“Mr. Silver,” said Miss Chubb heavily, “thinks I behaved in a most unladylike way after the balloon ascension.”
“Then, I suggest you put Mr. Silver firmly in his place,” said Dolph.
“Then, you will come?” asked Lord Arthur, saying to himself, just one more evening and then I shall behave myself.
Just one more time, thought Felicity.
“Yes,” she said. “And do not look so worried, Madame Chubiski. I shall talk to Mr. Silver most sternly if he makes any trouble.”
Mr. Palfrey was sitting at the toilet table in a room in Limmer's in Conduit Street, arranging his hair with the curling tongs, when a hotel servant arrived to say he had managed to secure Mr. Palfrey a seat in the pit at the opera.
Mr. Palfrey tipped him generously. His heart lifted. He was glad he had come to London. It was wonderful to be away from accusing Cornish eyes. Let the fuss die down, and then he could return to his search for the jewels. Somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, flashing fire in the green depths, lay the Channing diamonds. He had studied them minutely in that portrait at the castle until he felt he knew every stone.
As usual, he fussed a great deal over his appearance. Then he realized his cumbersome traveling coach was not suitable for a short journey, and besides, it was round in the mews and would take an age for the horses to be harnessed up. He debated whether to walk, but fear of arriving at the opera with muddied heels and possibly dirty stockings made him ring the bell and request a hack.
It was nine o'clock before Mr. Palfrey reached the opera house. The seats in the pit were simply long wooden benches, and they were already packed to capacity by lounging bucks and bloods by the time he arrived. He retreated from the pit and tipped an usher, who told him that a certain Sir Jeffrey Dawes would not be using his box that evening, and Mr. Palfrey would be able to use it.
Comfortably ensconced in a side box, Mr. Palfrey immediately raised his glass to his eye and scanned the house. He let out a slow breath of pleasure. This was where he belonged, not hidden away in some castle in Cornwall. Fans fluttered and jewels glittered on men and women alike.
His eye, magnified by the glass, traveled along the row of boxes opposite-and then he let it drop with a squawk and turned quite white under his paint.
“Shhh,” hissed a dowager venomously from the box next to his.
Mr. Palfrey sat trembling. Surely that had been Felicity Channing in the box opposite!
Catalini's lovely voice soared and fell. She had the power to make all these society members look at her and listen to her-a rare feat, as most attended the opera because it was fashionable to do so and were usually not in the slightest interested in what was taking place on the stage.
Mr. Palfrey took a deep breath and raised his glass again.
It
Now he shook with rage. Just wait until those servants and yokels in Cornwall heard about this!
He could barely contain himself until the opera was over. Two people had left Felicity's box, but she was still there herself with a male companion. Mr. Palfrey did not recognize Lord Arthur. What if they did not stay for the farce? It would be hard to reach them.
He rose to his feet and scurried along the corridor behind the boxes, shaking off the clutching hands of the prostitutes.
In his rage and confusion, he opened the doors of several wrong boxes before he hit the right one.
“Well, Felicity Channing,” he said in a voice squeaky with outrage. “And what have you to say for yourself?”
The little figure with her back to him remained absolutely still. The man beside Felicity rose to his feet. Now Mr. Palfrey recognized Lord Arthur.
“What the deuce do you mean by this outrage?” demanded Lord Arthur, towering over Mr. Palfrey. “This lady is the Princess Felicity of Brasnia.”
“Princess, my foot!” screeched Mr. Palfrey. “That's my stepdaughter, the minx. And those are my jewels.”
He made a move forward to grasp Felicity's shoulder and then gasped as Lord Arthur pushed him back.
“Leave immediately,” said Lord Arthur, “or I shall call you out.”
“But that is my stepdaughter,” cried Mr. Palfrey. “She pretended to die in order to trick me.”
“Your Royal Highness,” said Lord Arthur, “before I throw this fellow downstairs, do you wish to take a look at him? Perhaps he is a former servant of yours whose mind has become deranged.”
“Servant!” shouted Mr. Palfrey. “Do I look like a servant?”
Felicity stood up and turned about.
She looked coldly at Mr. Palfrey. “I have never seen this man before in my life,” she said steadily.
Her eyes were cold, and her expression haughty. All in that moment, Mr. Palfrey began to fear he had made a terrible mistake. The diamonds on her head and at her throat blazed with such a light that he could no longer be sure they were the Channing jewels, for their prismatic fire nearly prevented him from seeing the individual stones. But it was the beauty of the girl in front of him that took him aback. For Mr. Palfrey had convinced himself that Felicity was plain. In his memory, she was a drab little thing with carroty hair, not a regal goddess like the lady facing him.
He became aware that everyone in the house had begun to stare at Lord Arthur's box. Lord Arthur looked on the point of suggesting a duel.
“Pray accept my apologies,” babbled Mr. Palfrey. “The resemblance is astonishing. You remember me, do you not, Lord Arthur? You were there when my poor Felicity was found missing.”
Lord Arthur continued to regard him as if he were something that had crept out from under a stone, but Felicity spoke again, her voice strangely accented. “No doubt,” she said, “grief over the death of your stepdaughter has sadly turned your brain.” Then she sat down again with her back to him.
Stammering apologies, Mr. Palfrey bowed his way out.
“I have the headache,” said Felicity. “I wish to go home.”
“First Madame Chubiski with a headache, and now you,” said Lord Arthur. “Come along. You are looking very white. Did that silly little man upset you?”
“Yes. What is all this about his stepdaughter, my lord? And do you know him?” Felicity trembled as she waited for his reply. For if he had not known she was an impostor before, surely he knew now.
“I met him once,” said Lord Arthur in a bored voice. “His stepdaughter, also called Felicity, was running away from him. She fell over a cliff in a storm.”
“How terrible!”
“Indeed, yes. I trust you do not have such dreadful happenings in Brasnia.”
Felicity wanted to cry out to him that she was sure he had not believed one word of her nonsense, but there was still a little element of doubt, still a little hope that he believed her. She did not know why it was, but she felt uneasy and breathless and uncomfortable with him, and wretchedly lonely and afraid the minute he went away.
In the carriage ride home, with Lord Arthur riding on the box-for it was a closed carriage and she would have been compromised had he traveled inside with her-Felicity wondered desperately what to do. Thank goodness Miss Chubb had felt ill and had left with Dolph. Those two would surely have made up Mr. Palfrey's mind for him. She would need to leave London. She would need to get away, for she was sure that if Mr. Palfrey saw her with Miss Chubb, then the game would be up. And it would be folly to continue to see Lord Arthur. He was engaged to another woman.
To her dismay, Lord Arthur followed her into the house in Chesterfield Street.
She turned in the hall to tell him he must leave and then her eye fell on the enormous gold-crested card. She picked it up. It was an invitation to the Queen's drawing room in two weeks’ time.
“The royal summons, eh?” said Lord Arthur, reading it over her shoulder.
“Do I have to go?” asked Felicity.
“It would certainly look most odd if you did not.”
Felicity thought rapidly. Two weeks. She would leave town in the morning and return just for the Queen's drawing room, and then Princess Felicity of Brasnia would disappear forever.
