Sapphire Blue

by Kerstin Gier

  “These are my men,” whispered Rakoczy. “Good, battle-hardened Kurucs, every one. I am sure we’ll be escorting you on the way back as well.”

  How reassuring.

  It wasn’t far to Lord Brompton’s house, and the closer we came, the more the dismal gloom lifted. When we reached the fine house in Wigmore Street, it was brightly lit and looked really inviting, almost cozy. Rakoczy’s men stayed behind in the shadows while he took us into the house, where we found Lord Brompton himself waiting in the big entrance hall. A grand staircase with curving banisters led up to the first floor. Lord Brompton was just as fat as I remembered him, and in the light of all the candles, his face shone greasily.

  The hall was empty except for his lordship and four footmen lined up neatly beside a door, waiting for further instructions. The party we were going to was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear the muted sound of babbling voices, and a few bars of a tune played on a tinkling keyboard.

  As Rakoczy bowed and withdrew, I realized why Lord Brompton was receiving us here before anyone else could talk to us. He said how glad he was to see us, and how much he had enjoyed our last meeting, but added that—er, well, it would be better not to mention that meeting in front of his wife.

  “Just in case of any misunderstanding,” he said. He kept winking as if he had something in his eye, and he kissed my hand at least three times. “The count tells me that you are from one of the most distinguished families in England, Miss Gray, and I do hope you will forgive my impertinence at our amusing conversation about the twenty-first century, and my ridiculous notion that you were an actress.” He was still winking for all he was worth.

  “I’m sure that was partly our own fault, said Gideon smoothly. “The count was doing his best to put you on the wrong track. And since we are on our own now, don’t you think the count is a remarkable old gentleman? My foster sister and I are used to his jokes, but those who know him less well must often find him rather strange.” He took my shawl off my shoulders, and handed it to one of the footmen. “Well, however that may be, we have heard that your salon contains an excellent pianoforte and has wonderful acoustics. We were delighted to receive Lady Brompton’s kind invitation.”

  Lord Brompton spent a few more seconds staring at my plunging neckline before he said, “And we are equally delighted to see you here. Come along. All the other guests are here.” He offered me his arm. “Miss Gray?”

  “My lord.” I glanced at Gideon, and he smiled encouragingly as he followed us to the salon, which was on the other side of a handsome double door at the far end of the entrance hall.

  I’d thought that a salon would be something like a living room, but the room we now entered could almost have rivaled our ballroom at home in Bourdon Place. A fire blazed in a large hearth on one of the longer walls, and a pianoforte stood in front of the heavily curtained windows. My eyes moved over delicate little tables with curving legs ending in feet like animal paws, sofas with colorful patterned upholstery, and chairs with gilded arms. The whole room was lit by hundreds of candles hanging and standing everywhere, lending it such a magical glitter that for a moment I was speechless with delight. Unfortunately the candles also lit up a great many strangers, and my admiration of the scene (remembering Giordano’s stern warnings, I kept my lips firmly closed so as not to let my mouth drop open by mistake) was mingled with fear again. Was this supposed to be an intimate little evening party? If so, what would the ball be like?

  I didn’t get around to taking a closer look, because Gideon was firmly leading me on into the crowd. Many pairs of eyes examined us curiously, and a moment later, a small, plump woman who turned out to be Lady Brompton came hurrying toward us.

  She wore a light brown dress trimmed with velvet, and her hair was hidden under a voluminous wig, which, considering all the candles here, must be a high-risk fire hazard. Our hostess had a nice smile—she welcomed us warmly. I automatically sank into a low curtsey, while Gideon took this opportunity of leaving me alone, or rather of letting Lord Brompton lead him farther into the throng. Before I could decide whether to feel cross about that, Lady Brompton was deep in conversation with me. Luckily I remembered the name of the place where I lived—where Penelope Gray lived, that is—just in time. Encouraged by Lady Brompton’s enthusiastic nods, I assured her that it was a very quiet, peaceful spot, but short of the delightful entertainments that looked like positively overwhelming me here in London society.

  “You won’t think that anymore if Genoveva Fairfax gets a chance to run through her entire repertory on the pianoforte again today.” A lady in primrose yellow came over to us. “In fact I am sure that you’ll be longing for the simple pleasures of country life again.”

  “Oh, hush!” said Lady Brompton, but she giggled. “How unkind of you, Georgiana!” When she smiled at me in that conspiratorial way, she suddenly seemed quite young. How had she come to marry that fat old man?

  “Unkind, maybe, but true!” The lady in yellow (such an unflattering color, even by candlelight) told me, lowering her voice, that at the last soirée where Miss Fairfax performed, her husband had fallen asleep and started snoring loudly.

  “That can’t happen today,” Lady Brompton assured me. “After all, we have the extraordinary, mysterious Count Saint-Germain among our guests. He is going to delight us later by playing his violin, while Lavinia can hardly wait to sing to the accompaniment of our dear Mr. Merchant.”

  “Well, you’ll have to make sure Mr. Merchant gets plenty to drink first,” said the lady in yellow, giving me a broad smile and showing her teeth without a moment’s hesitation. I automatically smiled just as broadly. There, I’d known it! Giordano was nothing but a stupid know-it-all!

  Both ladies were acting much more naturally than I’d expected.

  “Such a difficult balancing act!” sighed Lady Brompton, and her wig trembled slightly. “Too little wine, and Mr. Merchant won’t perform on the pianoforte at all; too much, and he breaks into song himself—improper sailors’ ditties. My dear, do you know Count Saint-Germain?” she asked me.

  That brought me down to earth at once, and I instinctively looked around. “I was introduced to him a few days ago,” I said, gritting my teeth to keep them from chattering. “My foster brother … er, knows him.” I caught sight of Gideon standing near the fire in the hearth, talking to a slender young woman in the most beautiful green dress. They looked as if they’d known each other for a long time. She was laughing so much that you could see her teeth. They were lovely teeth, too, not rotten stumps with gaps in them, which was what Giordano had tried to persuade me all teeth looked like at this period.

  “Isn’t the count incredible? I could listen to him for hours on end when he tells his tales,” said the lady in yellow, after informing me that she was Lady Brompton’s cousin. “I particularly enjoy the stories he tells of France!”

  “Yes, those spicy stories,” said Lady Brompton. “Not for the innocent ears of a debutante, of course.”

  Searching the room with my eyes for the count, I found him sitting in a corner, talking to two other men. From a distance, he looked elegant and ageless, and as if he had sensed that I was looking at him, he turned his dark eyes on me.

  The count was dressed like all the other men in the salon—he wore a wig, a frock coat, rather ridiculous knee breeches, and funny buckled shoes. But unlike the others, he didn’t look to me as if he came straight out of some costume drama on film, and for the first time, I realized fully what I’d landed myself in here.

  His lips curled into a smile, and I bowed my head courteously, while I felt I had goose bumps all over. I had difficulty suppressing an instinctive urge to raise my hand to my throat. I didn’t want to go putting ideas into his head.

  “Your foster brother is a very good-looking young man, my dear,” said Lady Brompton. “Contrary to the rumors we have heard.”

  I took my eyes off Count Saint-Germain and looked at Gideon again. “Yes, you’re right. He really is very … good-looking
.” The lady in green seemed to think so, too. She was just straightening his cravat with a flirtatious smile. Giordano would probably have murdered me for such behavior. “Who is the lady who’s fl—who’s talking to him?”

  “Lavinia Rutland, the loveliest widow in London.”

  “But there’s no need to feel sorry for her,” the primrose-yellow lady added. “She found consolation long ago in the arms of the Duke of Lancashire, much to the duchess’s displeasure, and at the same time she’s developed a taste for rising young politicians. Is your brother interested in politics?”

  “I don’t think they’re talking politics at this precise moment,” said Lady Brompton. “Lavinia looks as if she’d just been given a present to unpack.” Once again, she looked Gideon up and down. “Well, rumor said he had a sickly constitution and a stout, clumsy figure. How delightful to find that rumor was wrong!” Suddenly a horrified expression crossed her face. “Oh, but you have nothing to drink!”

  Lady Brompton’s cousin looked around, saw a young man standing near us, and nudged him in the ribs. “Mr. Merchant? Make yourself useful, please, and bring us two glasses of Lady Brompton’s special punch. And a glass for yourself, too. We want to hear you perform today.”

  “And this is the enchanting Miss Penelope Gray, Viscount Batten’s ward,” said Lady Brompton. “I’d introduce you more thoroughly, Merchant, but she has no dowry to speak of, and you are a fortune-hunter—so I can’t indulge my passion for matchmaking with you two.”

  Mr. Merchant, who was a head shorter than me—like many of the men in this room, in fact—didn’t look particularly insulted, but made a gallant bow and said, staring hard at my décolletage, “That doesn’t blind me to the charms of such a delightful young lady.”

  “I’m … I’m glad for your sake,” I said uncertainly, and Lady Brompton and her cousin burst out laughing.

  “Oh, no—Lord Brompton and Miss Fairfax are advancing on the pianoforte!” said Mr. Merchant, rolling his eyes. “I fear the worst!”

  “Quick, our glasses of punch!” ordered Lady Brompton. “No one can endure this fully sober!”

  I sipped the punch hesitantly at first, but it tasted wonderful. It had a strong flavor of fruit, a touch of cinnamon, and there was something else in it, too. It made me feel nice and warm inside. For a moment, I was perfectly relaxed, and I began enjoying the sight of this beautifully candlelit room full of well-dressed people. Then Mr. Merchant made a grab for my décolletage from behind, and I almost spilled the punch.

  “One of those dear, pretty little roses slipped out of place,” he claimed, with an insinuating grin. I stared at him, baffled. Giordano hadn’t prepared me for a situation like this, so I didn’t know the proper etiquette for dealing with Rococo gropers. I looked at Gideon for help, but he was so deep in conversation with the young widow that he didn’t even notice. If we’d been in my own century, I’d have told Mr. Merchant to keep his dirty paws to himself or I’d hit back, whether or not any little roses had really slipped. But in the circumstances, I felt that his reaction was rather—discourteous. So I smiled at him and said, “Oh, thank you, how kind. I never noticed.”

  Mr. Merchant bowed. “Always glad to be of service, ma’am.” The barefaced cheek of it! But in times when women had no vote, I suppose it wasn’t surprising if they didn’t get any other kind of respect either.

  The talking and laughter gradually died away as Miss Fairfax, a thin-nosed lady wearing a reed-green dress, went over to the pianoforte, arranged her skirts, and placed her hands on the keys. In fact, she didn’t play badly. It was her singing that was rather disturbing. It was incredibly … well, high-pitched. A tiny bit higher, and you’d have thought she was a dog whistle.

  “A refreshing punch, isn’t it?” said Mr. Merchant, topping up my glass. To my surprise (and rather to my relief), he was now unashamedly groping Lady Brompton’s bosom, on the pretext that she had a stray hair lying there. Lady Brompton didn’t seem bothered; she only called him a naughty rogue and tapped his fingers smartly with her fan. (So that’s what fans were really for!) Then she and her cousin took me over to a sofa upholstered in a flowery blue pattern close to the windows and sat me down between them.

  “You’ll be safe from sticky fingers here,” said Lady Brompton, patting my knee in a motherly way. “Only your ears will still be in danger.”

  “Drink up!” her cousin advised me. “You’re going to need it. Miss Fairfax has only just begun.”

  The sofa felt unusually hard, and the back curved so much that I couldn’t possibly lean against it unless I wanted to sink right into its depths with all my skirts. Obviously you weren’t meant to lounge around on sofas in the eighteenth century.

  “I don’t know—I’m not used to alcohol,” I said doubtfully. My only experience with alcohol dated to exactly two years ago. It had been at a pajama party at Cynthia’s house. A perfectly harmless party. No boys, but plenty of chips and High School Musical DVDs. And a large salad bowl full of vanilla ice cream, orange juice, and vodka.… The sneaky thing about the vodka was that all the vanilla ice cream kept you from tasting it, and the stuff obviously had different effects on different people. After three glasses, Cynthia flung the windows open and announced, “Zac Efron, I love you!” to the whole of Chelsea, while Lesley was crouched head down over the lavatory bowl throwing up, Maggie had made Sarah a declaration of love (“you’re sho, sho beautiful, marry me!”), and Sarah was shedding floods of tears without knowing why. It hit me worst of all. I had jumped on Cynthia’s bed and was bawling out “Breaking Free” in an endless loop. When Cynthia’s father came into the room, I’d held Cynthia’s hairbrush up to him like a microphone and called out, “Sing along, baldie! Get those hips swinging!” Although next day I couldn’t even begin to explain why to myself.

  After that rather embarrassing episode, Lesley and I had decided to give the demon drink a wide berth in future (we gave Cynthia’s father a wide berth as well for a couple of months), and we had stuck to that resolution. Although it was sometimes odd to be the only sober person when everyone else was tipsy. Like now, for instance.

  From the opposite side of the room, I sensed Count Saint-Germain’s eyes resting on me again, and the back of my neck tingled uncomfortably.

  “They say he knows the art of reading thoughts,” whispered Lady Brompton beside me, and I decided to lift the alcohol ban for now. Only for this one evening. To help me forget how scared I was of Count Saint-Germain. And everything else.

  Lady Brompton’s special punch took effect surprisingly fast, and not just on me. After the second glass, everyone already thought Miss Fairfax’s singing was distinctly less terrible. After the third glass, we began jiggling our feet in time, and I decided I’d never been to such a good party before. Really, people here were much more free and easy than I’d expected. Even more free and easy than in the twenty-first century, now I came to think of it. And the lighting was terrific. Why hadn’t I ever noticed before that hundreds of candles made people’s faces look as if they were covered with gold leaf? Even the count’s face as he stood at the far end of the room, smiling at me from time to time.

  My fourth glass finally silenced the warning inner voice telling me, “Stay alert! Trust no one!” Only the fact that Gideon seemed to have eyes only for the woman in the green dress still bothered me.

  “Our ears have now had sufficient training,” decided Lady Brompton at last. She rose to her feet, clapping, and went over to the pianoforte. “My dear, dear Miss Fairfax. Once again, that was absolutely exquisite,” she said, kissing Miss Fairfax on both cheeks and firmly guiding her into the nearest chair. “But now I will ask you all to give a warm welcome to Mr. Merchant and Lady Lavinia—no, no protests, either of you, we know that you’ve been rehearsing in secret.”

  Beside me, Lady Brompton’s cousin screeched like a teenie boy-band fan when the bosom groper sat down at the keyboard and played an arpeggio with great verve. The lovely Lady Lavinia gave Gideon a radiant smile and came fo
rward with her green skirts rustling. I could see now that she wasn’t quite as young as I’d thought. But her singing was great! She sang like Anna Netrebko when we heard her at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden two years ago. Well, maybe her singing wasn’t quite as great as Anna Netrebko’s, but it was a pleasure to listen to her, all the same. If you liked ornate Italian operatic arias. Which normally I didn’t, to be honest, but thanks to the punch, I did today. And obviously, Italian operatic arias went down tremendously well in the eighteenth century. The people in the room were really enjoying themselves now. Only the poor dog-whist … I mean Miss Fairfax was looking cross.

  “Can I steal you away for a moment?” Gideon had come up behind the sofa and was smiling down at me. Of course, now the green lady was otherwise occupied, he’d remembered me again. “The count would be glad to enjoy a little of your company.”

  Oh. That was something else. I took a deep breath, picked up my glass, and tipped the contents right down my throat. When I stood up, I felt a pleasant dizzy sensation in my head. Gideon took the empty glass out of my hand and put it down on one of those tables with the cute little paws.

  “Was there by any chance anything alcoholic in that?” he whispered.

  “No, only punch,” I whispered back. Oops, the floor was kind of uneven here. “I don’t drink alcohol on principle, understand? One of my iron principles. You can have fun even without alcohol.”

  Gideon raised one eyebrow and offered me his arm. “I’m glad you’re having a good time.”