Courtship and Curses

by Marissa Doyle

  Sophie smiled. “What did he do to deserve being called that?”

  “Took four or five bites out of a new chip bonnet I’d left on my bed. I came this close to wringing his little purple neck.” She held up her thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart. “Want a new pet? I’m sure he’d do splendidly at keeping you entertained.”

  “No, thank you. I shouldn’t like to deprive you of your bosom companion. But I would like him to have a look at this.” She held up the cane she’d examined the night Amélie visited her room.

  Parthenope looked at it curiously. “Is it new?”

  “No, just one Amélie and her maid Nalini made.”

  “It’s splendid, but why do you want to have Hester look at it? Do you think there’s magic in it?”

  “I don’t know,” Sophie said slowly. “That’s why I’d like Hester’s opinion. There’s something odd about it—about all of the ones they made me—a very faint feeling that might be magic, but if it is, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It could be I’m imagining things—”

  “Who’s imagining things?” Aunt Molly came in, followed by Bunty, who was holding her hands behind her back. “Certainly not you, my dear,” she said to Parthenope. “My gracious, I’m so glad you’ve such a sensitive nose!”

  Parthenope looked stunned. “The flues? There was something wrong with them?”

  “No, not at all, though I can perfectly understand the confusion. No, the coal wagon had just made a delivery, which is probably what you smelled. But I did find that Bunty had neglected to open the ventilation window this morning, and it would have gotten far too warm in there and blasted my oranges. So I thought, well, if anyone deserved a reward, it was you. Close your eyes and hold out your hands!” She motioned for Bunty to sidle over to them, still keeping her hands behind her back.

  “Er…” For once, Parthenope seemed bereft of words.

  “I insist!” Aunt Molly was beaming.

  “Is one of the orchids in bloom?” Sophie asked, trying not to laugh.

  “Even better! Come along, child,” Aunt Molly urged.

  Parthenope said something under her breath that Sophie didn’t quite catch, closed her eyes, and held out her hands. Bunty turned slightly, so that Sophie couldn’t see what it was she was putting into Parthenope’s hands. Then Parthenope exclaimed, “What the deuce!” and Bunty stepped aside.

  Parthenope was still seated, her face a study in consternation and her hands cradling a large, perfectly formed pineapple.

  “There!” Aunt Molly said, beaming. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “It’s dripping on my dress!” Parthenope’s voice came out somewhere between a squeak and a moan.

  “That’s hardly surprising. Bunty just cut it from its stalk. Don’t worry, it will wash out of that muslin without a bit of bother. Unless…” Aunt Molly suddenly looked uncertain. “Don’t you like pineapple?”

  Parthenope took a deep breath. Sophie could almost see her light upon and reject half a dozen sarcastic answers to the question. “I adore pineapple,” she finally said. “Would it be possible to have someone put it in a basket for me to take home?”

  As soon as Aunt Molly and Bunty had left the room again with the offending fruit, Parthenope collapsed back in her chair with a gusty sigh. “If it hadn’t been your aunt, I don’t think I could have done that.”

  “I was lost in admiration of your self-control.”

  “Fiddlesticks. You came within inches of laughing like a hyena, and you know it.” She gazed down at the sticky juice dribbles on her lap. “I wish your magic were working reliably. Then at least you could have wiped that grin off your face and got rid of these for me, Madame Witch.”

  Sophie gave her a haughty look and brushed her fingers across one of the dribbles. It vanished.

  “Sophie!” Parthenope looked almost as thunderstruck as she had when Bunty gave her the pineapple. “You—you did it just like that!”

  “Yes, I know,” Sophie replied, trying to sound bored. She pulled out her handkerchief and transferred the stain to it.

  “But—last time you had to try like anything. Is your magic working again?”

  It was becoming too hard to restrain her glee. “I think it is. Ever since the other night when I broke Papa’s glass with the poison in it, I’ve been able to do more and more. Look!”

  She tossed her handkerchief into the air and whispered a word. It vanished.

  Parthenope blinked at the space where it had been. “What did you do with it?”

  “Look beneath you,” Sophie said, smugly.

  Parthenope twitched aside, then lifted the hem of her gown. “I don’t see it.”

  “Stand up.”

  Parthenope did, and looked behind her at the seat of her chair. A handkerchief marked with Sophie’s initials was there. She picked it up and touched the fresh pineapple juice stain on it, then regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “I find it very interesting that your magic reappeared when it did.”

  “In time to save my father?”

  “I think saving your father was coincidental. So has Perry called recently?”

  Sophie felt her face grow warm. “What does that have to do with my magic?”

  “Everything, possibly.” Parthenope leaned forward. “He spoke to you that night, didn’t he? He asked you if you would not mind if he spoke to your father about paying his formal addresses to you, yes?”

  “Parthenope, that’s—”

  “Humor me. I’m trying to make a point.”

  Sophie relented. “Well, yes.”

  “Aha! And what did you tell him? Never mind—you’re blushing like a beet.” Parthenope grinned. “I knew we should be cousins someday! Anyway, don’t you find it interesting that your magic should suddenly come back the very night my cousin as good as proposes to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that, just maybe, part of your problem with your magic is dependent on how you feel. When Perry spoke to you, were you happy or not?”

  “Do you want the rest of this pineapple off your dress or not?”

  Parthenope laughed. “Very well! I concede. But I still think I’m right. Here.” She held the skirt of her dress stretched out so that Sophie could remove the sticky pineapple sap more easily. “She doesn’t have a whole pinery in there, does she? I won’t have to go through this again?”

  “No, just a few plants. But it could have been worse, you know,” Sophie said, not meeting her eyes.

  Parthenope snorted. “How?”

  “I believe she’s trying to raise trout in the goldfish pool down there.”

  Chapter

  14

  To Sophie’s relief, Papa agreed that Parthenope could attend the Prince Regent’s reception as a member of their party. She and Sophie spent the next ten days huddled together at one or the other of their houses, planning what they would wear (Parthenope) and what they should actually do that evening at Carlton House (Sophie). Would they be free to roam about keeping an eye on the assembled guests, or would they be forced to sit demurely in one spot with Aunt Molly?

  “We simply have to stay together all evening. That way we won’t need a chaperone and can wander about,” Parthenope declared.

  “What if James Leland is there?” Sophie asked.

  “Pooh,” Parthenope said severely, though a slight blush crept up her cheeks. “Anyway, this isn’t a social event for us. We’ll be working.”

  “Then why are you having such a hard time deciding whether to wear the fawn-colored dress or the blue one and whether to wear flowers in your hair or ostrich plumes?”

  Parthenope ignored her.

  She did, however, bring Hester to examine Sophie’s canes. Sophie found herself holding her breath as she laid one across her knees and Parthenope gently brought the parakeet down and encouraged him to hop onto it. But instead of his usual Shakespearean pricking thumbs announcement, Hester whistled softly. “Like
,” he murmured, bending to pluck at one of the tassels decorating the cane, and he could not be convinced to hop off again until offered a sugar lump.

  “You’re not being helpful, bird,” Parthenope said to him. “So what conclusion are we to draw from that?”

  “I don’t know.” Sophie watched Hester tug at the tassel again and set it swinging, his purple head cocked to one side. He hadn’t seemed alarmed in any way by the cane, which she had to assume was a good sign, but then again, it could just have been that he thought it was a lovely new toy. “I suppose I could have imagined it. Why should Amélie give me enchanted canes, anyway?”

  “Well, if she did, could it be because it’s a good enchantment? Why else would she be so insistent about your using them all the time?” Parthenope fixed her with a stern look. “Sophie, do you truly think she’s a witch?”

  Sophie bit her lip. “N-no. I don’t. We’re together almost constantly every day, and I’ve never gotten the least hint that she might have any magic. I don’t suppose that’s proof positive, but … no, I don’t think she is.”

  “Then stop worrying,” Parthenope commanded. “We’ve got our Carlton House campaign to plan.”

  Their endless discussions of just how they were supposed to guard an assembly of two or so hundred people from a person or persons unknown took Sophie’s mind off the fact that Peregrine’s calls had suddenly become far less numerous in the last week. Nor was she the only one who’d noticed a change.

  “Milor’ Woodbridge does not seem to be himself, I am thinking,” Amélie commented one afternoon after he’d paid them a brief call. To Sophie’s surprise, he had been nearly rude to Amélie, giving her the shortest of bows and addressing all his conversation exclusively to Sophie.

  “N-no,” she said, slowly. “I also thought he seemed a little … off.”

  “You have not had a disagreement, have you? He does not call as often of late.” Amélie’s voice was light, but Sophie felt her eyes examining her curiously.

  “No,” she said, trying to sound assured. “He did say that he’d been to wait upon Lord Castlereagh several times over the last week or so, though he didn’t say why. Perhaps he is finally to get the position in the Foreign Office that he has always wanted.”

  “Ah, that may be it,” Amélie agreed. “I hope that he will have good news soon—in many parts of his life.” She smiled gently at Sophie, who couldn’t help coloring slightly. At the few calls Peregrine had made recently, he mostly sat staring at her with a distant, faintly worried expression on his face that she couldn’t decipher. Had something happened to change his feelings? Had he decided not to speak to Papa after all?

  Perhaps she should ask Parthenope to find out … but as dear as she was and as staunch a friend, could she be trusted to handle such a mission with any degree of subtlety at all? Finesse was not Parthenope’s strong suit, at least where her cousin was concerned. No, Sophie would have to wait and see, but the tension of this added to worrying about the Prince Regent’s reception was nearly unbearable.

  * * *

  Sophie had driven past Carlton House, the Prince Regent’s enormous London residence in Pall Mall, St. James, dozens of times since arriving in London and thought it looked like a cross between a Greek temple and Versailles. But its outside, grand as it was, had scarcely prepared her for the splendor of its inside.

  “It’s … um…” Parthenope whispered to her, wide-eyed, as they were ushered in the main door by one of the prince’s equerries, clad for tonight in a hussar’s uniform of scarlet and gold with green facings.

  Sophie sympathized with her uncharacteristic speechlessness. The anteroom they had just entered was striking in bright blue and dazzling with multitudes of candles. The light reflected off the rich burnished gold of the elaborate moldings and picked out the gold fleurs-de-lis of the carpet.

  “If you think this is impressive, wait until you’ve seen the rest,” Papa murmured to them. “The crimson drawing room makes this look like a monastery, and the conservatory is beyond description.”

  “It is … a little goes a long way, I am thinking,” Amélie replied quietly.

  “Nonsense,” said Aunt Isabel, who had announced that she would be accompanying them as soon as she’d heard of the invitation. “I think it’s charming.”

  “I should like to see this conservatory,” Aunt Molly said wistfully, and a little too loudly, from Papa’s other side. Her turban, adorned with a spray of gilded wheat ears, bobbed gently as she nodded.

  The equerry bowed. “The prince will no doubt be delighted to have it shown to you, madam, but for now, will you be pleased to follow me to the gardens? There are temporary rooms set up there for some of the celebrations His Royal Highness is holding this summer.”

  Parthenope’s eyebrows rose. “Temporary rooms? Aren’t there enough permanent ones in this ridicu—”

  Sophie took her arm and gave it a warning squeeze. They had agreed (reluctantly, on Parthenope’s part) that tonight they were going to try to be as unobtrusive as possible, which meant dressing simply, comporting themselves quietly, and otherwise pretending to be meek, well-behaved nobodies. Parthenope gulped and nodded.

  “As this evening’s reception is not large, not all the rooms have been lit,” the equerry explained as he conducted them through a covered walkway hung with green cloth and decorated with illuminated scenes painted on fine silk. “Just the main ballroom, the Corinthian temple, and a few of the supper tents.”

  Parthenope rolled her eyes at Sophie. “Is that all? I declare, I’m feeling quite—oh!”

  Her whispered comments dissolved in a gasp as they entered what appeared to be a gigantic tent at least a hundred feet across, a tent lit with a dozen glittering chandeliers and scores of mirrors to reflect their light. Gold cords and tassels decorated the muslin-hung walls, and even the ceiling was draped with cloth.

  “It’s trompe l’oeil,” the equerry explained, following their eyes upward. “Just painted to look like cloth. Terribly clever, really. The whole building is actually brick. The Prince wanted it to feel very light and airy, and I think he succeeded. May I ask you to join the queue so that His Royal Highness may say his welcomes?” He indicated a line of guests snaking toward a raised dais on which several glittering, uniform-clad figures stood, bowed, and hurried back down the passage, presumably to escort more new arrivals.

  Parthenope linked her arm in Sophie’s. “This is going to be harder than I thought. How can we be in six places at once? I wish I’d brought Hester after all.”

  “Hush. We’ll do our best,” Sophie whispered back, hoping she sounded more confident and bracing than she felt. “We shall just have to move around a lot, like guards on patrol.”

  “Well, I wish we had more help. Can’t we tell Amélie and recruit her into guard duty?”

  “What help will that be? She’s not a witch, so she won’t be able to sense any magical attacks, and there will be plenty of the Prince Regent’s servants about to protect everyone from nonmagical threats. Anyway, it’s really only the royals and a handful of War Office people we have to keep our eyes on. I think we can manage that.”

  “But what if the Prince Regent decides he wants a bite to eat and goes to a supper tent and Lord Palmerston wants to have a look at the Corinthian Temple and your papa wants a chat with someone else in the ballroom? Hester could have perched on a chandelier and at least watched this room for us,” Parthenope said pensively.

  “Yes, and more than likely made a mess on Princess Mary or something equally dreadful.” Sophie sighed. “But you’re right. Just now, I wouldn’t much care if he messed on her dress and tried to nest in the Prince Regent’s wig, if he were here to help.”

  Parthenope patted her arm. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

  “Yes … and I don’t know if it’s for a good reason, or if I’m being vaporish.”

  They made it to the head of the receiving line in not too much time, to Sophie’s relief. The Prince Regent greeted Papa in a m
ost gracious manner.

  “Ah, Lansell,” he said jovially, taking hold of his shoulder while he shook his hand. “This war—will it ever end?”

  “We’re working on it, sir. May I present my family?”

  The prince turned slightly and smiled at them as he bowed. “A pleasure! Will you all go to Brussels, then?”

  “Brussels?” Parthenope murmured to Sophie as they sunk into curtsies. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Brussels?”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of it,” Sophie murmured back. Was Papa being sent to Brussels to help supervise the War Office’s activities there? It was rumored that the Duke of Wellington himself was due to arrive in Brussels momentarily from Vienna, ready to take command of the British and Dutch forces gathering northeast of France in case Napoléon should choose to reopen his war with the Allies there. Would Papa want them all to come? But what about the season? She couldn’t miss anything now that she had Parthenope to do it all with. And what about Peregrine?

  Papa glanced at her. “We haven’t discussed it yet, sir. It’s only just been decided.”

  “From what I hear, I understand they’re having an even livelier season there than ours in London. I’d go myself, if I could get away from the pressures of state here. You shall have to enjoy it for me.” The prince smiled at her, and Sophie knew he saw her cane and didn’t care that she was crippled. Suddenly she could see why, despite his ludicrous wig and enormous corseted belly, he’d once been considered the handsomest and most charming prince in Europe.

  “Well, that went very well,” Aunt Isabel said after they’d left the prince and moved to the side. “Did you see how he looked at me? I declare, it made me feel all aflutter.”

  “I did see that! They do say he definitely has a tendre for older women, though, so I’m not at all surprised,” Aunt Molly agreed wisely. Amélie took her arm and hastily led her several yards away to look at a potted azalea.

  Deprived of blasting Aunt Molly into pieces, Aunt Isabel turned on Papa. “And why did you not tell us about going to Brussels, sir?”

  Papa sighed. “I just learned about it myself, Isabel, if that makes you feel any better.”