A black feeling gripped me.
Again, I searched the crowd, standing on tiptoe to see over the sea of heads. Still no sign.
With heart racing and head swimming, I grabbed the sides of my skirt and ran to the door.
Pushing through, my gloved fingers clawed at shoulders and elbows to allow me to pass. I ignored the angry looks. Who cared if I was making a spectacle of myself? I had to get to the staircase.
Finally, in St. George’s Hall, I spied two footmen in heated discourse. As I neared, they pivoted on their black heels and stood at attention.
“Where is she?” I demanded, ignoring the usual formalities. “Where is the Queen?”
They frowned and exchanged confused glances.
“For goodness sake, don’t just stand there.” But then I remembered: They didn’t see me—a servant like themselves—they saw a lady, a guest.
I tried again in short, commanding syllables, “There’s been trouble. Where?”
The young men remained silent, but their glances darted to the vestibule. I took up my skirt again and pressed on. Once I’d reached the entry room, I could see a cluster of attendants congregated on the staircase.
Please, no. Please!
I ran toward them, ignoring the pains shooting from my toes.
The men were staring at the ground, at something I couldn’t yet see, but then there was a pair of lady’s boots.
Not the dainty slippers of a Queen.
Worn leather boots. A servant’s boots.
Something deep within warned me to stay back. A blackness clawed through me.
When I reached the stairs, two footmen pulled away from the huddle, and I saw the face of the figure draped across four steps. I froze.
It wasn’t the Queen, as I had feared.
The lifeless body upon the stairs was Mrs. Crossey.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
How I reached Mrs. Crossey’s side I’ll never know, for it was impossible to think beyond the single question pounding at my skull: Was she dead?
I squeezed past two footmen.
“She’s still breathing,” one said.
I nearly fainted with relief.
“The physician is on his way,” said another.
“Excuse me, miss.”
Someone tapped my shoulder, but I didn’t look back. I wedged next to Mrs. Crossey. Her eyelids fluttered. Could she see me?
But even if she did, what would she see? A stranger. How could she know me dressed and masked as I was?
If I spoke to her, these men would know I was an impostor.
But I had to risk it. I leaned in under the pretext of smoothing back a lock of her hair that had fallen across her cheek. Then I dropped to my knees and covered my face with my hands, pretending to be overcome with emotion.
“It’s me, Mrs. Crossey,” I whispered next to her ear, hoping beyond hope she would hear. I peeked through my fingers at her face. No movement. Not even a twitch.
I feared the worst.
Her breath remained shallow and weak, though I could see no evidence of harm.
A footman whispered, “Could it be the—”
Another shut him down with a harsh shhh!
“But the girl. On the Slopes,” another said.
They were thinking the same thing I was.
More voices encroached. Dr. Holland, the Queen’s physician, had arrived. My time was up.
I would do no good if I were discovered. Not to Mrs. Crossey, not to myself, and certainly not to the Queen.
An idea struck. It was a risk, but it was my only option.
Slowly, I bent over Mrs. Crossey and whimpered, hoping to appear so distraught that the footmen didn’t notice my hand slip over Mrs. Crossey’s and my finger slip into her sleeve. I searched the space. Yes! The handkerchief was there.
I clutched it in my palm and rose, still pretending tears. They weren’t difficult, for the emotion was real.
I held that linen with all my might, wailed into my fists, and bolted up the rest of the stairs in what I hoped would appear to be an outpouring of despair.
A footman called after me, but I didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow until I had cleared their view. The last thing I heard was the physician demanding space around Mrs. Crossey so he could examine her.
When I was out of view, I stopped. The anteroom serving as the gentlemen’s drawing room was ahead. Hope shot through me. Might Mrs. Crossey’s assailant have ducked in there, eager to blend into a crowd? I poked my head in, interrupting two men chatting near the doorway.
“May we help you?” The question came from a stout fellow with a handlebar mustache, the pinch between his salt-and-pepper eyebrows a clear indication I had disrupted their leisure.
“A woman has been attacked. On the staircase. Did anyone come this way?”
The man eyed me with suspicion. “Attacked, you say? Are you sure?”
I wanted to shout at him, Of course I’m sure, you imbecile! Instead, I swallowed that rage and answered as calmly as I could, “Yes, sir, I’m quite sure.”
His companion, another portly and sour-looking individual, removed the cigar from his lips. “There was a drunk fellow a moment ago who stumbled by.”
There had been someone!
“Who was it? When?”
The mustached one frowned. “A few moments ago. He couldn’t have gotten far, clumsy as he was.”
“What did he look like?”
The other man inhaled from his cigar and glanced up at the ceiling, trying to remember. “Hard to say. A bit round in the middle, and he was wearing a mask, you know. Gold or silver. Goodness, I don’t recall.”
That was no help at all. I backed away. “Thank you for your help.” Though it wasn’t much. “If you’ll excuse me.”
The other man held out his hand to stop me. “Miss, if there’s danger at hand, you should stay here. Let us call a guard. Come now, we’ll get to the bottom—”
I continued my retreat. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”
“Miss, please—”
“Thank you for your concern, gentlemen.” I wheeled around and hurried along the corridor even as they continued to call after me.
I took the first turn I came to and then the next, eager to dodge them in case they followed. When I realized where I was, I found myself in a dark and unfamiliar alcove.
