lured by the dancing. Others doggedly waited their place in line, Eliza among them. Why should she not? She felt so sparkly on the inside that she could not keep the smile from her face, particularly when she glanced around the ornate ballroom at all these beautiful people—well, beautiful masks. She was in Kensington Palace at a royal ball. The crown prince of Alucia had sipped her punch!
But just as Eliza was closing in on the prince with her introduction in mind, standing behind only the peacock, the prince said something to the gentleman making the introductions and began to move away. The peacock froze with indecision. Her companion looked back at her, her alarm evident behind her mask. Eliza could imagine what the two of them were thinking—that one friend would have the introduction and not the other was unthinkable.
Eliza nudged her. “Step forward! We might still make his acquaintance—”
The peacock suddenly whirled around to her. “Don’t push me! Miss Tricklebank, has it not occurred to you that you are far too old to be in this line?”
“What?” There was an age limit? There was no time to discuss it—the prince was moving away without so much as a glance in their direction, and Eliza saw her chance slipping through her fingers. She’d had enough rum punch to feel justifiably emboldened, and suddenly leapt around the paralyzed woman and blurted, “Welcome to England!” for lack of anything better to say.
In the days to come, Eliza would believe that Prince Sebastian would never have acknowledged her at all had she not sort of lurched into his path at the very moment he was striding forward, which unfortunately caused him to step firmly on her foot.
Eliza gasped with the surprise and pain of it.
“I beg your pardon, are you all right?” He quickly moved his very large and heavy foot from hers.
“Quite,” she said breathlessly and stuck out her hand as if he were the butcher who had just given her a very good price on pork. “Miss Eliza Tricklebank.”
He looked at her gloved hand as if he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was to do with it. Eliza smiled hopefully. He reluctantly and delicately took her hand in his, which felt like a vast plane of palm and fingers, and bowed over it. “Madam.”
The feel of that strong hand holding hers so carefully fired through Eliza’s veins. It was the zest of accomplishment, the thrill of having met an actual prince, not once, but twice. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance again, Your Highness. Your Royal Highness.” She smiled brightly. “Formally. Obviously, we met earlier.” She beamed at him.
“Sir,” one of the Alucian men said, and the prince let go her hand and turned away from her. Before Eliza could so much as draw a breath, he’d been swallowed up by several Alucians and hurried along.
The man who’d been introducing the women to the prince suddenly appeared at Eliza’s side. “Are you hurt, madam? Shall we have a look at your foot?”
“Pardon? Oh, no need, there was no harm.” She laughed a little hysterically. “I met the prince,” she said to him.
The man smiled. “Indeed you did.” He leaned forward and said, “You and your foot might have left a most indelible impression on him.”
Eliza laughed with delight. Her mission had been accomplished. A broad smile of pride spread across her face, and she turned her head and cast that smile at the peacock. That woman gaped at her, still paralyzed.
“I met the prince!” Eliza said again, and with a bright laugh, she nodded at the kind Alucian and walked away, aware that the peacock’s gaze was boring through her back.
That was another thing that happened when one became a spinster caretaker. One ceased to care what others thought of her.
Guests at the Royal Masquerade Ball were treated to three sets of Alucian dancing, all of which involve very intricate steps and require an agility and eye for precision demonstrably not possessed by a certain minister many consider to be past his prime.
Ladies, if your lovely ball gown has suffered a mishap, remember to put a teaspoon of Madeira wine to every gallon of water to remove the stain.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
SEBASTIAN CHARLES IVER CHARTIER, the crown prince of the kingdom of Alucia and the Duke of Sansonleon, was hot behind his bloody mask and desired more of the excellent rum punch. But he would accept any liquid that might quench his thirst.
What he disliked about balls and assemblies and state suppers in general was that there were too many expectations, too many people to please. And apparently, to hear the captain of his guard tell it, too many dangers lurking beneath the gowns and the coattails around him. He was not allowed to take a drink from a servant. Protocol demanded any drink or food be handed to him by an Alucian. After it was sampled by an Alucian. And the Alucians were so intent on their duty that a reasonable man could easily believe there were hordes of rebels attempting to poison him at every turn.
Sebastian also disliked the necessity of dancing. He wasn’t a bad dancer, quite the contrary. His position in this world demanded that he be a competent dancer, and to make sure of it, his parents had hired the best dance tutors when he was younger. Still, he didn’t particularly enjoy it. He was wretched at making empty conversation, curt when answering the same questions while trying to keep names in his head. He was not adept at being social, not like his brother, Leopold.
Sebastian would much prefer to be on the back of a horse. Or in a gaming room with his few close friends. Or writing. He was currently engaged in a meticulous recording of Alucian military history. The topic interested him, but his acquaintances found his interest in the past rather dry. If he had his way, Sebastian would be more than content to keep to his study and read his documents and books. He could do without company for long periods of time. Or, he fancied he could. He didn’t really know it to be true, because as the heir to the Alucian throne, he was forced to endure a contradictory private life while constantly in the presence of others. Servants. Secretaries. Advisors. Guards.
And in full view of the public from which he was supposed to be sheltered. People had a way of seeing past the veil. His every step was recorded.
Which might explain his aversion to such events as this. He was surrounded by people he didn’t know who clambered to be close to him. People who wanted to breathe in his air and push a little closer. It was vexing and at times could be terribly unnerving. Once, when he’d been dispatched to the initial launch of one of their newest warships, two men had come from nowhere, putting their hands on his shoulder, trying to capture him or toss him into the sea before the Alucian guard fell on them and stopped them.
In large groups, he felt like a caged animal, a species on constant display.
This particular ball had been planned well before he’d ever stepped foot on England’s shores, a courtesy extended by the English crown to the Alucian crown. Negotiations for it had been handled by Sebastian’s personal secretary, Matous Reyno. It was Matous’s idea for the masquerade.
Matous had been by Sebastian’s side for many years, serving him since the day of his fifteenth birthday and investiture as crown prince. Seventeen years in all.
Outside
