She’d gazed down at him, vision blurring. He had dark, hungry-looking eyes. She had seen boys like him causing trouble outside the Paragon, scrabbling and kicking one another in the dust. You could always count on one to pick up a playbill with mocking laughter, strutting about in imitation of the powdered, laced-up lady in the illustration.
She pressed a shaking finger to his lips. She could feel things slipping out of her control.
“This lady,” Mr. Shepherd had said before he departed, “is clearly not at all well. Someone fetch the physician.”
“No,” she said, trying to make her voice steady. She did feel pain, seeing him. But it wasn’t like pulling a tooth, after all. It was like an open wound, fresh and bitter. “Leave me be.”
He did leave. He retreated, distracted, rubbing his swollen-looking lip, and left her in the Boiserie.
“You’d best sit down,” the boy muttered. “My lady.”
“What do you want?” she said, scrunching his sleeve in her fist. “To keep your mouth shut?”
He hesitated.
“Too slow,” she said. “Say one word and I’ll have you strung up on a lamppost.”
His eyes went black.
Hephzibah exhaled, looked out of the window. Not long now, she thought. It was nearly done, nearly finished. She’d nearly made it. Best to stay here, she decided, where she couldn’t set off any further suspicions. Her actresses would manage without her for now. You’re just having a little rest, she told herself, trying to steady her nerves. Don’t run away.
The Boiserie was positioned above the front porch, its windows bowed, facing the park. An enormous motor, bigger even than the Daimler, drew up slowly beside the curb.
Who’s that? Hephzibah wondered, peering down.
A figure in a dark suit leaped from the passenger seat, hurried around, waving the crowd back. Reached for the door, unfastened it.
A gaunt woman in a squashed orange turban emerged.
Someone of quality, Hephzibah mused. You could spy old money a mile off. Delicious-looking silk. Not a moth hole anywhere. A viscountess, perhaps. She liked to say viscountess. It pleased her lolling tongue.
“What?” grunted the boy.
“Silence,” ordered Hephzibah.
But then the turban moved, and the woman bent to say something to the other person sitting inside the motor, and suddenly the world became very still. It turned on its axis no more; it made no revolutions; it came to a terrible halt.
For it was clear to Hephzibah, as it was clear to those people on the pavement, that this motor car was altogether too grand, too anonymous, to contain any ordinary person. It had curtains drawn down over the windows. The tassels were bobbing, gleaming gold. Hephzibah felt the thrill passing through the crowd. Saw the traffic slowing.
Surely not, Hephzibah thought. Not possible. Not the…
The viscountess in the orange turban stepped back. And slowly, back straight, she descended into a curtsey. The crowd sighed with anticipation.
Hephzibah was transfixed. Someone else began to emerge from the motor. Hair glossed and folded, dark with wax. A neck bound tight with a choker, as if the pearls had been sewn directly into the skin, flesh jeweled from chin to clavicle. No costume, not even a nod to one. But a sash, royal blue, cutting straight across the shoulder. It blazed up at Hephzibah.
So did a face. A familiar face. One you saw on picture postcards. Long and angular. Thick brows. Heavy lidded, heavy jawed.
Hephzibah felt her fingers trembling. “Ah,” she said to the boy lightly, as if she didn’t care. “The Princess Victoria is here, after all.”
Her mind began racing. How, how, how on earth…？
Hephzibah staggered to the door of the Boiserie. Looked out at the saloon, at the open doors to the ballroom. The noise and the fug of champagne on the air hit her in a rush.
You’re the greatest actress you know, she told herself. The best. So, act.
33
Ten minutes to go
Miss de Vries let her neck fall back, spine arching. Lord Ashley’s fingers were digging into her shoulder blade, his nails scratching black muslin. She kept one fist on her train, taking care not to trip. The electroliers were popping and spitting overhead, and the crowd roared with pleasure as they swept past. Lord Ashley had led her inside to dance, as the news of their engagement swept through the house.
“They’re offering us their congratulations,” she said in Lord Ashley’s ear as he hurtled her backward into the center of the room. Up close, she could see his curls were slick with grease, darker than his usual white blond. The waltz was the fastest of the night, the orchestra red-faced and exhausted.
“Get your skirts out of the way,” he huffed, wrenching her waist.
He wants to show off to the crowd, she thought. The room was spinning around them, all roaring salmon-painted pillars and the tang of sweat. But Miss de Vries made out two figures moving ponderously in her direction.
Shepherd and Lockwood, making a beeline for her.
She smiled, radiant, laughing, for the crowd. “May we stop,” she said, catching her breath, “my lord?”
His hands came away so fast he nearly dropped her. He turned, arms aloft, hair askew, and the best families in London cheered for him. She tried not to stumble.
Shepherd was on her, Lockwood right behind. “Her Royal Highness is here, Madam.”
“What? Where?”
“Her motor just pulled up at the front door.”
Lockwood still looked pale. “Excellent news, Miss de Vries.”
“Where’s Lady Montagu?” she asked.
Shepherd frowned. “Indisposed, Madam. We took her to the Boiserie to—”
“Ah, there she is,” said Miss de Vries. She saw a familiar gleam of pink satin, hoop skirts lurching through the crowd. A powdered wig bobbed furiously in the air. “Come.”
They all followed the duchess, who was half running down the grand escalier.
Hephzibah thanked God for her hoop skirts. They kept people at arm’s length. Everyone caught up with her at the foot of the stairs, a perfect traffic jam. There was Miss de Vries, descending behind her, butler and lawyer at her side. In the opposite direction, she saw the Princess Victoria’s people, clustered at the front porch, waiting for someone to come and receive them. Oh, Lord, she thought.
“Lady Montagu?”
Miss de Vries was moving toward her at double speed.
Hephzibah turned. I refuse to be rushed, she said to herself, trying to blink her dizziness away. Men stood under the portico. Real policemen, she realized, feeling sick.
“Miss de Vries!” she said. “Splendid, you’re here.”
Guests on the right, guests on the left. No way out. Could you be arrested for fraud? Naturally. But on the spot, without clear charges? Hephzibah’s mind spun like a loose wheel about to fall off. She wished, in this moment, that she had someone solid beside her, someone to reassure her.
Winnie would help her, if she were here.
Buck up, Hephzibah, she told herself. Buck up, do.
Miss de Vries frowned. “Aren’t you going to meet the princess, Your Grace?”
Hephzibah summoned all the severity she could muster. “You are the lady of this house, Miss de Vries,” she said. “Her Royal Highness is waiting for you.” She threw her arm wide, as if to say, Do hurry up.