Watching Eagles Soar (19 page)

“Your Highness.” Molly sank into the curtsy that she had practiced, following the instructions in the book she had read on the proper etiquette for greeting royalty.

The princess remained posed on the sofa in a half turn that showed off the black gem at her throat. She gave a slight smile and lowered her eyes in what struck Molly as an attempt to appear more modest and younger than she most certainly was. The pale powder on her face barely covered the blemishes or the fine lines cut into her forehead.

Molly turned back to the prince, who, despite the silver hair, hardly seemed old enough to be the father of a woman at least thirty years old, three years older than Molly herself. An image of her own pa, John Tobin, gray-haired and bent, flitted before her eyes, but surely there could be no comparison. Pa had spent his youth and strength at hard manual labor, hardly the life of this Russian prince.

“Everything is prepared, Your Highness,” she said. “The guests are assembled in the lobby waiting to be summoned.” She hoped she hadn't betrayed the delight she felt at having kept the Sacred 36 waiting.

“Then we must proceed.” Prince Orlovsky stepped backward and held out his hand to the princess, who lifted herself from the sofa. “Allow us to follow you,” he said, shoulders straight and head high, as if he were about to set off in a military parade.

Molly felt J.J. tuck her hand under his arm as they made their way into the ballroom. A long red Turkish carpet had been unrolled just inside the double doors to mark the reception area. J.J. led her to the far end, and the prince and his daughter assumed places next to them. Molly could hear the buzz of conversations on the other side of the doors, the faint shuffling of footsteps. She had to swallow back the laughter threatening to erupt in her throat. All the beautiful people of Denver who had looked the other way whenever their carriages passed on the avenues were about to step through the doors and come face-to-face with Mr. and Mrs. J. J. Brown. And she, Molly Brown from Hannibal, Missouri, lately of Leadville, would have the honor of presenting each guest to a Russian prince and princess.

The instant J.J. nodded to the doormen, the double doors opened, and the guests pressed forward, Louise Hill in the lead, followed by her husband, a slight-looking man, stoop-shouldered inside the black tuxedo jacket, black hair combed over the bald top of his head and a black handlebar mustache drooping around his mouth.

Louise set a white-gloved hand inside J.J.'s. “So delightful to see you,” she said. Retrieving her hand, she glided toward Molly, leaving Crawford to shake hands with J.J. and slap him on the back.

“Good show, old man,” Crawford said, and Molly could hear in his tone the mixture of admiration and contempt that men whose fathers had made great fortunes, but were incapable of such feats themselves, reserved for a man like J.J.

“Such a lovely party, Molly dear,” Louise was saying, as if they were the oldest of friends. Her gaze drifted upward to Prince Orlovsky. “You must present me to your guests.”

“May I present Mr. and Mrs. Crawford Hill,” Molly said, waving her own gloved hand toward the royal guests. She held her head high, allowing Louise a full view of the aquamarine necklace and savoring the sense of accomplishment that poured over her. “Prince Alexander Orlovsky and his daughter, Princess Katerina, of St. Petersburg.”

“A delight, Your Highnesses,” Louise said, bowing the pile of stiffened chestnut hair toward the prince's chest and swooping into an unsteady curtsy. “Such an honor to welcome you and your lovely daughter to Denver.” Her gaze swooped upward again, fastening on the black diamond shimmering in the hollow of Princess Katerina's throat. “My, what a beautiful gem,” she said, as if the words had burst forth, breaking the boundary of propriety, before she could stop herself. The faintest trace of a blush blossomed in her cheeks. She turned back to the prince. “I hope you and your lovely daughter will be our guests during your stay in Denver,” she said.

“It would be our pleasure.” The prince nodded toward his daughter, who gave him a fixed smile before turning the same smile on Louise. “You must speak with Mrs. Brown,” the prince went on. “She has graciously agreed to oversee our social engagements in your fine city.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The smile on Louise's face was etched in ice as she moved along the Turkish carpet and waited while Crawford pumped the prince's hand and bowed to the princess. Then Louise lifted a glass of Champagne from the tray that one of the waiters held and promenaded across the ballroom floor toward the tables, Crawford hovering behind her.

Other familiar faces were coming along the reception line now, all the lovely people who dined and danced at the Crawford Hills' and were on the invitation list every year for the Christmas ball that the Hills hosted at the Denver Country Club. Mr. and Mrs. Harry Tammen, Mr. and Mrs. Henry McCallister, Mr. and Mrs. Claude Boettcher. The women lovely in silks and organzas and jewels, the men puffed up, shoulders back in the attempt, Molly thought, to appear as royal as the guests beside her. “May I present . . .” she said, over and over, not missing a beat. She had memorized the names of the Sacred 36, and soon, she was certain, her own name, along with J.J.'s, would be added to the list. The Sacred 38. Except that it would mean nothing to J.J. She tried not to laugh at the thought that most likely she would have to remind him from time to time that they were on the list.

Several couples still waited inside the door when Molly started to present Mr. and Mrs. David Moffat. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a dark figure moving like a shadow along the railing of the balcony overhead. She glanced up just as a man dressed in black with a black mask across his upper face drew a long-barreled revolver from inside his jacket, leaned over the railing, and trained the gun on Prince Orlovsky.

“Get down!” Molly screamed. The crack of a gunshot burst the air as she threw herself against the prince, pushing him backward, conscious of the princess caught in the tangle and J.J.'s weight pressing against all of them as they crashed onto the Turkish carpet.

“Stay down, Mol,” J.J. shouted, the weight of his arm heavy against her head, pushing her cheek against the carpet. Across the floor was a blur of patent leather shoes and satin high heels and the swirling silk hems of the many-colored gowns. The sounds of women screaming and men shouting mixed with dissonant noises coming from the direction of the orchestra. She could imagine the musicians scrambling around the instruments and ducking to the floor.

“There he goes!” It was J.J.'s voice, and Molly managed to pull herself free and look up. The man in black was running along the balcony, weaving back and forth, as if he expected someone to shoot at him. He yanked open a door and plunged into the upstairs corridor, letting the door slam shut behind him.

“Are you all right, Mol?” J.J. said.

“Yes, I think so.” Molly managed to sit up. She turned toward Prince Orlovsky and his daughter, who were trying to right themselves. “Are you hurt?” she said.

“I believe he has missed his target,” the prince said, pushing himself to his feet. He leaned forward, set his hands on his daughter's shoulders, and pulled her upright. “Thank heaven, we have survived another assassination attempt,” he said.

“By thunder! He can't get away with this.” J.J. was on his feet, heading toward the double doors. “I'm going after him,” he shouted.

“No!” Molly spun around and tried to grab his arm, but J.J. twisted away, flung open the doors, and ran out of the ballroom. The two doormen plunged after him. She glanced around, expecting the other men to follow, but the beautiful people of Denver stood like statues, fixed in a tableau, gripping Champagne glasses, faces as pale as the linen tablecloths.

In the next instant, as if the tableau had ended, the guests began swaying and stumbling about. A woman emitted a sharp scream; other women began sobbing. Louise Hill laid one arm across her forehead and swooned into the arms of her husband. Some of the men had started waving and shouting at the waiters hovering in the corner. “Wraps! Wraps! Bring our wraps!”

Molly tried to fight off the panic rising in her chest. The gala dinner she had planned was dissolving into pandemonium. She tried to concentrate on what the prince was saying, something about adjourning to the anteroom.

“Oh, but the evening must go on,” she said.

“Yes, yes,” the prince said, and in that moment, he seemed to become aware of the guests flowing toward the doors, the waiters scurrying about with wraps piled in their arms. Pulling himself to his royal height, he stepped to the middle of the Turkish carpet, which allowed the best view of the ballroom, and clapped his hands. Everyone stood in place, wraps hanging off their shoulders.

“My dear people of Denver.” The prince spoke in a royal stentorian voice accustomed to obedience. “It appears that the troubles of my own country have followed me to your beautiful city. My daughter and I wish to apologize for this most unfortunate intrusion, but I assure you that the intruder will be apprehended. With Mr. Brown in pursuit”—the prince glanced at Molly—“I expect the culprit is already in hand. I beg you to allow the evening to continue. Please enjoy the dinner and music that Mrs. Brown has arranged. Princess Katerina and I will join you shortly.” The prince then took the arm of his daughter and led her toward the door to the anteroom.

A second passed, then another. Molly felt her breath lumped in her throat. Finally the guests started moving about, pulling off the wraps and coats that dropped onto the waiters' arms and making their way around the tables, glancing down at the place cards. One by one they began to take their chairs. Molly walked over to the maître d'—his face as pale as that of the guests—and instructed him to serve dinner immediately. Then she crossed the ballroom, nodding and smiling, as if the evening were going as planned. The orchestra was in disarray; half of the musicians had pulled on their coats, the instruments already stored in cases. “You've been hired for the evening,” she told the conductor. “I expect you to perform. Play something lively. A Strauss waltz.”

“Yes, madam,” the conductor said as she swung about and headed back toward the ballroom entrance. She was beginning to feel slightly ill—the most important evening of her life, and all of her plans tossed about like so much confetti thrown across the ballroom. Oh, Polly Pry would have the story for tomorrow's
Tattler
. Everyone in Denver would be talking about the assassin who interrupted the gala dinner party hosted by Mr. and Mrs. J. J. Brown.

She reached the double doors that still hung open, the way J.J. had left them, stepped out into the corridor, and glanced toward the place where she had spotted the man with black hair in a black suit, half expecting him to materialize. It was the same man, she was certain, who had shot at Prince Orlovsky. Despite the mask, she had recognized the tight, thin line of the man's mouth, the short, stubbly beard. She forced herself to walk over to the railing and look down into the lobby where uniformed policemen and men in dark suits were hurrying about, barking orders as they shouldered past groups of hotel guests that huddled close together. The clerk at the reception desk was shouting into the crank telephone, his voice rising in waves of alarm. A phalanx of policemen burst into the vestibule, leaving the revolving door spinning like an empty carousel as they rushed toward the elevators. Molly pressed her fist against her mouth to keep from being sick. Somewhere in the dark streets beyond the spinning door, J.J. was chasing an assassin with a gun.

She turned back toward the ballroom just as the maître d' came through the doors. “I've been looking for you, Mrs. Brown,” he said. “The prince has asked to see you.”

Molly hurried back inside, down the Turkish carpet to the door to the anteroom, taking in the guests seated at the tables as she went, the waiters bobbing about with plates of food. She rapped at the door. Odors of pungent spices and roast venison stung her eyes, and strains of “The Emperor's Waltz”
rolled through the ballroom.

A long moment passed, and Molly was about to rap again when the door opened. Prince Orlovsky stood before her, silver hair combed back, and nothing in his demeanor that suggested the ordeal that had taken place only minutes before, except for the cravat slightly askew at his neck.

“Molly, dear. Thank you for coming,” he said, ushering her inside. The dim lamplight flickered over the Turkish carpets and sofa where Princess Katerina reclined, as if she had folded in a fainting spell. The black diamond lay slantwise against the base of her throat.

“Should I summon a doctor,” Molly said, wringing her hands, hoping it would not be necessary. She had barely managed to salvage the evening, and now this—the princess collapsed in the anteroom!

The prince made a clicking noise with his tongue. “This unfortunate incident has sent her heart racing, I'm afraid,” he said, “but she'll be well in a moment.” He pressed a hand on Molly's elbow and steered her toward two chairs on either side of a small, gilt-edged table. “I'm afraid I owe you an explanation,” he said.

“It certainly isn't necessary.” Molly sat on the chair he indicated, trying not to give any sign that, indeed, it was necessary. An assassin at her gala event! What if he had shot a Russian prince? How would she have held up her head in Denver? An image of the crowded, dusty streets of Leadville burned into her mind. The J. J. Browns would have been forced to move back to Leadville.

“Oh, but it is,” the prince said, perching on the edge of the chair across from her. “I'm afraid this is all my fault. I should have anticipated that Baron Pavlovich”—he let the name hang between them as he extracted a monogrammed handkerchief from a pocket and wiped at his brow—“would dispatch the same scoundrel to Denver who tried to assassinate me in New York. Fortunately, as happened this evening, the man failed. I have you to thank for screaming and pushing me out of the line of fire. The sound of your scream must have caused him to miss his mark. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, dear lady.”