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“And he’s with…” Pollock mumbled, tapping his lower lip. They couldn’t hear anything from the Master of Ceremonies over the chatter in the hall. “Ah, of course! The Duke of Richmond and his clan.”
Trailing after him, as Pollock had dutifully noted, was a spindly white-haired man, whose chops stuck out like the wires of a mane brush. He was shorter than the Duke, though not by much, and he seemed time-worn, frail. He glanced around in bursts, flighty like a bird, guided in by a man who looked like his twin—if only thirty years younger. His son, no doubt.
“His eldest is the Marquess of St Chett,” Pollock expounded as though he were a walking Debrett’s, “He’s set to inherit the duchy, but there was an awful ruckus a few years ago over his, shall we say,infatuationwith the visiting daughter of a French noble. Ernestine... something-or-other,” he rambled on, then shook his head when Benjamin seemed disinterested. “The girl behind him is Lady Eleanor, the Duke’s youngest. She is only recently debuted.”
Benjamin nodded along, looking the lady up and down and finding nothing particularly remarkable in her beyond her visible discomfort—except her eyes. They were a dark blue, the sort of which he had never seen, hidden beneath a set of long, dark lashes.
“That’s the lot of them, is it?” he asked, hoping the ball might get underway now the Duke had arrived. The sooner it began, the sooner it might end.
“Well, tonight, I suppose. However, Richmond is usually accompanied by—“
As if on cue, another lady walked hastily into the ballroom. Doubtless, she would have sprinted had there not been so many onlookers. The Master of Ceremonies was too distracted by his mistress to pay her any mind. The latecomer took them unawares. All Benjamin saw of her, before the crowds began to shift, was a shock of dark hair and the swishing of peach-coloured skirts. Whomever she was, she was no contest for Lady Singberry, who had left the archway and settled herself atop a makeshift wooden dais below the musicians’ perch. All in the blink of an eye.
“Finally,” Benjamin murmured, trying his best not to look for Gamston in the crowd. He and Pollock were pressed against the back wall, at the opposite side of the stage. He pushed himself onto the refreshment table for purchase.
Lady Singberry clasped her hands before her as she looked over the room. Her yellow hair had been stacked impossibly high atop her head, complete with emerald-colored feathers the same shade as her gown. She looked how Benjamin imagined French courtiers might have looked some forty years ago, if not for her lack of a farthingale.
“Everyone! Everybody,” she called to rally her guests, but there was no need. They looked at her like dogs waiting for their supper. “My lords, my ladies,” she continued, beaming. The hall quieted at once. “I am most honored to play host to you this fine evening. I have no doubt you are eager to begin the dancing, and we shall call for it anon.”
Benjamin grimaced.
A sudden shuffling came from beside the refreshment table. Two ladies were trying to press through the crowds and reach the stage. Benjamin looked over, his brow arching in surprise. The Duke’s daughters.
“My apologies,” the tallest girl said as she pushed past a rounded lady. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she repeated as she accosted the next. Benjamin could only see the back of her head, her dark ringlets bobbing as she dragged her sister along with her. “Would youplease—“ she urged to a man who had refused to move. And then, they disappeared.
“However,” Lady Singberry continued, “If you would do me another honor this eve and spare me a blade of your attention.” She cleared her throat as if trying to summon the memory of her speech. Benjamin glanced to her right, where the balding Earl of Singberry was peering up at his wife. He mouthed the words with her, teary-eyed, as she said, “We are in a most fortuitous age indeed, for it is full of talent—the likes of which, I dare say, have never been seen outside our fair country.”
Pollock nudged Benjamin with his elbow, but he was almost too nervous to notice. “At last,” he whispered. “Your time has come.”
“As a self-proclaimed patron of the arts, I would share with you a late Christmastide gift. From our family, from our hearts to yours.” The crowd cooed gently, and Benjamin had to stifle a laugh with a cough. Really, he had never witnessed such unnecessary pomp. “I have invited this night a collection of London’s newest and brightest stars. Each one has captured my attention with the beauty of their quills, from novelists to playwrights to poets. If you would all take a moment to ready your ears and minds, I would like to formally invite them to join us upon this stage.”
Benjamin’s heart ticked away in his chest. This was it—the opening act.
Lady Singberry looked over the hall and caught his eye. She extended a hand, the other resting above her heart, and all the guests turned to look at him. He took a hesitant step forward, pulling a folded piece of paper from his inner pocket.
He weaved through a crowd of peers as he drifted toward the small stage, and he had never felt so powerful, so in charge of his own fate.
Until Lady Singberry announced, "To begin—Mr. Charles F. Huxley!" and aglass shattered nearby.
CHAPTERTHREE
“To begin—Mr. Charles F. Huxley!”
The glass slipped from Charlotte’s gloved fingers without her even noticing. She barely took stock of the crystal splinters at her feet, the punch pooling at her slippers, or the high-pitched chime of its shattering. Her entire body felt weightless, tingling in surprise—nay, utter shock—at the name that had been called. It felt like a dream. Not a dream: a nightmare.
“This cannot be,” she murmured, and she felt as though her heart broke in two. “No, this isn’t right.”
Surely, she had misheard.Surely, there was no other writer in the world with whom she shared a name. A name on which she had stacked all her hopes and dreams. Perhaps it was a joke—yes, a joke at her expense orchestrated by... by... bywhom? There was not a person in the world outside of herself and Josephine who knewshewas Huxley.
Her ears were ringing. It was only when Eleanor seized her by the arm that she awoke from her stupor. “Charlotte? Oh, Charlotte, move out of the glass!” her sister cried, pulling her away.
Charlotte stepped aside as a footman darted up to them with a tea towel and a small broom, kneeling over to begin picking up the pieces of glass. A young lady behind her feigned a dead faint, and her chaperone held a small bronze tin to her nose, grinning as lords pooled around them.
“Whatever is the matter with you?” she heard her brother hiss. Matthew was behind her, having chased after them, and he looked most incensed. “Really, would it pain younotto make a show of yourself for one evening?”
Charlotte paid him no mind. She could not think of her blunder. She could barely see her brother before her. She needed to make sure she had not imagined anything. Looking around, she hoped to catch sight of the man—theimposter—as he moved through the crowd. He was about to mount the stage.
With a determined groan, she pressed forward and heard, “Charlotte, come back!” from her brother.
