I kept close—but not too close—to a cluster of masked guests lingering at the hall’s massive hearth. I gazed where they gazed. I wandered where they wandered, and slowly we made our way to the ballroom.
Then, not a dozen paces ahead, I spotted a black tricorn with a white ostrich plume and that usually disheveled hair tied back with a burgundy ribbon in the Georgian style.
Mr. Wyck!
I broke from my unsuspecting colleagues and followed him like a beacon through the throng. As if he sensed my pursuit, he paused and turned back. I lifted my fan to obscure more of my face and saw that silver mask that dipped below his nose. He adjusted it and smoothed the velvet lapels of his coat and the white ruffles cascading from his collar.
I ducked behind a large matron in a marigold gown with bright silk flowers pinned to her sleeves. She scowled at me. I curtsied. “Pardon, madame.” But I didn’t move until Mr. Wyck resumed his progress toward the ball. Then I hurried as well.
At the double doors, he halted and turned again. I hid behind a man wearing a top hat, then a man’s hand thrust in front of me, stopping me in my tracks.
Mr. MacDougall skewered me with his gaze.
Even so, for the first time in my life, I was happy to see him.
I leaned in close and positioned my fan to obscure my words. “It’s Mr. Wyck. He’s dressed as a guest. A pirate. You must stop him.”
His eyes widened in surprise then narrowed to a scowl. “Jane, is that you? Where on earth did you get that dress?”
Wasn’t he listening? Who cared about a dress? “It’s him, sir. The one who means to harm the Queen. I know it.”
Why wasn’t he doing something? Why was he still standing here?
“Did you steal that dress, Miss Shackle?”
Why did he care so much about a dress when the Queen’s life may be in danger? I leaned closer, so close I breathed the musty smell of him. “Sir, he is the threat to the Queen.”
Even as I uttered the words, I knew they didn’t matter. The scorn on his face told me he didn’t believe me.
He stepped back and directed me, rather harshly, toward a quieter alcove.
Several guests and footmen watched, their eyes wide but they didn’t dare to intervene. I was too stunned to resist—but only for a moment.
I wouldn’t let Mr. Wyck get to the Queen. It was an instinct. New but powerful. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—fail our sovereign, and I wouldn’t fail Mrs. Crossey or Marlie. I pushed past Mr. MacDougall and hurried through George’s Hall.
The tricorn was no longer visible, but Mr. Wyck couldn’t be far, and I already knew his destination. I could still stop him.
I hurried through the crowd as swiftly as the lovely, yet dreadfully unsteady, shoes allowed. Mr. MacDougall followed, but his larger size and dignified station made it more difficult for him to get through the throng.
By the time I reached the ballroom’s doors, I could no longer see Mr. Wyck. I slid in behind two other couples and made my way along the perimeter of the dance floor to the Throne Room, where the Queen and Prince Albert would make their appearance. The doors were still closed. The royal couple hadn’t yet arrived. I wasn’t too late.
Encouraged, I pulled back to a bare space along the wall and was searching the room for that black tricorn when someone tapped my shoulder. I snapped up my fan and prepared to excuse myself for being in the way.
But when I turned to offer an apology, the sight of the masked pirate stunned me into silence. Even hidden behind my blue silk mask, I trembled beneath Mr. Wyck’s startling gaze.
He held out a gloved hand. Such a large hand. “May I have this dance, mademoiselle?” His words flowed easily yet they stole my breath.
I stared at his hand, trying to compose my thoughts.
Finally, I mustered the breath—and the nerve—to speak.
“What game are you playing, Mr. Wyck?” I hardened my glare to match the steel in his own.
His eyes flashed. “So, you’ve found me out.”
Was that condescension in his voice? I didn’t know, but I had to admire his cool demeanor. Was he truly so comfortable among these peers of the realm? I had to wonder why that was.
“I have,” I said, “as you have guessed me.”
Beneath his rigid mask, amusement teased his lips. “Indeed, I have, Miss Shackle. Shall we dance?”
He watched me for some time. Was he toying with me? Or did he intend to distract me, so he might carry out his devious plan?
Again, a desire—no, a need—to protect the Queen surged through me. I would keep him from his plan, whatever it took. Placing my own gloved hand in his, I said, “Yes, I would very much like a dance.”
His arrogance faltered for a moment, but he recovered quickly and led me to the center of the floor. Without another word, he placed his right hand on my waist and held my hand with his left. When I looked up, he was staring at me with startling intensity. Then, he dipped his chin and picked up the waltz.
To be fair, he was a passable dancer. Good, actually. I had prepared myself for a degree of fumbling, but there was none of that. In fact, I wondered if my own skill held up, honed as it was in Chadwick Hollow’s main room on holidays and occasions when the headmistress felt festive and played the pianoforte for our enjoyment.
When I missed a cue and stepped on his foot, I knew instantly the error was my own. “Terribly sorry,” I muttered, mortified.
“For what? I didn’t feel a thing.”
He was lying, but I smiled despite myself. If he was simply biding his time, he was at least being amiable as he did so. A twinge of guilt twisted within
