The coach door opened.
It was time.
They all knew who she was, and Marchmont wasn’t in the least surprised.
Only the London mob—ordinary people—had been present when she’d appeared on the balcony of Lexham House. Few if any members of the aristocracy would have been in that crowd, mingling with the unwashed. He doubted that anyone in the entrance hall of the Queen’s House had seen any more of Zoe than the caricatures and the single etching that had accompanied Beardsley’s story. Pamphlets having sold like Holland bulbs during the tulip craze, a book version had come out this week, the more expensive editions containing colored illustrations of her adventures.
That was all anyone in Society but the handful who’d attended the dinner had seen of Miss Lexham.
The world knew who she was all the same. Even the Beau Monde was capable, in desperate circumstances, of putting two and two together. Its members observed him and observed her mother and drew the logical conclusion.
They also drew away, insofar as the crowded quarters and court dress would allow. The hall was the customary seething sea of people, the ladies with their gloved hands down, keeping their hoops compressed—and out of range of the gentlemen’s swords.
He was aware of some of the ladies compressing a little more tightly and edging away from Zoe, as though in fear of contamination. He fumed, but there was nothing he could do except remember the names of each and every lady who did this and resolve that each and every one of them would live to regret it very much, indeed.
He felt a hand on his arm and looked down. It was Zoe’s hand, encased in its long white glove, with diamond bracelets hanging from the wrist. She’d had to draw near to touch him, her elbows being occupied with keeping the hoops out of danger. Her scent wafted up to him, rising, he was all too aware, from the warm flesh abundantly displayed mere inches from his nose and framed in lace and rose-colored satin. The bottommost and largest diamond of her necklace nestled in the inviting valley between her breasts.
“You look very dangerous,” she said in an undertone. “You can’t murder them only because they’re…shy.” She smiled up at him.
“I was not looking danger—‘Shy’?”
“Let’s pretend that’s what it is.”
He preferred to imagine himself knocking their plumed headdresses off their heads.
“Never mind them,” she said. “They don’t trouble me. When first I went into the harem, almost everyone tried to make me feel unwanted, and they were much less inhibited about it than English ladies.”
“I’d always imagined women in the harem as subtle,” he said, trying to match her carefree smile. He was used to wearing masks, but this was beyond him. She put up a brave front, but he knew that the stupid women about them had hurt her feelings—and they didn’t even know her!
“‘Go away you filthy thing,’ they would say,” she said. “‘Why did you come here? No one wants you.’ They called me names. They locked me in cupboards. They played silly tricks. They were like spiteful children. But those women were never allowed to grow up, really. This is nothing.” She shook her head and the plumes bobbed.
“It may be nothing to you,” he said. “It’s something to me.”
“No one here can hinder or help me now,” she said. “You got me here. The rest is up to me.” Her blue gaze shifted toward the staircase. A partition divided it as far as the first landing, where the stairway separated into two branches. One part of the mob was aimed upward on one side while another was aimed downward. Nobody seemed to be actually moving, but that was normal.
“They’ll have a difficult time keeping away when we climb the stairs,” Zoe said. “That should be amusing.”
He didn’t think so.
It took three-quarters of an hour to get from the bottom of the stairs to the top. The parade was making its way slowly through four rooms, and as they reached the corridor, she could see them all through the open doorways: the plumes bobbing, some colored, most of them white, the lacy lappets dangling over the ladies’ shoulders, the jewels blinking in the light, and the billowing gowns in every color of the rainbow.
It was very beautiful, and the sight alone would have made her happy. She was home, among her people—even if some of them didn’t want her.
Marchmont was here, her knight, ready to slay dragons for his protégée. He looked very dangerous, indeed, glowering at the company through those slitted eyes—and with a sword at his side, no less.
But he could not slay any dragons for her now. He could not present her to the Queen. Mama must do that, and Zoe must make herself presentable.
They entered the saloon, and Zoe saw her, finally: an old and clearly unwell lady under a red velvet and gold canopy. She sat on a red velvet and gold chair. The chair was not raised very high, merely two steps above the floor. The princesses and ladies-in-waiting stood nearby.
People walked up to the Queen and bowed and curtseyed. Ahead of Zoe, one girl, who seemed dreadfully young, was being presented. She wore a modest, ivory-colored gown.
But Zoe was not a young girl. She was different, and it would have been silly to pretend she wasn’t.
Today wasn’t a presentation day, though, and Zoe would not stand out so much from all the young virgins in their maidenly gowns. Most of the ladies and gentlemen who paused before the elderly figure on the velvet chair were well known to her. She said a few words to the girl, Zoe noticed, but merely nodded to most of those who made their bows and curtseys.
Zoe watched it all, fascinated.
Then there was no one left ahead of them. Mama moved up to the canopied place and there was Zoe, right behind her. Mama said something, but Zoe couldn’t hear it because her ears were ringing.
Don’t faint, she commanded herself. You’ve come this far, all those miles from the palace of Yusri Pasha, all those miles from captivity.
She glanced away from the Queen and her gaze fell upon Marchmont, who stood among the diplomats. Though his beautiful face was as unreadable as always, she discerned the conspiratorial glint in his green eyes. She remembered how he’d called her “brat.”
The dizziness passed, and she was sinking into her curtsey—deep, deep, deeper than anyone else could do, because she’d lived in a world where one prostrated oneself before superiors, and everyone was a woman’s superior. There a woman was merely a possession to be bought and used and discarded upon a whim.
Here at least a woman could be somebody.
She sank nearly to the floor, and it was like sinking into a dream, so unreal: the elderly woman under the red velvet and gold canopy and the mirrors on either side reflecting the splendor all around: the room’s rich furnishings and the colorful dress of the company and the plumes and glittering diamonds and the sparkling chandeliers.
As she rose, she became aware of the Queen’s puzzled expression and a pause, a stilling of the atmosphere. A silence fell, as though all the world held its breath.
Then the old lady on the red and gold velvet chair said, “We are glad of your return, Miss Lexham.”
Confounded, utterly confounded, utterly lost, Zoe yet managed to say, “Thank you, Your Majesty,” because it had been drummed into her as a safe thing to say. She couldn’t have said any more than that in any case, she was so thunderstruck by the Queen’s words.
Glad of your return.
Queen Charlotte said, “You favor our good friend, your grandmother. We shall look forward to seeing you again.”
Zoe understood this was a signal to withdraw. She murmured thanks and started backing away.
One did not turn one’s back on the Queen.
One of the princesses—Zoe wasn’t sure which one—stepped forward before she could commence curtseying herself out of the room.
The princess said, “We greatly admire your courage, Miss Lexham.”
Only that. One quick sentence and one quick smile before she returned to her sisters.
Zoe had to be content with that, though she had a
hundred questions to ask. But in such a crowd, the royals hadn’t time to talk to everybody. Most of the time, they let people pass with no conversation at all.
She was halfway to the door when a very fat gentleman, most elaborately dressed, stopped her. “We are very glad of your return, Miss Lexham,” he said.
She dared to look up into the pale blue eyes. She saw tears there.
She became aware of Marchmont: She felt his presence before she actually saw him.
“Your Highness,” came his deep voice from somewhere above her right shoulder. “I thank you for your kindness.”
“A brave young woman,” said the Prince Regent—for that was who the fat gentleman was. “Stay a moment with us, Marchmont.”
Zoe breathed thanks and curtseyed and curtseyed and curtseyed until she was safely out of the room.
She found her mother and met her gaze but only squeezed her hand, because she couldn’t trust herself to speak.
She was afraid to say anything. She didn’t want to spoil it. She was afraid she’d wake up and find it was all a dream and the Queen had not given her the golden gift of approval, with a princess and the Regent himself echoing it.
She couldn’t stand stock-still, gaping, though, so she blindly followed her mother into the sea of people, the voices rising and falling around her.
What seemed like hours later—and might have been, progress through the rooms was so slow—she felt a hand at her elbow. Even without looking she knew it was Marchmont’s hand. But she did look up at him, into his beautiful face, and saw the smile hovering at the corner of his mouth.
“Well done,” he said.
A thousand feelings welled up in her heart. She looked away, because she knew her eyes would tell everything, and everything was far more than she wanted him to see.
He guided her through one room after another and on to the staircase and a descent as slow as the ascent.
Again a crowd milled about them, but if the ladies were holding their skirts over-tightly and edging away, she didn’t notice.
She’d done it. She’d made her curtsey to the Queen. She existed, in the world into which she’d been born.
They spent an eternity getting down the accursed staircase, and Marchmont was dangerously near exploding with impatience by the time they reached the entrance hall.
“It will be a while before we can get through this crush to the courtyard,” he said. “There’s a painting I want you to see in the next room.”
“But my mother will be looking for me,” she said.
“Everybody’s mother will be looking for her,” he said. “And there’s my mad aunt Sophronia, whom I should prefer to avoid for the moment.” He’d glimpsed the figure in black from time to time as they’d made their progress through the rooms. With any luck, she would be gone by the time they went out for their carriage. “Come along.”
He took Zoe’s hand, gave a quick glance about, and slipped into a quiet corridor. He was an old hand at finding his way through royal quarters. He knew all the nooks and crannies. The Duke of Marchmont had his role to play at court, and he’d danced attendance on royals in one way or another for nearly half his life.
“Well done,” he said as soon as they were out of view. “Oh, well done, Zoe Octavia.” Then he laughed and tossed his chapeau bras onto a nearby chair. He grasped her waist and lifted her up as he’d done on occasion when she was very young.
She gave a surprised laugh, and round he went once, twice, thrice.
Don’t stop, Lucien, she used to say. Make me dizzy.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh.” And he felt her lips touch the top of his head. “Thank you.”
He let her down then because he knew he must. He let her down slowly but not as slowly as he wanted to. He wanted to bury his face in the silk and lace of her skirts and then in the warmth of her bosom.
But he let her down as though she were a child still, and he kept his head well back—resisting temptation, though she would think he was avoiding the feathers of her headdress.
“That was all,” he said. “I had to do it.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said. “That was how I felt. It was very difficult to keep in my feelings.”
“Well, then, now we’ve got it out of our systems, we can carry on with proper dignity.”
Marchmont found slipping back into the sea of aristocrats more difficult than slipping out of it. The entrance hall was even more crowded at present than it had been when they arrived. Eventually, though, he and Zoe reached the courtyard.
Being a head taller than much of the company, Marchmont had no trouble scanning the crowd. He soon spotted Lady Lexham. She looked very worried.
The worried look, he surmised, was not on account of Zoe, for her ladyship would trust him to look after her daughter. It was on account of the tallish woman with the great black plumes waving from her head.
“It appears that my mad aunt has got your mother in her clutches,” said Marchmont. “Aunt Sophronia can be entertaining in the right time and place. This is not the time or place. There’s no help for it, though. We must attempt to rescue your mother—Oh, drat the woman! She’s taken Emma hostage, too.”
“I have faced the Queen,” Zoe said. “I can face anything today.”
“You say that because you’ve never dealt with my lunatic aunt,” he said.
He’d dealt with her, though, time and again. He led Zoe to the cluster of women. They stood before his carriage.
“Oh, there you are, dear,” said Lady Lexham. “I was trying to explain to Lady Sophronia. She seems to believe this is her carriage.”
“Never mind him,” said his auntie. “Marchmont has his own carriage.”
“That is my carriage, Auntie,” he said. “There is the ducal crest, plain as day.”
“This is no time for your jokes, Marchmont,” said his aunt. “Get in, get in,” she told Lady Lexham, waving her diamond-encrusted, black-gloved hands. “The company is waiting. You, too, Emma.”
“But Cousin Sophronia,” Emma said, “as I recall, your carriage is the one with the blue—”
“Is that the bolter?” said Aunt Sophronia. Her gaze had fallen upon Zoe.
“Yes, Auntie, and I brought her and her mama here in that—”
“Get in, get in, Emma,” said his aunt. “What are you waiting for? Do you not see the carriages lined up behind us?”
Emma threw Marchmont a panicked look. He gestured her to get into the carriage. With a look of resignation, she obeyed.
“Zoe Octavia,” said Lady Sophronia. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Lady Sophronia.” Zoe managed to negotiate a curtsey while being jostled by the milling crowd.
“That was a curtsey,” said his aunt. “How everyone stared. Most exciting. They should write it down and put it in a book. But we’ve no time at present for snakes. Marchmont will bring you to dine with me. Lady Lexham, if you please. Without swords, we shall fit three comfortably.”
“Please go ahead,” Marchmont told Lady Lexham. “She never admits she’s wrong, and we should be hours redirecting her. Zoe and I will take my aunt’s—that is to say, the other carriage.”
He saw the other two ladies safely into the carriage and told his coachman to take them all to Lexham House.
He watched them drive away.
“Will you know which one is your aunt’s carriage?” Zoe said.
“Certainly. It’s my carriage. They’re all my carriages. If I let her have her own, I’d never be able to keep track of her. This way, I have at least a modicum of control over her doings. Some wonder why I have not put her in an asylum. But I’ve always maintained that every great, ancient family must have at least one mad relation living in a haunted house.”
Zoe smiled. “I didn’t know you owned a haunted house.”
“Baldwick House looks as though it’s haunted,” he said. “And appearances are everything. Ah, here comes her carriage.”
Very much as she’d done on the way here, Zoe watched t
he passing scene through the window. They left the palace along with a long parade of other vehicles. Crowds lined the way here, as well, and progress was slow, an endless series of stops and starts, but she didn’t seem to mind the snail’s pace.
“So much green,” she said. “In Egypt there’s only a narrow strip of green along the sides of the river. And it isn’t the same green at all. We had gardens, too, but nothing like this—so many trees and acres and acres of grass. And there’s the canal. I see it sparkling between the trees. I’m so glad to be home.”
Every word made the duke’s heart ache, but the last words most of all. Though he’d seen her smile and heard her laugh, he’d never seen her so happy as she was now, the lighthearted Zoe he’d known so long ago.
She turned from the window and smiled at him.
“I’m glad to see you so happy,” he said.
“It’s all your doing,” she said.
“Not very much needed doing,” he said.
“Ah, yes. ‘Nothing could be simpler,’ you said.”
He had the royal ear—several of them, in fact, and a scribbler like Beardsley wasn’t the only one who knew how to tell a story.
Still, it wasn’t all his doing.
All the royals had to do was look at her to be disposed in her favor.
Zoe had told him she wasn’t innocent, but she was, in ways that some might not understand. This innocence shone in her eyes and warmed her smile. It had made the Prince Regent teary-eyed. He’d said he wept because she reminded him of his daughter.
She didn’t resemble Princess Charlotte physically. What she reminded everyone of was the life and hope the princess had represented. And this was partly because Zoe wasn’t practiced in hiding her feelings. She had glowed, visibly, when the Queen made her welcome. Her joy had vibrated through the saloon. The Regent had felt the joy. He’d seen the glow.
What had she said, shocking everyone so, on the first day—was it only three weeks ago?—Marchmont had seen her?