“He says that everyone at court is a consummate performer,” continued Sophia, “and all are playing a role that often hides their true feelings and objectives.”
“That can be said for any gathering of diplomats,” mused Saybrook. “But Russian society has so many arcane layers of rank and privilege that one must feel trapped within a rigid role. A mistake can be costly.”
Arianna repressed a shudder. “No wonder gossip and innuendo are so important. Knowing the nuances of who is influential—and who is not—is a key to survival.”
The door to their carriage was opened by a pair of bewigged footmen dressed in richly embroidered brocade uniforms.
“Put on your masks,” said Saybrook softly. “The play is about to begin.”
They joined the receiving line and made their way through the grand entrance hall and the adjoining salons, all filled with a sumptuous array of French treasures—Aubusson carpets, Gobelins tapestries, portraits by the artist Elizabeth Vigée Le Brun, who was in vogue with the Russian aristocracy because of her flattering depictions of her sitters.
As waiters circulated through the crowd, passing out goblets of champagne, Arianna heard the sounds of German, English, French, and a smattering of Italian and Spanish punctuate the crystalline clink of the glasses.
“How odd,” murmured Sophia. “Have you noticed that nobody seems to be speaking Russian?”
“There are many members of the Russian aristocracy who have never learned their mother tongue,” explained the earl. “French is the official language of the Imperial Court. Russian is for peasants.”
“East versus West,” said Arianna, as the line finally brought them to where the ambassador and his wife were standing. “It seems to be a country conflicted over its own identity.”
“And conflict makes for trouble,” replied the earl.
After the formalities of greeting their host were done, the three of them made their way into the grand ballroom. The laughter and thrum of conversation were now louder, while in the background, the sonorous notes of a string quartet twined with the lush scents of the hothouse flowers and the perfumes of the elegant ladies.
Arianna clicked open her fan and flicked it back and forth. The still air, heavy with the heat of the myriad guests, was cloying.
“I understand there’s a secret language to the movements of a fan, Lady Saybrook.” Prescott was suddenly at her shoulder. “Have I missed a private message?”
Saybrook had drawn Sophia away to meet several gentlemen standing nearby, so she was alone with the major.
She met his gaze and then lowered her lashes. “Perhaps it wasn’t meant for you.”
“Ah.” Amusement—or was it something else?—danced in his eyes. “I see I shall have to work to earn your favor.”
Arianna didn’t answer, her attention shifting to the crowd.
“Do you enjoy the Polonaise?” The musicians were tuning their instruments in preparation for the dancing. “It is a great favorite here, as it’s considered more nuanced than the waltz.”
“I’m not familiar with the steps,” she answered.
“Oh, you must try it,” said Prescott, offering his hand. “The basic steps are very easy to master, but then there are many variations, which is what makes it so interesting.”
A challenge?After closing her fan with an audiblesnick, Arianna accepted his offer, curious as to what spins and twirls he was intending. Was he vain enough to think he could seduce any woman with his charm and good looks? Or would he be more subtle?
They moved to a spot on the dance floor. “How are you enjoying St. Petersburg?” he asked.
“I’ve not yet had a chance to catch my breath and consider the question.”
That made him chuckle. “Yes, it’s rather overwhelming, isn’t it? Pomp and ritual have always been a part of our heritage.”
“You say ‘our’,” she pointed out. “Do you consider yourself Russian rather than English?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. He looked away, the sparks of light refracting from the crystal chandeliers obscuring his expression. “I suppose, like a chameleon, I have a natural ability to shift my colors to fit into my surroundings.”
A clever reply, but it wasn’t an answer to the question she had asked. However, the music began, and Arianna quickly turned her attention to following Prescott’s lead. The dance began slowly, but as he had said, the deceptively simple moves turned into a more complicated series of steps as the tempo quickened. The glitter of gold and gemstones flashed like points of fire. Silks whirled, their blaze of color accentuated by the black and white formality of the gentlemen’s evening clothes.
Feeling a bit breathless as the notes of the music crescendoed and came to an end, Arianna felt her skin prickle with heat—and then a tickle of ice as Prescott pressed a gloved hand to the small of her back to turn her toward the refreshment room.
“Would you care for a glass of champagne?” he asked. “Dancing is thirsty work.”
