Chapter 16 In Decent Proposal #2
help. What do you think, Miss Ritter? Would marrying your prince of a cousin do the trick?” Mrs. Witt hardly waits for a reply,
her smile curling into a simper. “Although, why bother talking of the Ames girl when there are far more exciting developments
afoot?”
She winks at Harry, adding in a faux-conspiratorial whisper, “I bid you all the luck in the world tonight, dear boy.”
Harry descends into another fit of nervous coughs.
Before Cora can figure out what the devil is going on, their carriage jostles and turns onto Thirty-Fifth Street, all talk falling away as they join the long procession snaking up to the Ameses’ front walk, the mounting ballyhoo on the street and surrounding sidewalks ensnaring everyone’s attention.
“Goodness, how many did they invite?” Mrs. Witt says. “What a circus this is!”
“The press is even here,” Beau mutters. “How delightfully vulgar.”
Cora looks out. There are hundreds upon hundreds of guests filtering toward the Ameses’ stately brick residence. Several Marie
Antoinettes in pink silk; a few Catherine the Greats in brocade mantles; a collection of ancient kings, Renaissance knights,
and medieval princes blurring together in velvet and lace-lined tunics. And Beau was right about one thing: Buzzing about
the glimmering set, Cora can make out reporters, distinguishable by their comparatively drab brown suits and muted toppers.
Cora’s pulse stutter-steps as she spots a rather tall man on the fray, currently stooped to catch a quote from a fellow dressed
ostensibly as Richard III, complete with a pillow stuffed into his jacket as a hump. Good grief, what beat doesn’t Mr. Archer cover?
She watches the reporter with an odd mix of wariness and suspense. Mr. Archer will no doubt have at the ready at least five
questions for her. What angle could he be after this time? she wonders. More inquiries about the people of Württemberg? Perhaps the noble lineage? She finds she is oddly anticipating
the next round in their ongoing volley—as well as another chance to prove, even if just to herself, that she is more than
merely a prop in this affair.
Cora smiles. She might also be eager to see how the handsome reporter will react to her appearance tonight. All made up, eyes lined in kohl, lips berry-reddened. This dress. Like true, non-Württembergian royalty.
The reporter laughs, scribbles something in his notepad, and turns—
It isn’t Cal Archer. Looks nothing like him, Cora realizes.
“Miss Ritter? Are you all right?” Harry stands outside the carriage now, hand extended, waiting. Apparently they have edged
to the front of the line and started to disembark.
She pastes on another smile. “Just struck by the scene. Yes. Off we go.”
Off they go indeed, moving along with the throng up the front walk and through the grand entrance.
The Ameses’ interior has been transfigured floor to ceiling into an enchanted garden—Mrs. Ames’s garbled theme, A Midwinter
Night Costume Ball, on full, mystifying display. Garland draped across every mantel and along every entry, chandeliers bursting
with hydrangeas and white lilies. Cedar pines and potted cypress lining the marble halls, the trees themselves adorned with
white, beaded costume masks, as if some of the guests themselves have transformed into topiary.
The entry gives way to the largest residential ballroom Cora has ever seen, larger than the Witts’, one that rivals even Delmonico’s,
where revelers costumed in every age and era have already taken to the dance floor, the wide, gleaming room bordered by numerous
tables, all adorned with gold leaf and sparkling candles.
As Cora accompanies Harry deeper into the party, she spots Mrs. Ames and Arabella ahead, greeting their guests. The matron
of the hour stands beaming and rosy with pride, while Arabella looks as though she’s contemplating hiding under a nearby table.
In some ways, Cora supposes, this ball is being thrown for Arabella’s benefit, however misguided that honor might be. A grand
affair to demonstrate to the Grand Duchess of Württemberg that the Ameses are worthy allies in the quest for world dominance
or self-importance—or whatever other base motive is spurring the Ameses to marry their daughter off to a man they’ve never
seen (and who, of course, doesn’t know she exists).
Cora nearly feels bad for the girl . . .
Nearly.
They cut through the bustling crowd, Harry awkwardly summoning her forward, clearly eager to introduce her to a cadre of young
men on the opposite side of the dance floor. Extended family—second cousins once removed—if she heard him right over the growing
party din.
“Harold!” A man of about twenty-five or so steps forward, slapping Harry on the back. “How long has it been, old chap? Feels
as though you’ve been locked away forever.”
Harry goes quiet, considering. “Six-hundred and ninety-five days,” he says numbly. “Minus around forty hours for a handful
of excursions to the Academy.”
Good Lord, just how cruel is his father?
“Ha!” The man lets out a befuddled laugh. “As precise as ever, Harold!”
Harry steps aside. “Please allow me to introduce Miss Cora Ritter of Württemberg. Miss Ritter, please meet my cousin, Mr.
Ernest Denning.”
As Cora steps forward with a small curtsy, Ernest nods approvingly, murmuring, “Clearly congratulations are in order.”
Congratulations? Cora blinks. For what?
There’s hardly time to ask given the subsequent flurry of introductions, all going more or less the same, with Harry growing noticeably more emboldened—or is it distressed?
—by the reactions his presentations of her are eliciting.
He seems particularly perturbed tonight; Cora doesn’t know what to make of it.
They are far too late in the season for her to lose his attention now, not when the emerald plans are already in motion, not when Alice is already preparing the fictional embassy for their showdown on the first of May.
“I wonder, Mr. Peyton, if we could steal away for some air, just the two of us?”
“I love a good quadrille, don’t you?” Harry blurts awkwardly, once the music changes.
He doesn’t wait for a response, simply pulls her toward the dance floor.
They fall in line with three other paired partners, any hope of conversation dashed for now. One dance leads to three. And
then four.
When a waltz starts up, Cora seizes her chance. “I must admit, you seem awfully distracted tonight, Mr. Peyton.” Then, more
softly, “Harry.”
He’s too busy scanning the room to note her dulcet tone, tightening his grip around her hand as he spins her away. His hand
is clammy, she notices, as he pulls her inward. His forehead damp too.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Harry mutters, eyes widening. “I can hardly wait any longer.”
Cora follows his gaze as they spin again.
Oh. No, no, no.
Her frame feels like an hourglass, her insides disintegrating into sand.
Harry is blatantly staring at Arabella, who stands huddled together with her mother and Alice in her bird costume.
He is flagrantly pining for his childhood sweetheart.
So Cora has lost Harry’s interest after all.
Ruined everything. Good God, how many times has Alice insisted that without the Peytons, there is no con?
Forget Alice letting her in; she’ll never forgive her.
Maybe Cora will be Alice’s next revenge target. She can picture
it perfectly. A lifetime of running away from the cold-blooded wolfhound.
Oddly, though, buried under all these mounting vexations, there is the strangest, slightest tinge of . . .
Relief.
“Cora, now that your cousin has arrived, I . . .” Harry swallows. “Well, I cannot keep this up any longer.”
He leads her off the dance floor and toward the refreshments table.
“Perhaps some punch first?” Cora suggests, hand shaking as she grabs the ladle.
“Cora.” He grabs her wrist. “I have something I must ask.”
She turns queasily. Her own nerves are out of control now, a careening carriage with loose wheels. And is it her imagination,
or is the crowd closing in? Beau Witt has appeared in the fray, staring at them with that gloomy sneer. A few young men Cora
met earlier have stopped their own conversations and are now staring at Harry. But a couple paces away, Mimi Vandemeer and
Bonnie Witt, too, have both turned, smiling at Cora in sick fascination.
“I do believe it’s time,” Bonnie intones ominously.
Time for what?
Mimi smirks. “From recluse to bumbling showman in a matter of weeks. It’s a turnout for the ages.”
Cora has the distinct sensation of the entire parquet floor being pulled out from under her.
Showman?
“I was at a loss for how to do this, but they have assured me this is the correct method.” Before her, Harry lowers himself
onto one knee and brandishes a small box from his pocket. He opens it carefully, revealing a large opal-cut diamond flanked,
quite thoughtfully, by two emeralds.
The room goes quiet.
He takes her hand. “I know that you and I will be compatible.”
Cora’s mind free-falls. She’s floating, divorced from time and space. She hears feet shuffling behind her, whispers, gasps
of contented delight.
On instinct, she looks around for Alice, but Her Fake Grace’s eyes are locked on Harry kneeling on the ground, her expression
demure as ever. Utterly opaque.
Beside Alice is Mrs. Ames, cheeks rosy, hands clasped with glee.
On Alice’s other side stands a demolished Arabella.
“So, Miss Cora Ritter,” Harry continues, his blue eyes wide and expectant, his brow now gleaming with sweat. “Would you do
me the honor of marrying me? Of joining me as my field guide to life?”
Cora closes her eyes, heart hammering like orchestra drums. She should feel victorious. A sense of accomplishment. She knows
this. This is the most important piece of the puzzle clicking into place.
But of all things, her traitorous mind has conjured Harry months from now, alone the day after she and Alice run off with
his inheritance.
Will this hapless lad remember this very moment? Will he remember the moment he decided to stumble off the ledge and ruin himself?
She forces herself to smile.
“Of course I will.”
The crowd breaks into cheers.
“There is no time more enticing than as soon as possible,” Harry says into her ear as the crowd descends upon them, the waiters
hastening off to fetch glasses of champagne. “I shall have to speak to my father about wedding details, but I am thinking
next weekend? Or the weekend after that—”
Cora bites her lip. “Oh, Harry, weddings take time to plan.”
Harry shakes his head, more energized than she’s ever seen him.
“I don’t want to wait one day longer than necessary to start our lives.” His eyes alight. “The weekend of Easter, then. That
Saturday. It will be a perfect time to celebrate.”
Cora pales. “I don’t believe I heard you over the noise? Easter Saturday? But that’s—”
Weeks before their ultimate fleece.
“To the future Mr. and Mrs. Peyton!” someone cries.
It’s like a starting bell, the crowd swallowing them whole, gnawing them apart with aggressive cheers before Cora can speak
another word on the matter. Pats on Harry’s back, hands offered in congratulations, younger girls fawning over Cora as Mrs.
Ames laughs in obvious relief. “What a grand surprise!”
Easter weekend. A mere six weeks from now.
How on earth is she to become Mrs. Harry Peyton in April and rob him blind in May?
And where the hell is Alice, given the grand mess Harry has just made of her carefully constructed plans?
Cora tries to magically summon her, to conjure the elusive woman to appear from thin air, right here beside her in the dining
room.
But Alice is the true magician. She’s disappeared.
Nowhere to be found when needed most.