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“One of those dear, pretty little roses slipped out of place,” he claimed, with an insinuating grin. I stared at him, baffled. Giordano hadn’t prepared me for a situation like this, so I didn’t know the proper etiquette for dealing with Rococo gropers. I looked at Gideon for help, but he was so deep in conversation with the young widow that he didn’t even notice. If we’d been in my own century, I’d have told Mr. Merchant to keep his dirty paws to himself or I’d hit back, whether or not any little roses had really slipped. But in the circumstances, I felt that his reaction was rather—discourteous. So I smiled at him and said, “Oh, thank you, how kind. I never noticed.”
Mr. Merchant bowed. “Always glad to be of service, ma’am.” The barefaced cheek of it! But in times when women had no vote, I suppose it wasn’t surprising if they didn’t get any other kind of respect either.
The talking and laughter gradually died away as Miss Fairfax, a thin-nosed lady wearing a reed-green dress, went over to the pianoforte, arranged her skirts, and placed her hands on the keys. In fact, she didn’t play badly. It was her singing that was rather disturbing. It was incredibly … well, high-pitched. A tiny bit higher, and you’d have thought she was a dog whistle.
“A refreshing punch, isn’t it?” said Mr. Merchant, topping up my glass. To my surprise (and rather to my relief), he was now unashamedly groping Lady Brompton’s bosom, on the pretext that she had a stray hair lying there. Lady Brompton didn’t seem bothered; she only called him a naughty rogue and tapped his fingers smartly with her fan. (So that’s what fans were really for!) Then she and her cousin took me over to a sofa upholstered in a flowery blue pattern close to the windows and sat me down between them.
“You’ll be safe from sticky fingers here,” said Lady Brompton, patting my knee in a motherly way. “Only your ears will still be in danger.”
“Drink up!” her cousin advised me. “You’re going to need it. Miss Fairfax has only just begun.”
The sofa felt unusually hard, and the back curved so much that I couldn’t possibly lean against it unless I wanted to sink right into its depths with all my skirts. Obviously you weren’t meant to lounge around on sofas in the eighteenth century.
“I don’t know—I’m not used to alcohol,” I said doubtfully. My only experience with alcohol dated to exactly two years ago. It had been at a pajama party at Cynthia’s house. A perfectly harmless party. No boys, but plenty of chips and High School Musical DVDs. And a large salad bowl full of vanilla ice cream, orange juice, and vodka.… The sneaky thing about the vodka was that all the vanilla ice cream kept you from tasting it, and the stuff obviously had different effects on different people. After three glasses, Cynthia flung the windows open and announced, “Zac Efron, I love you!” to the whole of Chelsea, while Lesley was crouched head down over the lavatory bowl throwing up, Maggie had made Sarah a declaration of love (“you’re sho, sho beautiful, marry me!”), and Sarah was shedding floods of tears without knowing why. It hit me worst of all. I had jumped on Cynthia’s bed and was bawling out “Breaking Free” in an endless loop. When Cynthia’s father came into the room, I’d held Cynthia’s hairbrush up to him like a microphone and called out, “Sing along, baldie! Get those hips swinging!” Although next day I couldn’t even begin to explain why to myself.
After that rather embarrassing episode, Lesley and I had decided to give the demon drink a wide berth in future (we gave Cynthia’s father a wide berth as well for a couple of months), and we had stuck to that resolution. Although it was sometimes odd to be the only sober person when everyone else was tipsy. Like now, for instance.
From the opposite side of the room, I sensed Count Saint-Germain’s eyes resting on me again, and the back of my neck tingled uncomfortably.
“They say he knows the art of reading thoughts,” whispered Lady Brompton beside me, and I decided to lift the alcohol ban for now. Only for this one evening. To help me forget how scared I was of Count Saint-Germain. And everything else.
Lady Brompton’s special punch took effect surprisingly fast, and not just on me. After the second glass, everyone already thought Miss Fairfax’s singing was distinctly less terrible. After the third glass, we began jiggling our feet in time, and I decided I’d never been to such a good party before. Really, people here were much more free and easy than I’d expected. Even more free and easy than in the twenty-first century, now I came to think of it. And the lighting was terrific. Why hadn’t I ever noticed before that hundreds of candles made people’s faces look as if they were covered with gold leaf? Even the count’s face as he stood at the far end of the room, smiling at me from time to time.
My fourth glass finally silenced the warning inner voice telling me, “Stay alert! Trust no one!” Only the fact that Gideon seemed to have eyes only for the woman in the green dress still bothered me.
“Our ears have now had sufficient training,” decided Lady Brompton at last. She rose to her feet, clapping, and went over to the pianoforte. “My dear, dear Miss Fairfax. Once again, that was absolutely exquisite,” she said, kissing Miss Fairfax on both cheeks and firmly guiding her into the nearest chair. “But now I will ask you all to give a warm welcome to Mr. Merchant and Lady Lavinia—no, no protests, either of you, we know that you’ve been rehearsing in secret.”
Beside me, Lady Brompton’s cousin screeched like a teenie boy-band fan when the bosom groper sat down at the keyboard and played an arpeggio with great verve. The lovely Lady Lavinia gave Gideon a radiant smile and came forward with her green skirts rustling. I could see now that she wasn’t quite as young as I’d thought. But her singing was great! She sang like Anna Netrebko when we heard her at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden two years ago. Well, maybe her singing wasn’t quite as great as Anna Netrebko’s, but it was a pleasure to listen to her, all the same. If you liked ornate Italian operatic arias. Which normally I didn’t, to be honest, but thanks to the punch, I did today. And obviously, Italian operatic arias went down tremendously well in the eighteenth century. The people in the room were really enjoying themselves now. Only the poor dog-whist … I mean Miss Fairfax was looking cross.
“Can I steal you away for a moment?” Gideon had come up behind the sofa and was smiling down at me. Of course, now the green lady was otherwise occupied, he’d remembered me again. “The count would be glad to enjoy a little of your company.”
Oh. That was something else. I took a deep breath, picked up my glass, and tipped the contents right down my throat. When I stood up, I felt a pleasant dizzy sensation in my head. Gideon took the empty glass out of my hand and put it down on one of those tables with the cute little paws.
“Was there by any chance anything alcoholic in that?” he whispered.
“No, only punch,” I whispered back. Oops, the floor was kind of uneven here. “I don’t drink alcohol on principle, understand? One of my iron principles. You can have fun even without alcohol.”
Gideon raised one eyebrow and offered me his arm. “I’m glad you’re having a good time.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” I assured him. Wow, these eighteenth-century floors really did wobble. Funny that I hadn’t noticed it earlier. “I mean, she may be a little old for you, but don’t let that bother you. Or the consolation the Duke of Wherever offers her. This really is a great party. People here are a lot nicer than I expected. So happy to make contact … physical contact.” I looked at the piano-playing groper and the second-rate Netrebko. “And they obviously like to sing. Very nice. Makes you feel like jumping up at once to join in.”
“Don’t you dare,” whispered Gideon, leading me over to the sofa where the count was sitting. When he saw us coming, he rose with the flexible ease of a much younger man, curving his lips into an expectant smile.
Okay, I thought, lifting my chin. Let’s act as if I didn’t know that Google says you’re not a real count at all. Let’s act as if you really had an aristocratic title and weren’t a con man of unknown origin. Let’s act as if you didn’t half strangle me last time we met. And let’s act as if I were stone-cold sober.
I let go of Gideon, picked up my heavy red silk skirts, spread them out, and sank into a deep curtsey. Only when the count reached out his hand with its many rings, all set with jewels, did I come up from it.
“My dear child,” he said, and there was a glint of amusement in his dark brown eyes as he patted my hand, “I do admire your elegance. Others can’t even speak their own names after four glasses of Lady Brompton’s special punch.”
Oh, so he’d been counting. I lowered my eyes guiltily. In fact it had been five glasses, but they’d been worth it, they really had! I couldn’t be sorry I’d shaken off that oppressive, vague feeling of anxiety. And I didn’t miss my inferiority complex, either. I liked my tipsy self. Even if I did feel rather unsteady on my legs.
“Merci pour le compliment,” I murmured.
“Delightful!” said the count.
“I’m sorry. I ought to have been watching more closely,” said Gideon.
The count laughed softly. “My dear boy, you were otherwise occupied. And after all, today we are first and foremost intent on amusement, are we not? Particularly as Lord Alastair, to whom I was extremely anxious to introduce this charming young lady, is not yet here. However, I have been brought word that he is on his way.”
