons."

I fingered the front of my gown. No silver buttons.

"'Make way for Lord Fleur-de-lis,'" he mimicked." 'Bow to Lady Beauregard.'

'Clear the area; Count Rymington and his party are arriving.' What makes them better than me?"

Possibly, the fact that they aren't criminals, I thought of pointing out, but he was so overcome by the violence of this passion that I stayed still.

"Make no mistake, though," he said, "I've sold to most of the men, and bought from all the ladies, too, when their finances get pinched. They're not all so grand as they like to make out. And someday I'll be Sir Peter Such-and-such, their financier, who makes discreet loans at high interest, and they'll come groveling to me. And we'll see who's bowing then."

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I'd never seen him like this before. I listened to the creak of the carriage wood filling the night and thought of all I'd learned about Peter in just a few short days. He was a rascal, a liar, and a bare-faced cheat, and yet he seemed as inevitable as a force of nature.

"Well, Peter," I said, "it's a bold ambition, but you'll do it, if you're not murdered first."

"Oh, I won't be," he said. "I'm much too careful for that."

The rattle of wheels on cobblestones showed we'd reached the city. Lights from homes and shops reflected inside the carriage, and I took a better look at Peter. In the dim light he looked pale and moody, somber as a judge.

A generous impulse overtook me. "You look fine, Peter. The clothes suit you well."

He looked at me, his face unreadable. "You're toying with me. Like at the festival."

That he should think such a thing! "Indeed, I'm not. But if you won't have my compliments, never mind."

The palace came into view. Every window blazed with light. I felt suddenly clammy with sweat, even in the cold.

The mask. I held it up to my face. Could I, perhaps, wear it all evening and remain hidden from Gregor as a silent observer? I tried it on again, for practice.

"You look quite nice, too," Peter said, startling me. "Now that I have the mask on? Thank you kindly."

"No," he said. "With or without the mask. More so without it, I'd say."

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I made a show of wiggling a finger in my ear. "Is this Peter talking? Is there another girl in the carriage?"

He looked out the window. We couldn't see the palace anymore; we were approaching it head-on, and nearly there.

"Come, come," I said. "You may be a lord someday, but you aren't one yet. No
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need for the courtly manners, and certainly not the moody temper. If you're to be my escort tonight, I insist you be a cheery one. You can even insult me if you like. It always makes you feel better."

The carriage pulled up at the drive and stopped. Up the sweeping granite staircase I saw the broad doors thrown open to admit other new arrivals. It might have been noonday inside, so many lamps were lit.

And somewhere in this glittering chaos was Gregor. I reminded myself to breathe. And breathe again.

I stood on the curb with no notion of how I'd exited the carriage. The driver chirruped to the team and moved off toward the stables.

Don't leave me here, pretty horses.

We both stood, looking up, speechless. A line of footmen in powdered wigs and matching gray jackets stood at attention, clearly wondering why we didn't approach.

"You've been here often, haven't you?" I whispered to Peter.

"Never through this door," he said.

He held out his arm, and I took it. I was bound to 229

stumble in these infernal slippers. I had no practice moving about in such foolishness.

I used my free hand to hold my mask in place, and concentrated on each step to avoid looking at the door.

A tall, dour-faced man stood by the doorkeeper. He'd probably been greeting palace guests since the Flood. He inspected us up and down as if committing us to memory, and asked, in a voice as deep as the grave, "Your names?"

Oh dear. I hadn't thought about that.

"Dorian Carlucci," Peter said, and elbowed me under the cover of my wraps. The man frowned at Peter, looking down at him through his small spectacles.

Not my true name. Whom should I be tonight? Angelica? Gregor would recognize that.

What to say?

"Mask off, please, mademoiselle," the man said. I lowered the wand.

"Beryl White," I told Sir Serious. It was the first thing that came to mind.

Peter gave me a sideways glance. "Of?"

I held my head high. "Of the Palisades."

Sir Serious took a closer look at me, but nodded to the doorman, who pushed the vast door open.

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Chapter 26

And we were in. I clapped the mask back over my face.

A bowing manservant relieved me of my wrap and whisked it away. Without it I felt exposed in my red gown. I'd never worn anything quite so tight. I didn't see anyone else wearing a mask, which made me nervous, but still I hid my face.

I couldn't see the floor for all the swishing skirts. The air was thick with dizzying perfumes, sizzling savory fragrances, and the bewildering scent of wine. It was hot and steamy, swirling with light and smoke from a thousand candles. Music came from somewhere, though I couldn't make out the tune exactly over the buzzing voices.

No sign of Gregor, thank heaven. Yet that didn't stop me from searching for him.

It felt terribly lonely to enter a room so full and know 231

that no one cared if I was there. But soon I wished I was merely anonymous.

Staring eyes were everywhere.

A stout gentleman passed by, brushing into Peter. Peter's hand followed him, reaching for a leather case that jutted out of the man's pocket.

I yanked him back sharply. "Are you daft?"

Peter leaned over and whispered, through smiling teeth, "I could have a heyday in here in under five minutes."

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Was there no limit to his nerve? "Don't you dare."

Peter sighed and patted my hand, which still rested on his forearm. "Do you realize what you're depriving me of?"

I pretended to straighten his lapel, but instead, yanked it tight till I had his full attention. "I won't be arrested again, Peter. Not tonight.

Understand?"

He rolled his eyes.

I leaned closer to whisper even softer. "Why are they staring at us?"

"Maybe it's your mask," he said. "This isn't a costume party."

"I know," I said miserably. "But I don't dare take it off. Can we leave now?"

Faces half-concealed by pince-nez and fans turned our way and whispered to one another. Heads towering tall with powdered hair wagged in our direction. Their notice seemed to spread like ripples in a pond.

Young women's eyes sized Peter up then turned to me. They lingered on my mask.

I knew it was out of

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place, yet the more people stared at it the more I dreaded ever removing it.

"All the ladies envy me, Peter," I said. "You shall have your pick of dancing partners."

Peter thrust his chest out even farther, if such a thing were possible. "I am devastating, aren't I? Togs like these suit me. In two years' time, I'll own a dozen sets."

Another servant appeared with a tray of small meat pastries. At the sight of them my stomach growled, but I hesitated. Peter, whose ease I envied, took two and offered me one.

The serving man nodded toward a tall double doorway. "The line begins over there."

Poking out from the doorway was the end of a long queue of couples that disappeared from view inside the next room. With a sinking heart, I stepped closer until I saw. We weren't even in the ball proper. This was merely a foyer.

Peter steered me toward the end of the line. From there I could see into the grand ballroom. It dwarfed the room we'd first entered. Here the music was louder, the lights brighter, and the assembly even more vast and colorful. The orchestra played in a balcony, and dancers made good use of the floor. On a dais at the head of the room, festooned with flowers and ribbons, stood four tall thrones. King Hubert and Queen Rosamond, both round and beaming, sat in two, and another regal couple in the others. The 233