Hephzibah had never been trained to be a lady. She’d never been schooled in dance, posture, elocution. She’d refined herself on her own, for the stage—keeping her wits about her, her eyes open, watching other people, learning how to do it: how to live, how to be. But Miss de Vries had been trained. Belts and chokers and laces and straps on her flesh. She was alert, ready, all the time.
She gave Hephzibah a hard, penetrating stare.
Hephzibah dug her fingernails into her palms, made her face smooth. She raised an eyebrow.
Another second and she would have failed. Miss de Vries would have seen a line of sweat creeping out from under her wig. She would have smelled the acrid scent rising off Hephzibah’s body. Fear. Hephzibah could already smell it on herself.
But Mr. Shepherd leaned forward, worried, eyes on the clock. Hephzibah saw the saliva on his lips. “Madam…”
“Yes,” said Miss de Vries briefly, and moved on.
Hephzibah followed. She had no choice.
Oh, God, she thought. Oh, God.
Winnie should have known something was about to go wrong. Everything had been too simple. From her vantage point, patrolling the terrace, she had watched Hephzibah’s people herding the crowd, shifting them eastward then westward, keeping them entirely distracted as ropes began rippling down the eastern side of the house. The plan had been immaculate; everything was progressing without a hitch. She’d begun to feel her heart thump with surety, with unshakable confidence.
But suddenly one of the waiters snapped his fingers. “Get those beasts out of their boxes.”
Slowly, the French doors at the top of the terrace opened. Winnie saw movement, a crowd emerging from inside the house. And she felt something change in the atmosphere, a thrill passing through the company assembled in the garden below.
Miss de Vries was at the front of the party issuing down the terrace steps, and she’d removed her headdress. It made her look small, like a jet-painted icon. Next to her walked a woman of no very remarkable height, maybe in her late thirties, maybe forty, with a bright blue sash across her shoulder. She was being steered along a sort of tidal line of people, catching them like driftwood: guests, hangers-on, people crumpling into curtseys as she passed them. She looked almost like…
Princess Victoria, said a voice in Winnie’s head.
She almost laughed in disbelief.
They had spoken of a letter. An invitation sent to the royal household. But it was a fairy story, a tale spun by Hephzibah. They’d filtered Miss de Vries’s post, checked it every hour. No card ever left Park Lane for the palace. Hephzibah had rehearsed what she’d say to Miss de Vries, when she finally scampered out of the house: the princess had a royal headache, she was royally indisposed, terribly sorry, what a shame…
And yet they’d missed something. A letter had gone. Unmistakably, undoubtedly, it had. For here stood a princess of the United Kingdom, in all her state and glory, decked almost carelessly with diamonds, surrounded by courtiers, palace officials, equerries, men in dark overcoats who looked unmistakably like detectives. Clearly, news of this spectacular, unparalleled ball had spread like wildfire; it had billowed out of their control.
Where’s Hephzibah? she wondered, growing cold. She should have been controlling this crowd.
“All right, love, watch out behind you.”
A hand pulled her aside. Winnie smelled something hot and pungent on the air, the whiff of matted fur. Heard the heavy clop of hooves. The decking shuddered. In any other circumstances she might have laughed. But now she felt only panic. Mr. Sanger’s camels came plodding out to greet Cleopatra and the princess. Applause rose up around them.
She saw Miss de Vries leaning in to say something to the princess, something humble, something reverent. She saw Lord Ashley beside her, his face jubilant, jaw glinting under the lights.
This wasn’t in the plan. If Hephzibah had been rumbled, if the actresses weren’t being directed, if Mrs. Bone’s “policemen” were caught out… Risks began hurtling toward her like comets. She had no contingencies for this.
I need Mrs. King, thought Winnie. I need Mrs. King right now.
Hephzibah stayed with the princess’s people. There was nowhere else she could go. The viscountess in the orange turban, the lady-in-waiting who’d ushered the princess from her motor car, had eyes everywhere. She sniffed a little as the crowd edged closer.
“I’m not sure Her Royal Highness can meet all these people,” Hephzibah heard her say to Miss de Vries.
These people were the next-door neighbors: wool makers and soap manufacturers and bankers. Men dressed as centurions, their wives dressed as Celtic queens. The better class of guest, the ministers and members of the diplomatic corps and the bishops, were all staying at the far end of the terrace. They feasted contentedly on the grape tower, knowing the princess would be steered in their direction.
Miss de Vries flushed, cutting the introductions short. “We must show you the entertainments, ma’am.”
The princess allowed herself to be maneuvered firmly toward the gardens, people goggling at her from the stairs. The lady-in-waiting with the orange turban coughed incessantly into her gloved hand.
You need to take control of this, Hephzibah instructed herself, before something goes wrong. “Darling,” she said, reaching for the orange turban. “Here you are, at last.”
The lady-in-waiting jumped, startled. She half turned, her passage obstructed by Hephzibah’s skirts. She peered upward, eyes bleary. Hephzibah towered over her, jeweled, powdered, bewigged.
The viscountess frowned. “Who are you?” she said.
That beautiful golden-eyed footman was nearby. He cast a sharp look in Hephzibah’s direction. “Lady Montagu,” he said, voice clear. “May I help you through the crowd?”
The lady in the orange turban sighed. “Lady…？ Oh, Bea,” she said. “For heaven’s sake. You startled me.” She coughed again, fingers fluttering for a handkerchief.
Hephzibah felt her lungs tightening.
“D’you know, someone said: you’ll never guess, it’s too funny, Beatrice Montagu is going to this party. I told them I didn’t believe it. I said Bea Montagu hasn’t gone to a ball once this century, and she’s hardly likely to go to this one.” She linked arms with Hephzibah. “But here you are. What possessed you? Was Charles being too infuriating? Heavens, look at your costume. I wouldn’t have recognized you. When in Rome, I suppose. Aren’t these people simply too marvelous? Such a lot of vultures.”
Hephzibah squeezed the viscountess’s arm in return. “Wait till you see what’s coming,” she whispered. “We’ll be talking about it for years.”
“Will we really?” said the viscountess with a sigh, tucking her handkerchief into her sleeve. “How tedious.”
To the garden they went.
I’m doing it, Hephzibah realized, her courage rising. I’m winning here.
She wondered about sending for another champagne.
Winnie was searching the gardens for Mrs. King. She could hear the guests talking among themselves, ogling the proceedings.
“Did they really have the circus in ancient Egypt?”
“Oh, naturally! And Punch and Judy shows.”
“And clowns!”