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They move on through a dining room set with a lavish banquet. Alessia recognizes the caviar and pink salmon roe, but there are dumplings and little pasties. Pirozhok, Henry informs her. The table, which must seat twenty people, is laden with food. Tall, attractive male servers with slicked-down hair dressed in their uniform black stand at points ready to serve. Henry and Alessia choose caviar with blinis, the little dumplings, and pasties.
“This will fortify us,” Henry declares, and they move with their plates into the next room, another sterile space crammed with beautiful people. Henrietta introduces Alessia to all who approach. A thin young woman in black accosts them—her flowing dress appears a little big for her. “So you’re the woman who snared Maxim Trevelyan,” she drawls as her brown eyes sweep over Alessia.
“Maxim is my husband,” Alessia responds stiffly, aware that she’s been the subject of speculation and the occasional side-eye as she and Henry have wandered through the gathering. No one’s been as overt at this woman.
“Pretty little thing, aren’t you?” she says, and Alessia suspects she’s had too much to drink.
“And you are?”
“Arabella Watts. Maxim and I used to date. Many moons ago. I must congratulate you on snaring one of the UK’s most eligible—”
“Thanks, Arabella,” Henry interrupts. “We have to find Maxim.” She grabs Alessia’s hand, and they move through to another room. She whispers, “Maxim’s ex. A complete addict and a nasty piece of work too. Though I’m not sure if the two things are related.”
“Oh. Ex-girlfriend?”
“Yes. Has he not told you?”
“Briefly. But not…um…with…details.”
“Probably wise,” Henry adds. “I mean, we don’t want to hear about our partner’s ex-lovers, do we?”
Alessia shakes her head and doesn’t want to dwell on Maxim’s exes at all.
There are too many.
Henry stops by a window so they can finish their food. When they’re not being interrupted for introductions, Henry chats about her day. She’s a nurse who met Tom while working at the veterans’ hospital in London. Alessia listens attentively, feeling more relaxed and oh-so-comfortable in Henrietta’s presence. She wonders vaguely where Maxim might be.
Once they’ve eaten, and with more champagne in hand, they wander through the hallway. The atmosphere among the revelers has heated up. The chatter louder and freer. They pass a magnificent wooden staircase that leads to the floor above and down to the basement, from where colored lights flicker up the walls and thumping music can be heard.
Henry makes a face. “We don’t want to go down there,” she warns, and they move on into the main sitting room.
It’s another opulent room, furnished as the others, though this has a modern gas fireplace where flames flicker, adding a little color and life to the space. There’s an excited buzz from the well-off crowd that hangs over the spacious room, accompanied by the chink of champagne and shot glasses.
Above them is a mezzanine floor. “Look,” Henry says when she spots the grand piano on display above them. She grins. “Let’s go up there.” Henry downs her champagne, grabs another two glasses from a waiter, and leads the way to the spiral staircase. Alessia is keenly aware that their journey is followed by the curious eyes of the partygoers mingling in the room. Alessia downs one of her glasses of champagne and follows Henry up the staircase to the mezzanine. It houses an impressive library, the hardbacks sorted by color and size, and the gleaming black piano. Alessia inhales sharply. It’s a Bechstein.
“Well, hello there. Do you play?” A young man with black hair, tousled a little like Maxim’s, steps out from behind one of the library shelves. His accent echoes Dimitri’s.
“Not me,” Henry responds. “But Alessia here does.”
He steps forward; his clear blue eyes scan Alessia’s face, then skim down her body, so that she raises her chin to meet his challenge.
He smirks at her attempt to intimidate him and holds out his hand. “Grisha Egonov, and you are?”
Alessia shakes his hand, alarm bells ringing in her head. His grip is too tight, his smile too warm. She withdraws her hand and resists the urge to wipe it against her dress. “Egonov. Dimitri’s…?” Alessia asks.
“Brother. Well, half-brother. Same father.”
“Alessia Trevethick.”
“Ah! The new countess.” He bows quite formally, takes her hand once more, and kisses her knuckles. “My lady.”
A shiver runs up her spine.
“This is my friend Henrietta Gordon.” Alessia removes her hand and introduces Henry, who is watching Grisha with the same wariness as Alessia.
He gives a nod to Henrietta and turns his attention back to Alessia. “Your accent. Like me, you are not from around here.”
“I am Albanian.”
“Ah. Interesting. Please.” He gestures toward the piano. “Be my guest.”
“I wouldn’t want to…um…disrupt the party.”
His eyes glow with an unwelcome intensity. “Maybe it’s exactly what this party needs. Or perhaps your friend’s claim that you can play is… overstated?”
