The Hidden World

by Melinda Snodgrass

  “Yes.”

  “You knew the consort?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you went to school with the Infanta too!”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Oh, don’t be absurd. I’m a tailor’s son.” Tracy strode on ahead. He could sense both his crew mates behind him brimming with questions, but they seemed to sense that any further questions were going to go unanswered.

  14

  COOKIES AND CONSPIRACY

  The season had officially begun. Boho stood at the bar while a human bartender mixed his Vieux Carré. The scent of Bénédictine, rye, cognac, and vermouth almost overwhelmed the clashing smells of the various perfumes worn by the women. The ballroom had been remodeled since Yves had ascended to his father’s title and become the Duque de Telqual. The room reflected his elegant taste. The heavily gilded pillars and gilded marble walls favored by the old man had been replaced with pillars of crystal and silver. The ceiling was supported on a filigree of silver and crystal leaves and branches. It was like being in an ice forest. The light from the chandeliers glittered on the jewels that adorned necks, wrists, fingers, and were sewn on the gowns. Even the men sported rings, single earrings, and jeweled piping on the cuffs of some of the jackets. Boho had selected an austere black suit that matched his hair and brought out the green of his eyes.

  “My lord,” the bartender murmured and handed him his cocktail.

  Boho sipped and watched the parade of young women entering with their parents. You could tell by the expressions which ones were attending their first major social event. One of the newbies caught his eye. A lovely girl as delicate as a fawn with golden brown hair and cocoa skin. The fat matron walking ponderously at her side seemed familiar. Boho with a shock recognized Sumiko Tsukuda. She had been one of Mercedes’ ladies-in-waiting their first year at the High Ground. She had dropped out at the end of the first year ostensibly to deal with a family matter. Boho knew it was because she had fallen in love with the son of a recently ennobled merchant, and the young man’s death had shattered her. Sumiko had married soon after dropping out and judging from her girth and weight had been making babies ever since. How she had produced the exquisite sylph walking at her side was a mystery of genetics.

  Boho downed the rest of his cocktail, set his glass on the bar, and hurried across the ballroom to greet them. “Sumiko! I thought that was you. It’s been a long time.”

  “Oh, I’ve been around, Boho, you just haven’t noticed.” Sumiko’s sharp tongue had clearly not sweetened with age.

  Boho looked down at the young girl. “And this is?” Wide pansy-brown eyes were lifted shyly to meet his. A blush rose in the girl’s cheeks and she looked down at the toes of her slippers.

  “My daughter, Paloma.”

  “Charmed.” Boho lifted her hand and brushed a kiss across the back. Unlike many of the other women she wasn’t wearing gloves. Her skin was soft against his lips and her fingers trembled a bit in his grasp. “Your husband?”

  “Frederick hates these sorts of affairs. He prefers to drink in private,” Sumiko said. The girl’s eyes darted nervously toward her mother. “Come along, Paloma, we’d best greet our host and hostess. Boho.” She nodded, and gripping her daughter’s arm propelled her away.

  Boho moved to the buffet and accepted a plate from a Hajin servant. He drifted down the line spooning up some caviar and a few oysters and listening to the conversations. Young men were busy filling plates for themselves and their ladies. A clot of older men stood by the carving station.

  “Yes, it was a victory, but it’s not like she led the assault herself. And who knows who actually promulgated the plan.”

  Boho stepped behind a pillar so he wouldn’t be seen.

  “The general always takes the credit and the bow,” said another.

  “True, but we need to know she is actually a competent military leader. We know Mihalis has the chops.”

  “And the consort.”

  “He’s not blood. That’s important to the intitulados.”

  “Well, one way or the other there’s going to have to be a reckoning. No heir after all these years. God knows the Emperor was potent. Nine niño—”

  “All girls.”

  “Good point, but one has to wonder what’s wrong with her?”

  The orchestra began playing. Boho moved away in search of a partner. Back in the ballroom he saw Paloma sitting against the wall looking forlorn. He crossed to her and bowed. “I cannot believe your hand has not been solicited, my lady. If I might?”

  “Yes. Please. Thank you.” Her confusion was adorable.

  Boho took her hand and led her to the foot of the set. There was a moment where he reflected that the girl was young enough to be his daughter. The thought was fleeting and soon banished when his arm slipped around her for the first allemande, and her soft little gasp as his hand cupped her slender waist told the tale. The pursuit and ultimate capture was going to be delightful.

  * * *

  It wasn’t the normal setting for a romantic rendezvous, but there was something about Paloma that made it perfect and charming. Boho knew that eventually they would find their way to a bed so he was willing to sit on a bar stool at the kitchen counter while she assisted her little brothers and sisters as they made Christmas cookies. He had questioned why Sumiko would allow him such access to her very young and very innocent daughter, but then Paloma had artlessly said, “Mama says connections are everything.” And he had his answer. There was obviously some favor the family wanted. Probably for one of the boys, as girls were often the coin to buy such favors.

  Her hair was tucked up beneath a headscarf, but a few wisps had come free and stuck to her damp cheeks. She wore a flirty ruffled little black apron with white polka dots and a bow tied enticingly off to one side. There was a smudge of flour on her nose and she looked utterly entrancing as she rolled out dough. Her three younger siblings, two boys and one girl, were employing the cookies cutters, icing the cookies as they came out of the oven, and applying the decorative sprinkles and sugars onto the trees, sleighs, stars, elf boots, and crosses. Boho leaned over the counter and snagged a piece of dough from the edge of the round she was rolling out. She slapped his hand and gave him a mock frown. Noting that the urchins were all concentrating on their tasks, he risked a quick kiss. Paloma blushed, and he leaned back, popped the piece of raw dough into his mouth, and gave her one of his quicksilver grins.

  She resumed her quick strokes with the marble rolling pin and Boho studied the scene. The alien staff of the Flintoff household were busy washing the dishes and mopping spilled sugar and flour off the floor, but allowing the noble children to play at cooking. The kids were exuberant, but not rowdy, and Boho had a sudden what if moment.

  What if he and Mercedes had had children? Would there be this sense of warmth and family? No, of course not. Royal couples didn’t raise their children. They interacted with them during regularly scheduled and highly scripted visits. And would this sort of cozy domesticity begin to wear on him? He preferred caviar and champagne, and getting his ashes well and truly hauled after a night of caviar and champagne. Would he still be as enamored with Paloma if she was bloated by pregnancy?

  The door to the kitchen swung open and a young woman in an ensign’s uniform entered. Her skin was like milk and the long braid was so blond it seemed almost white. It was such unusual coloring that Boho found himself staring. Paloma gave a cry of delight.

  “Chrissie, I didn’t know you were coming home.”

  “Christmas break. And I wanted to see you all before I started my senior cruise. We report to our ships right after the holiday.” She looked over at Boho and a brief frown furrowed her brow.

  Paloma caught the glance and grabbing Chrissie’s hand with her flour-coated one she led her over to Boho. “Allow me to introduce you to Beauregard Honorius Sinclair Cullen, the Duque de Argento y Pepco. He’s also the consort,” she added, and Boho started to chuckle.
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br />   He met the girl’s blue-eyed gaze. What he read there was hate and the laugh died in his throat. Her features smoothed into an expressionless mask as Paloma chattered on, “My sister, Lady Christina… oh, whoops, Ensign Lady Christina Flintoff.”

  Boho stood, bowed, and waited for her to offer her hand to be kissed. Instead she snapped off a salute while saying, “Foster sister,” with odd emphasis on the word foster. Christina turned back to Paloma. “I’ll leave you to your cooking. I should change.” She nodded to Boho and left.

  The younger kids were tugging at Paloma’s skirt asking that she make more frosting for the cookies. After the seventh cookie sheet went into the oven the younger children lost interest in what had now become the drudgery of cutting, icing, and decorating. Paloma acquiesced to their pleas to do something else now. She handed them all cookies and sent them off. She then instructed the servants to finish. Boho slid off the bar stool, untied her apron, and handed it to a servant. He then brushed the flour off her face and kissed the tip of her nose.

  She tucked her hand in his arm as they left the kitchen. “What shall we do tonight?”

  “I’m having dinner with a colleague,” Boho said.

  “May I come with you?”

  “It will be boring.”

  “I’d like to know about you. What you do.”

  “Boring stuff. And get paraded about like a show horse. Actually being a show horse would be more interesting. I’m more like a manikin.” She looked up at him inquiringly. “I get tarted up in a uniform and wheeled out to delight the credulous rubes.”

  “That seems like a waste. You could be doing so much more. Doesn’t anyone see that?”

  “Well, some people do. But it’s tricky. I’m an ornament for my wife but I can’t glitter too brightly. She must always be the star.”

  “Mama says that perhaps someday she won’t get to command the limelight.”

  He gave her a startled look. “Seems an odd thing to say. Mercedes and your mother were close. Your mother was one of her ladies-in-waiting.”

  “I didn’t know that. I wonder if something happened because Mama says—” Paloma broke off abruptly.

  “What? It’s all right, you can tell me.”

  “I think Mama thinks there might be better choices to replace the Emperor when he dies. May that be a long time from now,” she added hurriedly and crossed herself.

  Boho made a mental note to tell Arturo that the Flintoff family might be open to supporting the del Campos. “I’ll see you at Rohan’s mill and swill on Thursday.” He kissed her again. “Dream of me, cariño.”

  * * *

  Dinner proved not to be boring at all. It was at Arturo’s villa, his wife played the gracious hostess, and there were guests—three particular female guests—Arturo’s unmarried sisters, Valentina, Sofia, and Nicole. They were respectively thirty, twenty-four, and sixteen. He had seen the elder two at society events but hadn’t spoken beyond polite pleasantries. There were two explanations for why the older women were still unmarried. Either Musa was hanging onto them as bargaining chips, or other FFH families weren’t keen on being closely allied with the del Campos since their star did not seem to be rising. As for the women themselves, he could see why the eldest was still single.

  Valentina was… rechoncho, and the way she was digging into her dinner she would soon be gordo. She also seemed to have little to say, and while Boho didn’t want a lot of conversation in bed he wanted to be able to converse with his spouse. Sofia was the opposite of her sister. Thin, intense. She listened to the male conversation with a fervency that bordered on obsession. Boho could foresee a lot of passionate conversations with Sofia. And then there was Nicole. Why, Boho wondered, was it that the youngest always seemed to be the most attractive? Genetics driving attraction? Would a man always be drawn to the woman most likely to harbor and nurture his seed? Nicole was pretty, not a beauty like Paloma and a year younger. He already felt a little uncomfortable with Paloma who was seventeen—almost eighteen, as she often reminded him. He couldn’t imagine being riveted to this child.

  He turned his attention to the middle sister and discovered a keen mind, and a willingness to engage. She wasn’t afraid to disagree with him, and unlike many women she had facts rather than feelings to back her assertions. In her intellect she reminded Boho of Sumiko, who had been the brainiest of Mercedes’ ladies-in-waiting and probably would have made a formidable officer had she finished at the High Ground.

  Thinking back on those days he wondered what had happened to the other surviving lady who had accompanied Mercedes to the academy. Danica and her parents had been killed in a Fold accident. But Cipriana, the stunning beauty of the four women, had graduated from the academy, done her five years, and… what? Boho realized he didn’t know. He vaguely recalled seeing a wedding announcement for the daughter of the Duque de Nico-Hathaway, but the fact there hadn’t been a major society wedding implied that her powerful family was not happy with her choice. Cipriana had been a fiery, sexy beauty who was known to have round heels. Odd that he had never managed to bed her.

  The dessert course was concluded, and Arturo’s wife, Luna, rose. She was tall and willowy even after producing three children. She smiled at Boho and Arturo. “We shall leave you gentlemen to your port and dusty politics. Join us when you’ve finished solving the galaxy’s problems.”

  The Hajin butler closed the dining-room doors behind the ladies. A Hajin footman filled their port glasses, left a cheese platter and nuts, and the servants all withdrew.

  “Well?” Arturo asked.

  “I never buy a horse without riding it first,” Boho drawled. He wondered if the casual insult would break through Arturo’s slightly amused and above-it-all demeanor, but the other man just gave that secretive smile and remained silent. Boho sighed, “Arturo, I cannot make a decision based on two hours of acquaintance, and this is all purely hypothetical. I am married.”

  “A statement of fact without any of those embellishing adjectives such as happy—”

  “Don’t,” Boho warned.

  “My dear Boho, this is nothing more than a comfortable evening spent con la familia with my good friend. So how do you find my sisters?”

  “Too young. Too fat. And…” his voice trailed away.

  “Please,” Arturo gave an encouraging gesture.

  “A bit terrifying. A real Lady Macbeth in training there.”

  “Sofia has a formidable intellect and a driving will. All useful to a man with ambitions.”

  Boho drained his glass and stood. “You presume too much and move too fast, Arturo. I’ll need a lot more detail before I’m convinced there is more here than your father and brother gnawing on thwarted ambition.”

  Arturo also stood. “Thank you for coming, my lord. Do keep in mind one of the greatest of the del Campo strengths—we always keep our promises.”

  * * *

  Rohan’s Winter Ball was one of the premier affairs kicking off the Christmas season, second only to the Noël Ball at the palace. Boho made a mental note to contact Mercedes and get an update on her return home. It then struck him that that might be working at cross purposes with the del Campos and how did he feel about that? Conflicted did not begin to describe how he felt as he climbed the curving crystal stairs. He smoothed his mustache and wondered again if he should go to Kemel. Of course Arturo would deny it all, or call it just idle gossip, and in truth he had no proof. He had set his ScoopRing to record at several of their meetings, but had nothing but static. Arturo clearly had some sort of jamming device. Boho felt like one of the trick riders at the circus with a foot balanced on the backs of two different galloping horses. At some point the tandem would end and he would have to jump on either one or the other and ride it to the finish.

  Rohan and his condesa were at the top of the stairs greeting the arriving guests and then sending them on into the glittering ballroom. Boho had attended his first formal affair at the Rohan mansion when he had been eighteen, almost thirty years ago
now. He found the march of years unpleasant to contemplate, but the reminders were everywhere. In the swell of Rohan’s paunch and nearly bald pate, the elegant upswept but now gray hair of his lady, Analise.

  He bowed over Analise, and brushed the top of her gloved hand with a feather-like kiss. He and Rohan exchanged a handshake, and the older man pulled him into a brief embrace.

  “Blessings of the holiday, Beauregard.”

  “And to you, sir.”

  “Tell your father-in-law he’s a lazy cabrón for not coming tonight.”

  “Tell him yourself, sir,” Boho said with a grin. “I don’t stand on such comfortable terms with the gentleman that I can call him an ass. And the only person who can get him to do something when he doesn’t want to is Mercedes.”

  “Then tell the girl to hurry back.”

  “Will do. I plan to call her tonight.”

  Inside the ballroom couples had already taken to the floor. A kaleidoscope of colors flashed by in the shimmering skirts of the women. The men were more subdued, though among the dark tuxedos and the blue of uniforms a few of the younger fellows were trying out more colorful jackets in cardinal red or emerald green. Boho thought they looked absurd. Then gave a snort of laughter. At eighteen or twenty he would probably have been sporting just such a coat.

  He spotted Paloma across the vast room. She waved at him, setting the peridot and gold topaz bracelet to flashing. A snapping fan drew his attention. A tip forward and a sweep to the left. The fan language was clear—come here. He met Sofia’s eyes. She was a thin regal figure in bronze taffeta. Paloma was a nodding daffodil in pale yellow silk and tulle. She was bouncing on her toes, artless and adorable… and young, so very young. Boho walked to Sofia and bowed.

  “May I solicit your hand for a dance, madam?”

  “Yes. Two, I think. More would cause comment.”

  “We could settle with one.”

  “No, I’d like to get to know you a bit better. One quadrille and one waltz should do nicely.”

  “As you command,” Boho said with more pique than irony.