No, it was the feeling that she was watching him a bit too closely.
Well, he’d escaped her. He’d had to—had to leave that room before his good ear burst. He’d come to a halt near a pair of footmen who were manning the main doors. He put his back to the wall and breathed. The noise wasn’t as dense here, wasn’t as hard on his hearing.
He had enjoyed the dance, but he was not an efficient dancer. His lessons had come long ago, during some cold, dark nights at home on the shores of the Tophian Sea. The last time he’d attended a dance had been in the country near his farm. He’d danced a jig then, as he recalled. But a quadrille? He’d found it remarkable that he could remember the steps at all, much less remember what kind of quadrille it was—a variation that was Italian in its origins. It was amazing that after a few awkward steps, his feet had seemed to remember the rest all on their own. Even more remarkable given that every time he came round to Mrs. Honeycutt, her smile made him feel a little fluttery, and her lips, which he watched intently to know what she said, made his mouth water.
He still couldn’t shake the notion that someone had put her up to befriending him. But why her? Who would use her in that way? The Alucians? Did they suspect something to do with King Maksim?
Speaking of the king... Marek couldn’t afford to lose sight of him. With a sigh, he pushed away from the wall and began his trek around the ballroom again.
He’d gone halfway around when he spotted the king in his shepherd dress, dancing with the crown princess. She wore the costume of a French courtier and moved very gracefully. The king, however, danced as woodenly as Marek. His expression was pinched, too, as if he didn’t feel well.
Marek shifted his gaze from the king to the edge of the dance floor. There he was, the young man with the dark hair, never more than a few feet away from the king. Like Marek, he wasn’t wearing a costume, but a formal suit of clothing. He was holding a pair of wineglasses in one gloved hand, and from this distance, it looked as if both of them were nearly empty. Marek assumed they belonged to the king and Princess Justine. Who had access to their drinks besides that young man? Had they come from the trays of one of the many footmen? Had someone else poured the wine?
Marek glanced around the crowded room in search of Dromio. He hadn’t seen the minister since he’d stopped to tell Marek that he looked peculiar, standing there as he was. “What’s the matter with you?” Dromio had slurred into his good ear in Weslorian. “You look like a vile old man, ogling women as you are.” He’d clapped his shoulder hard. “Have a care you don’t look the menace, Brendan. Look at her. She looks alarmed by you.”
He was referring, of course, to Mrs. Honeycutt. She hadn’t looked anything but lovely and curious. And, really, if there was a menace between them, it was certainly her. She was very inquisitive. “Where is the man with the drink?” Dromio had asked, his concern over Marek’s appearance apparently forgotten, and he’d stumbled away, his sailor trousers sagging in the rear to the point of distraction.
The dance ended, and the king escorted his daughter from the dance floor. The young man handed them the glasses of wine, but the princess shook her head. She leaned in close to her father’s ear, and then walked away.
The king stood alone with the young man. He glanced down at the glass of wine he held, almost as if he couldn’t stomach—
“Mr. Brendan!”
Incredible.Marek turned around. It was inconceivable that Mrs. Honeycutt had sought him out again. This time, her conical hat was gone, and in its place, a flower was stuck into her very dark hair.
She was not alone. She was in the company of a woman he knew to be the wife of Prince Leopold of Alucia. That one was dressed in an elaborate eighteenth-century costume, complete with a towering wig in which three cloth bluebirds were perched.
“May I introduce you to Lady Chartier?” Mrs. Honeycutt asked. “Or, if you prefer, Marie Antoinette.” The two women giggled. To Lady Chartier, she said, “This is my friend, Mr. Brendan.”
There was thatfriendbusiness again. Was it supposed to mean something? Was it some curious English custom to call a complete stranger one’s friend?
She gestured quite unnecessarily to his neckcloth. “He’s from Wesloria!”
“How delightful!” Lady Chartier said and curtsied grandly. “How do you do, Mr. Brendan? Welcome to London.”
“Thank you.” He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed. From the corner of his eye, he tried to keep track of the king. But Lady Chartier turned her head to say something to Mrs. Honeycutt. And to him, apparently, as both of them looked at him expectantly. When he didn’t answer, Mrs. Honeycutt turned her head to her friend and said something more that Marek couldn’t make out.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
Mrs. Honeycutt and Lady Chartier exchanged a look. Mrs. Honeycutt spoke again, and this time, Marek watched her lips stretch and curve around the English words.
“She asked how you found the ball.”
There seemed to be an awful lot of concern about how he found the damn ball. When he didn’t respond right away, seeking the right words to convey how much he didn’t care without appearing rude, Lady Chartier cocked her head to one side at such a sharp angle he worried her towering wig might fall off. “Oh, dear,” she said plainly. “He really doesn’t care for it, does he?”
“I don’t think he does,” Mrs. Honeycutt said as she studied him. “I’m not certain he cares much for our customs, really.”
He looked between the two women. Was he supposed to deny it? Debate them? Rush to assure them that he’d never in all his life had a grander time?
Lady Chartier shrugged. “I suppose the ball is not for everyone, is it? I, for one, very much like a costume ball. And I adore the dancing. But then again, I’m quite good at it.”
“You’re a very fine dancer,” Mrs. Honeycutt agreed.
“One of the best, I’ve heard it said,” Lady Chartier said without the least bit of humility, obviously pleased with the compliment. “Which puts me in the mood to dance! If you will excuse me, I think I shall find my husband and insist he waltz with me again.” She smiled prettily. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Brendan.” She glanced at Mrs. Honeycutt, and a look passed between the two of them, some mutual understanding that Marek did not care for. He felt as if he had been whisked back to his thirteenth year. On a crisp, cool Sunday afternoon, he’d stood in the churchyard while Sarana and Felicia, two girls from his village, had whispered about him. He’d been just as inept at social chitchat then as he was now, and just as partially deaf. He guessed it was true that some things never changed.
Lady Chartier smiled and walked away, and in what was becoming rapidly predictable to him, Mrs. Honeycutt did not. Her smile was winsome and she asked, “Shall I leave you to sulk on your own, Mr. Brendan?”
“Sulk?” He didn’t know that word.
