But Sir Abstrupus being Sir Abstrupus, he would have no interest in fulfilling any set of expectations other than his own.
So, instead of dazzling brilliance, the light in the ballroom held a muted quality from chandeliers half lit with crimson-red candles. And in the stead of English roses, exotic orchids transferred from the orangery were scattered about, some resting on surfaces, others hanging in glass globes. And the couples on the dancing floor weren’t waltzing to the strains of a lively string quartet, but a pipe organ—strains one wouldn’t characterize as buoyant under any circumstances, but rather charged the music of Bach and Haydn with a dark tension one might never have suspected otherwise.
From his place in a dark corner of the ballroom—somehow, Sir Abstrupus had managed to create a ballroomcomposed entirely of dark corners—Bran stood, observing the odd atmosphere. It wasn’t magical in the way of the balls he’d attended in London a decade ago, but projected an aura that held a strange mystical quality, as if all within this room for this night were caught within a macabre spell that would release at dawn.
Yet a good time was being had by all, even though the trays the servants carried through the room held not effervescent champagne, but rather various concoctions extracted from Sir Abstrupus’s collection of exotic plants.
Bran’s hand tightened around his crystal tumbler of water. He’d determined to hold onto it for the duration of the evening, and prayed that everyone imbibing Sir Abstrupus’s noxious brews made it home alive with minimal stomach upset.
He’d been keeping a loose eye on Gwyneth, but had again lost her. He wasn’t overly concerned, however, for her new fiancé, Sir Charles, had traveled north with them. The reason given was that it happened Sir Charles had some business in Yorkshire, but Bran suspected the closer reason was that he couldn’t bear to be away from Gwyneth. Besides, it was no imposition, for Bran found he liked the man his sister intended to marry.
He narrowed his eyes and performed another sweep of the ballroom.Blast, it was dark, but even so, he knew Artemis wasn’t here.
He would know.
The air changed when she entered a room.
“You didn’t wear a costume,” came a familiar male voice at his back.
Bran startled around. If a ninety-something-year-old man was able to sneak up on him, perhaps it was for the best his military career had ended when it had. However, the sight before him had his eyebrows lifting off his forehead. “Are you a French king, by chance?” It was the only explanation forthis.
Sir Abstrupus drew himself up to his fullest inconsiderable height, puffed his narrow chest, and stuck a spindly leg straight out, turning it just so to offer a view of his flexed calf muscle through white stockings. “I am the Sun King, of course.”
“Ah, of course,” said Bran, with a slow nod.
That explained the high heels and the powdered wig with its voluminous bounty of curls; the gold metallic cloth of his cutaway coat done in the style of the last century; and the massive gold sun pendant hanging in the center of his chest.
Really, it explained a lot.
Sir Abstrupus gave Bran a deliberate up-and-down appraisal. “I’ve seen you look better,” he said, at last. “But I’ve seen you look worse, too. So, there’s that.”
Bran took no offense. “And you’re looking resplendent.”
Sir Abstrupus gave a kingly smile. He only lacked a scepter.
Bran let his gaze rove across the ballroom. “The ball appears to be a success,” he said. “How many years have you been hosting your Annual Autumn Harvest Ball?”
Sir Abstrupus flicked a blithe wrist. “Oh, this is the first year. I’m considering hosting another in a few years. Ten is a nice, round number.”
Bran felt a vertical line form between his eyebrows. “Right.”
Was it possible Sir Abstrupus was an immortal? Perhaps he should start partaking in the old rascal’s brews, stews, and concoctions.
No.
No amount of immortality was worth that.
“Are you recently arrived in Yorkshire?” asked his host.
“Only tonight.”
“You, Lady Gwyneth, and her handsome knight?—”
“Sir Charles is a baron.”
“Oh, well,” said Sir Abstrupus, “that’s somewhat disappointing, but I shall not hold it against him very much.”
“Generous of you.” Bran hoped his tone wasn’t overtly sardonic.
