“It’ll be flashy, no doubt,” Beau muses dryly. “Too bad money can’t buy class.”
Beau adjusts his jester hat, peering out the window with a sneer that at least manages to cover his gray teeth.
Mrs. Witt laughs along. “Pearl Ames will always try. I suppose she thinks a royal title for her little mousy daughter might help. What do you think, Miss Ritter? Would marrying your prince of a cousin do the trick?” Mrs. Witt hardly waits for a reply, her smile curling into a simper. “Although, why bother talking of the Ames girl when there are far more exciting developments afoot?”
She winks at Harry, adding in a faux-conspiratorial whisper, “I bid you all the luck in the world tonight, dear boy.”
Harry descends into another fit of nervous coughs.
Before Cora can figure out what the devil is going on, their carriage jostles and turns onto Thirty-Fifth Street, all talkfalling away as they join the long procession snaking up to the Ameses’ front walk, the mounting ballyhoo on the street and surrounding sidewalks ensnaring everyone’s attention.
“Goodness, how many did they invite?” Mrs. Witt says. “What a circus this is!”
“The press is even here,” Beau mutters. “How delightfully vulgar.”
Cora looks out. There are hundreds upon hundreds of guests filtering toward the Ameses’ stately brick residence. Several Marie Antoinettes in pink silk; a few Catherine the Greats in brocade mantles; a collection of ancient kings, Renaissance knights, and medieval princes blurring together in velvet and lace-lined tunics. And Beau was right about one thing: Buzzing about the glimmering set, Cora can make out reporters, distinguishable by their comparatively drab brown suits and muted toppers.
Cora’s pulse stutter-steps as she spots a rather tall man on the fray, currently stooped to catch a quote from a fellow dressed ostensibly as Richard III, complete with a pillow stuffed into his jacket as a hump. Good grief, what beatdoesn’tMr. Archer cover?
She watches the reporter with an odd mix of wariness and suspense. Mr. Archer will no doubt have at the ready at least five questions for her.What angle could he be after this time?she wonders. More inquiries about the people of Württemberg? Perhaps the noble lineage? She finds she is oddly anticipating the next round in their ongoing volley—as well as another chance to prove, even if just to herself, that she is more than merely a prop in this affair.
Cora smiles. She might also be eager to see how the handsome reporter will react to her appearance tonight. All madeup, eyes lined in kohl, lips berry-reddened. This dress. Like true, non-Württembergian royalty.
The reporter laughs, scribbles something in his notepad, and turns—
It isn’t Cal Archer. Looks nothing like him, Cora realizes.
“Miss Ritter? Are you all right?” Harry stands outside the carriage now, hand extended, waiting. Apparently they have edged to the front of the line and started to disembark.
She pastes on another smile. “Just struck by the scene. Yes. Off we go.”
Off they go indeed, moving along with the throng up the front walk and through the grand entrance.
The Ameses’ interior has been transfigured floor to ceiling into an enchanted garden—Mrs. Ames’s garbled theme, A Midwinter Night Costume Ball, on full, mystifying display. Garland draped across every mantel and along every entry, chandeliers bursting with hydrangeas and white lilies. Cedar pines and potted cypress lining the marble halls, the trees themselves adorned with white, beaded costume masks, as if some of the guests themselves have transformed into topiary.
The entry gives way to the largest residential ballroom Cora has ever seen, larger than the Witts’, one that rivals even Delmonico’s, where revelers costumed in every age and era have already taken to the dance floor, the wide, gleaming room bordered by numerous tables, all adorned with gold leaf and sparkling candles.
As Cora accompanies Harry deeper into the party, she spots Mrs. Ames and Arabella ahead, greeting their guests. The matron of the hour stands beaming and rosy with pride, while Arabella looks as though she’s contemplating hiding under a nearby table.
In some ways, Cora supposes, this ball is being thrown for Arabella’s benefit, however misguided that honor might be. A grand affair to demonstrate to the Grand Duchess of Württemberg that the Ameses are worthy allies in the quest for world dominance or self-importance—or whatever other base motive is spurring the Ameses to marry their daughter off to a man they’ve never seen (and who, of course, doesn’t know she exists).
Cora nearly feels bad for the girl...
Nearly.
They cut through the bustling crowd, Harry awkwardly summoning her forward, clearly eager to introduce her to a cadre of young men on the opposite side of the dance floor. Extended family—second cousins once removed—if she heard him right over the growing party din.
“Harold!” A man of about twenty-five or so steps forward, slapping Harry on the back. “How long has it been, old chap? Feels as though you’ve been locked away forever.”
Harry goes quiet, considering. “Six-hundred and ninety-five days,” he says numbly. “Minus around forty hours for a handful of excursions to the Academy.”
Good Lord, just how cruel is his father?
“Ha!” The man lets out a befuddled laugh. “As precise as ever, Harold!”
Harry steps aside. “Please allow me to introduce Miss Cora Ritter of Württemberg. Miss Ritter, please meet my cousin, Mr. Ernest Denning.”
As Cora steps forward with a small curtsy, Ernest nods approvingly, murmuring, “Clearly congratulations are in order.”
