He took in the crowd. So many people, but no one took note of us. Each was lost in his or her own world as we were lost in ours.
“Blue suits you,” he said.
I looked up. “Pardon?”
“The color. The dress brings out the color of your eyes. I suppose it would be indelicate of me to ask how you came by such a costume or how you came to be here.”
And then I remembered myself. We weren’t dance partners, and we certainly weren’t friends. We were adversaries.
“Yes, I suppose it would,” I said, cautiously. “As it would be indelicate if I were to ask the same of you. I’m sure your mother taught you better manners than that.”
A shadow darkened his expression. “She didn’t have the chance. She passed when I was young.”
The confession struck me like a slap across the face. Despite my dislike of him, he didn’t deserve my cruelty. His pain reminded me of my own. My own loss.
Don’t be fooled. It’s what he wants you to think.
But could he be so devious? If he knew my past, he could easily use it against me.
Then I saw Mr. MacDougall prowling the edge of the room, watching Mr. Wyck and me. My anxiety eased. He may not be the ally I would have chosen, but he was Fayte, which meant he would help me if it meant helping the Queen.
Mr. Wyck must have seen the House Steward as well because he tightened his hold on my waist, a sensation that wasn’t entirely unpleasant but made me glad to know Mr. MacDougall was near.
Finally, when our waltz ended, I stepped back and curtsied, thanking him for the dance.
He didn’t release my hand. He tightened his grip instead. “You wouldn’t leave me after just one dance, would you?”
I glanced up into his dark eyes, disarmed but curious.
“It’s just that if you don’t have anyone else on your dance card,” he continued, “I should like to keep your company. Unless you object to mine.”
Again, he was playing with me.
Again, my mind reeled and I wished my thoughts didn’t fixate on the spot where his fingers touched my glove. I wasn’t flirting. I was protecting the Queen. As long as we danced, he could do her no harm.
The fact that part of me enjoyed the dancing was of no consequence at all.
“As it happens,” I said, “I don’t object.”
The musicians struck up a lively polonaise. Before I could say another word, he guided me across the floor. In the middle of the dance, the music dwindled to a slow and muddled stop.
Across the floor, the Throne Room doors glided open. Two heralds appeared, one lifting a polished brass trumpet to his lips to sound the announcement of Her Majesty’s arrival.
At its conclusion, the musicians launched into the opening measures of Homage to Queen Victoria.
From my vantage point, I could see a uniformed Prince Albert but not the Queen, though I knew she must be there as well, only too diminutive to be seen.
Beside me, Mr. Wyck watched, too. I had to wonder at the diabolical plans that must be grinding behind that determined expression. If ever there was a time I wished I could read his mind, now was it. You scoundrel! You may be able to block your thoughts, but I already know your intentions.
I had him and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Emboldened, I leaned into his shoulder. “You will finish our dance, won’t you?”
I was prepared for him to manufacture a reason to dash off, but instead he squared his shoulders to me and bowed deeply. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving your side.”
I fanned myself, admiring his ruse. Such confidence in his villainy. You have met your match, however, Mr. Wyck. I assure you.
We stood as the crowd parted, allowing the Queen and Prince Albert to take their seats of honor beside the musicians.
“You do seem quite interested in Her Majesty,” he said in my ear. “Any particular reason?”
I shot him a look. This was brash even for him. “I suppose I am interested. Yet no more than anyone else.”
He smirked. “Is that so?”
What he meant by that I could hardly guess, but it didn’t matter. My only concern was stopping him from getting anywhere near the Queen.
Once the Royals were seated, the musicians struck up a new polonaise, and the dancers resumed their progress around the dance floor—Mr. Wyck and I among them.
I quickly settled back into our familiar rhythm. To his credit, he seemed more focused on me than the Queen, which I found flattering despite myself. Through the boisterous turns of the next dance, I was so engrossed in our movements that I didn’t even realize he had maneuvered us almost directly in front of the Royals.
We took a turn to the left, and when I looked back at the Queen, I saw the chair beside Prince Albert empty.
Where had she gone? I scanned the room.
Then a woman’s scream stopped everything. The music, the chatter, the movement.
Wild glances darted to a commotion at the St. George’s Hall doorway.
I rushed closer and found a woman in emerald satin clutching a footman’s lapel. Her mask of glittering green leaves hung loose at her neck, but her cries were lost beneath the growing volume of murmurs. She turned from the visibly shaken footman to scream at the crowd, “On the staircase! I saw her! She’s dead!”
Gasps replaced the murmurs.
And where was Mr. Wyck? I turned to find him behind me, looking as stunned and frantic as I. In the distance, I could see the Queen’s chair still empty. Beside it, Prince Albert stood flanked by a pair of footmen and two
