Instead, the other man cleared his throat. “Yes, his operas are spectacular.” Weiss reached out to stroke Isabelle’s thumb. “I presume you caught that performance?”
Not appropriate at all for the edge of a ballroom. Though one had to admire his moxie.
“Yes.” She nodded sharply but did not pull away. “The music was quite effective.”
Moving back toward the center of the ballroom, lest he be spotted and accused of neglecting his entertainment duties, Aaron did a series of the clownish twirls the children at the synagogue liked so much and glanced toward Pena, but the man was focused on Mrs. Lira, who was chatting with a few older couples and, naturally, the Duke of Sussex himself.
“I shall have to see it someday.” Weiss leaned closer, not releasing her hand. No, now he was pulling her wrist onto his lap. “Or perhaps we could see it together?”
Oy. Aaron rolled his eyes as he retook his juggling clubs. He mimicked tossing and strolled back toward the couple—someone should be watching them, right?
“Maybe. I’ll have to consult my schedule.” She lifted her fan with her free hand, hiding her mouth, though there was a distinct sarcastic note in her voice.
“Perhaps it could be our schedule.” The other man delivered the line smoothly before gracefully drawing even nearer to Isabelle. “Or perhaps it will be.”
The man was skilled. And determined.Morethan determined. A bit like the lady herself, not willing to leave the negotiation table without a commitment. Aaron caught a pin behind his back and squeezed, his fingers itching to, well, grab the man by the necktie and shove him off the chaise.
The corners of Isabelle’s eyes crinkled, though her back was rigid and her lips tight. “I believe I’m the sort of person who prefers their own schedule.”
“That’s important too.” Weiss nodded with a quick vigor. “Claiming one’s own time. I respect people who do that.” He leaned in further, as if he was going to attempt a kiss—with the entire community watching.
Oy. He needed to stop this. Aaron bent to set his clubs on the ground.
After all, the princess would not be able to pay him if her grandmother actually locked her in a tower.
But before he could physically interrupt the couple, Isabelle was on her feet, nearly knocking into Weiss’s nose as he scrambled back. “That’s a very lovely notion,” she said with an implacable, polite calm. She adjusted her gloves as she glanced down at him. “Will you excuse me for one moment? I have a loose button and should repair it before the next performance.”
Weiss retook her hand. “Perhaps we can chat more later?” He arched an eyebrow, his playful tone at odds with the intense look in his eyes.
“Perhaps.” She deftly extricated herself from his grasp and pressed a coy finger to her lips. “Ihavebeen meaning to sample the refreshments.” Then she touched him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I just adore berries.” When she winked, Weiss near tripped over his own feet hurrying to do her bidding.
Aaron held his breath as Isabelle’s shoulders finally relaxed, only for her to exhale harshly when she called over her shoulder. “You should step back, Mr. Ellenberg, lest you upturn the fig tree, and we couldn’t have that. Especially since you’ve given such a robust performance so far.” She threw him a wink of his own. “I knew you’d be a good hire.”
And with a snap of her fan, she swept past the potted plant, leaving him to stare after her.
Isabelle smoothed her petticoats and stepped away from the now vacant chaise, heart thumping against her ribs. That was—well, what exactly? Solomon Weiss had touched her. And touched her. Andtouchedher.
And it hadn’t been completely unpleasant.
He was charming and clever, but perhaps too clever? Or too slippery. Or too likely to trounce her in chess. An uncomfortable flush flooded her senses. The sensation akin to doubt—or worse, nerves. Which could not happen. Certainly not in public.
Sweat pricked her brow and she flipped her fan a few times, but the noxious heat did not cease. Mercy, she needed quiet, just a minute to collect herself and her thoughts and strategize. She scanned the throng for Rebecca, but her friend had wandered to one of the long refreshment tables and was sipping punch, deep in conversation with two older women. She could use something a touch stronger than whatever was in her friend’s glass.
Isabelle went to her grandmother, her silver skirts contrasting with the woman’s burgundy. The elder Lira squeezed Isabelle’s hand as she nodded at whatever the Duke of Sussex was saying to the assembled Jewish leaders. The only words Isabelle could make out over the murmurs were “emancipation” and “oath” and “lower house.”
Not that she couldn’t guess at the conversation. Even before this new potential bill had been introduced, the Duke of Sussex had been the biggest gentile champion of Jewish rights in England. A powerful ally, to be sure, but unfortunately a rather singular figure, both among the gentry and among the greater communities that inhabited the land.
On her toes, she pressed her lips right above the older woman’s earbobs and whispered. “I’m going to adjust myself in the ladies’ lounge.”
“Return quickly,” her grandmother commanded, eyes still on their guest. “You have quite a few people to meet—gentiles as well as Jews. See that you follow all their rules. Proper greetings, proper curtsies, while addressing everyone by their proper—albeit confusing—titles.”
“I’ll be sure to correctly place my hands and only ask questions—not expound—about only the most, by their definition, ‘ladylike’ of subject matters.” Isabelle smoothed her skirts again. “They may lock the gates to their power tight, but no one learns and memorizes rules like Jews.”
“Perform well, but not too well.” Her grandmother whispered the familiar instructions, ones that had been repeated as long as Isabelle could remember. “Flatter them, not yourself.”
“Noted.” She bussed the woman’s cheek. “I will do what is necessary. And be back quickly.”
“And be careful.” Her grandmother’s sharp eyes scanned the crowd and paused. “There are eyes and ears everywhere, and not all are friendly.”
