Chapter 8 The Line and the Lure #2
“My cousin,” Alice corrects gently, “who does still have a mother living, I’m pleased to say, is making new friends, thanks
to Miss Ames.”
She nods to where Cora seems to be engaged in pleasant enough conversation with a decidedly unpleasant coterie of pretty young
women.
“Ah, there she is! Pretty, alas, how dull. Eyeing up the competition, is she?” Mrs. Witt swipes a restless hand over the white
streak in her hair. “Including my own little debutante doll. Strange to feel envy for one’s own daughter, but I do miss those
days sometimes. Leaving blood on the dance floor after every ball. Proverbially, of course.”
“I can imagine it,” Alice says, feigning admiration. “And I’m very glad to have met you as a friend rather than a rival.”
As Mrs. Ames grows pallid at the word friend used for anyone but her, Mrs. Witt laughs so loudly that she silences all surrounding conversation. “You are such a tonic,
Your Graci . . . ness.”
Now Alice is quite sure Mrs. Witt’s had a pre-party tipple.
She grasps Alice’s arm and wobbles with her toward the now-opening ballroom doors, leaving Mrs. Ames abandoned behind them.
“You’ve no idea how boring it is, season after season, the same dull faces, the same excruciating conversations. You’re the
only thing that gets me out the door and into society these days, I swear— Oh, Sarah!” She waves past Alice as they walk down
the hall. “I must say a swift hello and goodbye to Sarah Newbold or she’ll corner me later with anecdotes about her newborn,
nothing in the world more agonizing. Back in a flash.”
She won’t be back. Alice smiles to herself. I was right about her weakness. A desperation for novelty. Anything shiny and new.
Two smart footmen stand at attention beside a wide set of white-painted doors, leading to the brilliantly lit ballroom beyond.
Romantic, baroque-style lanterns pepper the large room’s perimeter, lushly draped balconies looming over like the loges of
gods, the teeming space awash with frothy ball gowns and elegant tailcoats. Darting back and forth through the crowd are servers
distributing pebble ice trays of oysters and caviar, rounds upon rounds of sherry and Green Swizzles. The air itself is thick
and scented with perfume and powder. It’s all one big champagne coupe come to life.
The only thing marring the view is dour little Mrs. Ogden, who has afforded herself few favors in her choice of a bronze gown
that gives her complexion a greenish tint. Priscilla Ogden’s expression is even more sour than usual as she turns to eye Alice
with a hostility that is almost shocking in its baldness.
What affects Mrs. Ogden most is being bypassed in favor of others—and so Alice does just that, gliding straight past her as if she were a servant standing ready with an unappetizing hors d’oeuvre.
She catches the eager eye of Mr. Ogden instead.
He stands waiting beside a flower arrangement in rather careful three-quarter profile, all the better to highlight his Byronic silhouette, complete with a lock of dark hair falling upon his brow.
Alice slows her step ever so slightly to allow him to dart in front of her and bow in greeting, the very picture of ardent
but respectful regard. She alone is positioned close enough to note the lascivious gleam in the aging lech’s eye.
“A vision,” he breathes. “Your Grace, as upon our last occasion to meet, I feel I’ve conjured you from a dream.”
The band starts up, a violin sonata—a Corelli sonata de camera, if she’s not mistaken.
Mr. Ogden cocks his chin, listening, highlighting a sweep of muscle in his neck. Alice wonders if he’s practiced that expression
in the mirror.
“I don’t suppose you’ll favor me with a dance?” He leans close enough to fog up her cheek with his breath.
She affects a tragic stare. “I would love nothing more. But I have vowed not to dance until my country is free.”
He closes his eyes as if moved. “Naturally. You angel.” And pivots neatly away to take his livid wife’s arm and lead her into the dance instead.
Ogden likes the game. The chase as much as the act itself. I must make him believe there is only one possible path to my bedroom.
Alice steps back, momentarily alone as the dance begins. She spies Cora across the room. Notes the appreciative, if perhaps
a bit intimidated, glances of the men who approach to ask others to dance but not Cora.
How odd. They may have made her a little too beautiful.
Either way, it makes no difference if her intended audience fails to turn up.
Perhaps he’s already here. Unless he closely resembles his father, he’ll blend right in with the rest of these bright young
knickerbockers and slightly slicker, richer parvenus.
Ward, appearing from nowhere, presses a glass into her hand. Champagne. She lifts it to him in thanks before sipping.
“I’m glad you’re so tall,” Ward drawls. “You can hide me.”
She laughs quietly. “From whom?”
“Vandemeer. Beelined for me as soon as I walked into the men’s lounge. Has a bone to pick, somethin’ about not introducing
you to him before the Ameses, but I’ve managed to evade him so far.”
“Don’t stay too evasive.” Alice smiles. “I’ll need to speak with them before the night is out.”
“Never you worry, my dear duchess.” At her sidelong expression, he raises his bushy eyebrows. “Before you ask, no, the Patriarchs
did not receive an answer one way or the other from young Mr. Peyton, but I can assure you, the invitation was hand-couriered
to the lad while he was out observing a surgical procedure at the New York Academy of Medicine—a particular hobby of his.”
“One might even call it a peculiar hobby,” Alice mutters, a slight wrinkle forming between her brows.
“Beneficial to us, however. I knew better than to send an invitation to his place of residence, where his father no doubt
has a standing order to the servants to discard any social correspondence before his son can catch whiff of it.”
“The New York Academy of Medicine?” Alice frowns. “I don’t suppose there’s a ladies gallery there. If he doesn’t come tonight—”
“Put aside your contingencies for one night, my dear,” Ward says, voice light with jollity as he takes his leave to greet
other guests. Then, with a droll wink, adds, more loudly, “Enjoy the ball, Your Grace. I can assure you, no bombs are going
to drop here tonight.”