“He doesn’t know my real name,” the girl volleys back, chin lifting again—more with pride than defiance, Alice thinks. “But I know your fake one. And if all goes south for me and I wind up in custody, I’m sure the boys in blue would love to hear what I have to say about the upstanding member of European aristocracy who blew the whistle on me. Makes forquitean interesting story.”
They watch each other for another moment in tense silence.
Alice shrugs, motioning to Mrs. Witt’s bedroom door. “Put those fakes back where you found them and no harm done.If you heard as much as you claim to, then you’ll understand why I can’t have any kind of scandal arising while I’m here.”
“Yes, that’s allcrystalclear,” the girl says, spinning the pin with a smirk. “Go on, then. I’ll put them back. Deal’s a deal.”
Alice shakes her head. “I think I’d prefer the evidence of my own eyes.”
“Touchy, touchy.”
Alice watches the girl sulkily glide back through the pocket door and into Mrs. Witt’s dressing chambers, placing the pins back inside the lacquered jewelry box, shutting its compartment up tight with visible reluctance.
She’s got a restless mind, Alice observes.For her, it’s as much about winning as the winnings themselves.
She can certainly relate to that.
“We square?” the girl whispers as she slides the pocket door shut behind her.
“Indeed,” Alice answers, with her German cadence back in place. “I wish you better luck in the future than what you’ve found tonight. And here’s something more for your trouble.”
She hands the thief a shiny coin.
“A fiver?” The girl squints. “I’d think my silence was worth something more like—”
“Don’t press your luck.”
The thief sinks like a tethered balloon, the bare regret in her expression making Alice wonder if she was right in her assessment of the girl—perhaps she really does need the money. But then, with a blink, the girl slides smartly away, turning the coin over in her hand with a neat spin to make it disappear. A well-practiced act. She’s underutilized in that troupe of hers.
With perfected wariness, Alice watches the girl sidle out of the sitting room and back down the hall.
She lingers for a minute before rejoining the party, where Ward waits inside the game room with a group of male chums, all laughing at some quip she suspects she should be glad she hasn’t heard. Ward straightens smartly and hastens from the room at the sight of her.
“Shall we away, Your Grace?” he offers. “I’m sure this has all been taxing.”
“And I have some correspondence to reply to,” Alice says quietly.
“To your brother, no doubt,” Mrs. Witt loudly whispers, faux-conspiratorial as she takes Alice’s arm in the corridor. “Tell me, is it really true that Prince Wilhelm’s been corresponding with Arabella Ames, that little mouse? If he’s looking for an American debutante, surely he can do better. Not that I’m offering up my Bonnie. She’s got more suitors than she can juggle at the moment.”
Alice affects a disarmed laugh at this crude performance. She must make Iris Witt believe that her particular brand of boastful vulgarity is a balm to the duchess’s troubled mind.
“I’m afraid I’m writing back on more somber matters,” Alice answers. “There have been raids by our supposed allies at our nation’s southern border... But I really must say no more. I’m sure all your fine guests are beyond reproach, but I cannot risk any wisp of information reaching the ears of our Austrian oppressors.”
Her eyes dip low before rising through the game room’s doorway to meet the gathered men’s curious and appreciative glances—in particular, Brett Ogden’s arrogant gaze. He cutsthe handsomest figure at this party, even in middle age, but he wears his beauty like a threat. Alice takes pains to fight off a shudder at his curling smile, especially while her sharp-eyed hostess is also watching.
“The truth is, I always reply promptly to my brother so that he will not worry about me.” Alice laughs softly. “It is ironic, is it not, given the state of affairs in Württemberg and my safety here, but oh, hedoes fret, thinking of me alone on foreign shores. Thanks to your aid, dear Mrs. Witt, I’ll have much needed artillery funds to convey to the resistance along with my letter. And your continued prayers for Württemberg’s freedom will help us greatly.”
“And now let us allow the duchess some rest.” Ward turns to Mrs. Witt with a gallant bow and a wink. “A triumph, as always, dear Iris. I’ll be sure to say as much toMrs. Astor.”
At that promise, Mrs. Witt draws a deep, exultant breath. No one in this sphere, not even one so apparently disaffected as their hostess, is immune to the power the name “Mrs. Astor” carries.
With that adieu duly delivered, Ward and Alice turn together to sweep down the grand corridor and out of the party, knowing all eyes will remain fixed upon them until they step out of the front doorway, into their carriage, and away.
Inside the lacquered car, Alice’s shoulders drop. Her breath steadies. A postmortem drink at Ward’s and then back to her own home, and sleep. Nearly done tonight.
It’s a relatively brief ride south to the McAllisters’ townhome on Thirty-First Street, offering just enough time for Alice’s mind to wander, to adjust as needed, to plan further, but as Ward keeps up a monologue of wry observations for most of the ride, mainly recounting the series of events thatled to Mrs. Witt’s falling-out with Mrs. Astor a month prior, Alice’s musings haven’t slipped dangerously into the realm of needless anxieties.
Ward’s right. This evening went well. She achieved what she needed to, stepping alluringly onto the public stage and then away again, letting the gossip that will inevitably ensue in her absence do much of the work for her.
