“Don’t let them trouble you,” she said.
“They don’t.” He felt a rush of gratitude. Many of the people gathered here would never let him forget that he came from the Edge. Very few of them dared to recall that Her Grace’s mother was an Edge rat just like him. She was above reproach by virtue of her position and success, but he was still a fair target. “I know their secrets.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Gloating?”
“Only a little.”
“See that it doesn’t go to your head.”
He bent toward her and smiled. “Too late.”
“George, you are a terrible scoundrel.”
“Lady Virai wouldn’t have me otherwise.”
“That is, sadly, true.”
The fact that his direct supervisor and the woman in charge of the Mirror was Her Grace’s best friend occasionally made his life complicated, but he’d learned to deal with it.
Lady Olivia’s dark eyes sparked. “Shall we start our little game?”
“As you wish.”
Her Grace slipped the bracelet off and slid it onto her right wrist. Immediately, the current of the crowd changed. Small eddies formed as the nearest lords and ladies found graceful ways to disengage from their conversations in favor of greeting the Duchess of the Southern Provinces.
Lady Olivia hid her amusement in a placid half smile. He hadn’t been present when she met Charlotte, but since then he’d had plenty of chances to observe the two of them. Lady Olivia had liked Charlotte instantly. It was very clear that they were two birds of a feather—neither was born into a blueblood line and both had attained the pinnacle of social achievement. They were astute, adept, and intelligent, and listening to them he had felt slightly out of his depth.
People approached. He uttered pleasantries, making them sound as if he meant them. About ten minutes later, with the crowd at its peak, Lady Olivia turned to him.
“George, have you seen her yet?”
“No, my lady.” He could see the question form on the faces around them.
“She did say she intended to attend?”
“Yes, my lady. You made it very clear to her that she would suffer your wrath otherwise.”
Lady Olivia heaved a martyred sigh. “I’m really not that frightening.”
Nobody laughed. History was a required subject for anyone hoping to achieve any significant position in Adrianglia, and every person within earshot knew about the massacre that ended the Ten Day War between the Dukedom of Louisiana and Adrianglia and who was responsible for it.
“Do check on her for me,” Her Grace prompted.
George bowed his head. A falcon shot upward from its post on the nearest column and streaked away, in the direction of front gate. He concentrated, looking through the bird’s eyes at the string of phaetons. There, latest model, delicate ornamentation, Sophie’s face in the window.
He left the bird soaring. “Your Grace, they are about to arrive. Ten minutes at most.”
“Delightful. Thank you, my boy.”
He slid back into his affectation of boredom, surveying the faces, noting the minute details, as people pulled on polite masks, frantically trying to figure out who was the subject of their conversation. A tall, dark-haired man paused on the periphery of the gathering. Lord Casside. A member of the Five. It didn’t seem like his type of affair. He must’ve gotten a personal invitation from someone he couldn’t ignore . . .
George caught himself. Not Casside. Richard.
He had watched through the eyes of a bat when, two nights ago, Richard’s people grabbed Casside off the dark street. He’d left a club where he’d fenced with his usual partner, turned the corner on the dark street, heading to his phaeton, and three men jumped him. They sealed his mouth, brought him down, thrust a bag over his head, and yanked him into the dark archway. A moment later, Richard strode out onto the street, dressed in exactly the same clothes, walking at exactly the same speed. He walked over to the phaeton, got in, and rode off. George knew this, but when he looked at the lean man across the terrace, his mind didn’t say Richard. It said, “Casside,” and insisted on it.
It had to be some sort of subtle magic, George decided. One of those secret talents the Edgers hid from everyone.
Richard glanced in their direction, looking bored.
CHARLOTTE paused before the entrance to the terrace. Through the doors she could see the gathering: the people, the clothes, the jewels . . . An electric zing of excitement dashed through her. She had done this dozens of times, but that preappearance rush never got old.
Sophie stepped forward and passed a small card with their names and titles to the crier. The man took it, and the child moved back to her place next to Charlotte. She looked a shade paler than when they had exited the phaeton. Poor kid.
Charlotte wrapped her arm around Sophie’s shoulders. “It will be fine,” she murmured. “Breathe and hold your head high. Remember—poise. You belong here. It’s your right to be here.”
Sophie swallowed.
“Baroness Charlotte de Ney al-te Ran and Sophie al-te Mua,” the crier announced.
“HERE she is,” Lady Olivia exclaimed.
Every head at their side of the terrace turned to the entrance. Charlotte stepped through, and George blinked. She wore a shimmering gown of delicate blue. It hugged her body. It really hugged her body, showcasing every curve before it flared into a flowing skirt that fell to the floor, and he felt vaguely embarrassed for looking. The top of the dress featured strips of brown fabric that narrowed on the side and spread across the blue skirt, imitating thin, twisted, apple branches. White blossoms, accented with silver, bloomed on the branches. The silhouette was simple, yet the color, the cut, and the pattern combined into an elegant, refined whole, and Charlotte, with her pale blond hair and gray eyes, floated in it, like the queen of spring.
He could almost hear a barely audible collective gasp from a dozen women who realized they had just been upstaged.
George chanced a glance at Richard. The man stood very still, his gaze fixed on Charlotte as she walked across the floor, and despite his new face, in that moment Richard looked nothing like Casside. A mix of emotions reflected on his face, desperation, passion, longing. It lasted for half a moment and looked like torture, then Richard slipped back into Casside, the way one put on a shirt in the morning. He must miss her.
George glanced back at Charlotte and forgot to breathe. Three steps behind her, to the left, Sophie walked across the terrace.
The world took a step back.
She wore a flowing gown of a pale gray with a touch of blue, draped at the top, caught by a sash, then floating in a weightless long skirt. He’d seen that precise color when she unsheathed her sword. The dress shimmered as she walked, slick and fluid, as if the metal of her blade had come to life and streamed over her like liquid, shifting with every movement.
He saw the graceful lines of her neck.
He saw her dark hair and a single pale blue flower in it.
He saw her face.
She was beautiful.
He realized he was standing there like an idiot, with his mouth hanging open, and clamped it shut.
A moment later, Charlotte joined them. Her Grace hugged her, gently. “My dear, I had almost given up hope.”
“I wouldn’t disappoint you if it is at all in my power.” Charlotte smiled.
“And you’ve brought Sophie.” Her Grace opened her arms, and Sophie hugged her. “How can you hide this beautiful flower in that country house of yours?”
“The country is where the flowers bloom the best,” Charlotte replied.
“Oh please.” Lady Olivia made a dismissive gesture that could’ve done a premier dancer proud. “It’s about time for the child to see the wider world.”
“Excuse me, Lord Camarine?”
A singsong female voice tugged on him. George turned. Lady Angelia Ermine stood next to him, wearing a fishtail gown of light powder blue. Her caramel golden hair cascaded in a tumble of locks on her left side, drawing attention to her delicate shoulders and long neck. She was quite attractive, George reflected in a detached way. She also profited from the sale of slave women and robbed them of their future children.