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He guided her through one room after another and on to the staircase and a descent as slow as the ascent.
Again a crowd milled about them, but if the ladies were holding their skirts over-tightly and edging away, she didn’t notice.
She’d done it. She’d made her curtsey to the Queen. She existed, in the world into which she’d been born.
They spent an eternity getting down the accursed staircase, and Marchmont was dangerously near exploding with impatience by the time they reached the entrance hall.
“It will be a while before we can get through this crush to the courtyard,” he said. “There’s a painting I want you to see in the next room.”
“But my mother will be looking for me,” she said.
“Everybody’s mother will be looking for her,” he said. “And there’s my mad aunt Sophronia, whom I should prefer to avoid for the moment.” He’d glimpsed the figure in black from time to time as they’d made their progress through the rooms. With any luck, she would be gone by the time they went out for their carriage. “Come along.”
He took Zoe’s hand, gave a quick glance about, and slipped into a quiet corridor. He was an old hand at finding his way through royal quarters. He knew all the nooks and crannies. The Duke of Marchmont had his role to play at court, and he’d danced attendance on royals in one way or another for nearly half his life.
“Well done,” he said as soon as they were out of view. “Oh, well done, Zoe Octavia.” Then he laughed and tossed his chapeau bras onto a nearby chair. He grasped her waist and lifted her up as he’d done on occasion when she was very young.
She gave a surprised laugh, and round he went once, twice, thrice.
Don’t stop, Lucien, she used to say. Make me dizzy.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh.” And he felt her lips touch the top of his head. “Thank you.”
He let her down then because he knew he must. He let her down slowly but not as slowly as he wanted to. He wanted to bury his face in the silk and lace of her skirts and then in the warmth of her bosom.
But he let her down as though she were a child still, and he kept his head well back—resisting temptation, though she would think he was avoiding the feathers of her headdress.
“That was all,” he said. “I had to do it.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said. “That was how I felt. It was very difficult to keep in my feelings.”
“Well, then, now we’ve got it out of our systems, we can carry on with proper dignity.”
Marchmont found slipping back into the sea of aristocrats more difficult than slipping out of it. The entrance hall was even more crowded at present than it had been when they arrived. Eventually, though, he and Zoe reached the courtyard.
Being a head taller than much of the company, Marchmont had no trouble scanning the crowd. He soon spotted Lady Lexham. She looked very worried.
The worried look, he surmised, was not on account of Zoe, for her ladyship would trust him to look after her daughter. It was on account of the tallish woman with the great black plumes waving from her head.
“It appears that my mad aunt has got your mother in her clutches,” said Marchmont. “Aunt Sophronia can be entertaining in the right time and place. This is not the time or place. There’s no help for it, though. We must attempt to rescue your mother—Oh, drat the woman! She’s taken Emma hostage, too.”
“I have faced the Queen,” Zoe said. “I can face anything today.”
“You say that because you’ve never dealt with my lunatic aunt,” he said.
He’d dealt with her, though, time and again. He led Zoe to the cluster of women. They stood before his carriage.
“Oh, there you are, dear,” said Lady Lexham. “I was trying to explain to Lady Sophronia. She seems to believe this is her carriage.”
“Never mind him,” said his auntie. “Marchmont has his own carriage.”
“That is my carriage, Auntie,” he said. “There is the ducal crest, plain as day.”
“This is no time for your jokes, Marchmont,” said his aunt. “Get in, get in,” she told Lady Lexham, waving her diamond-encrusted, black-gloved hands. “The company is waiting. You, too, Emma.”
“But Cousin Sophronia,” Emma said, “as I recall, your carriage is the one with the blue—”
“Is that the bolter?” said Aunt Sophronia. Her gaze had fallen upon Zoe.
“Yes, Auntie, and I brought her and her mama here in that—”
“Get in, get in, Emma,” said his aunt. “What are you waiting for? Do you not see the carriages lined up behind us?”
Emma threw Marchmont a panicked look. He gestured her to get into the carriage. With a look of resignation, she obeyed.
“Zoe Octavia,” said Lady Sophronia. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Lady Sophronia.” Zoe managed to negotiate a curtsey while being jostled by the milling crowd.
“That was a curtsey,” said his aunt. “How everyone stared. Most exciting. They should write it down and put it in a book. But we’ve no time at present for snakes. Marchmont will bring you to dine with me. Lady Lexham, if you please. Without swords, we shall fit three comfortably.”
“Please go ahead,” Marchmont told Lady Lexham. “She never admits she’s wrong, and we should be hours redirecting her. Zoe and I will take my aunt’s—that is to say, the other carriage.”
He saw the other two ladies safely into the carriage and told his coachman to take them all to Lexham House.
He watched them drive away.
“Will you know which one is your aunt’s carriage?” Zoe said.
“Certainly. It’s my carriage. They’re all my carriages. If I let her have her own, I’d never be able to keep track of her. This way, I have at least a modicum of control over her doings. Some wonder why I have not put her in an asylum. But I’ve always maintained that every great, ancient family must have at least one mad relation living in a haunted house.”
Zoe smiled. “I didn’t know you owned a haunted house.”
“Baldwick House looks as though it’s haunted,” he said. “And appearances are everything. Ah, here comes her carriage.”
Very much as she’d done on the way here, Zoe watched t
he passing scene through the window. They left the palace along with a long parade of other vehicles. Crowds lined the way here, as well, and progress was slow, an endless series of stops and starts, but she didn’t seem to mind the snail’s pace.
“So much green,” she said. “In Egypt there’s only a narrow strip of green along the sides of the river. And it isn’t the same green at all. We had gardens, too, but nothing like this—so many trees and acres and acres of grass. And there’s the canal. I see it sparkling between the trees. I’m so glad to be home.”
Every word made the duke’s heart ache, but the last words most of all. Though he’d seen her smile and heard her laugh, he’d never seen her so happy as she was now, the lighthearted Zoe he’d known so long ago.
She turned from the window and smiled at him.
“I’m glad to see you so happy,” he said.
“It’s all your doing,” she said.
“Not very much needed doing,” he said.
“Ah, yes. ‘Nothing could be simpler,’ you said.”
He had the royal ear—several of them, in fact, and a scribbler like Beardsley wasn’t the only one who knew how to tell a story.
Still, it wasn’t all his doing.
All the royals had to do was look at her to be disposed in her favor.
Zoe had told him she wasn’t innocent, but she was, in ways that some might not understand. This innocence shone in her eyes and warmed her smile. It had made the Prince Regent teary-eyed. He’d said he wept because she reminded him of his daughter.
She didn’t resemble Princess Charlotte physically. What she reminded everyone of was the life and hope the princess had represented. And this was partly because Zoe wasn’t practiced in hiding her feelings. She had glowed, visibly, when the Queen made her welcome. Her joy had vibrated through the saloon. The Regent had felt the joy. He’d seen the glow.
What had she said, shocking everyone so, on the first day—was it only three weeks ago?—Marchmont had seen her?
