The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (29 page)

Of course in reality Alex, or rather Sir Anthony, would be on the floor with her tomorrow, and expected a graceful, accomplished performance, which was why he was driving her so hard now.

“No one will notice us anyway. There’ll be hundreds of people there,” she reasoned, attempting a pitiful look upwards.

“They will,” he said, unmoved. “I’ve already tellt ye, in the menuet, the couples get up one at a time, starting wi’ the king and his latest mistress, and moving down the aristocracy from there. Your performance is all important. Everyone will be watching and criticising. Our future reception at Court could depend on you
getting the turns right
.”

He leaned down and placing his hands under her armpits, lifted her off the floor as though she were a child, in spite of her attempts to make herself heavy.

“Have some mercy, Alex,” she begged. “We’ll be at the bottom of the pecking order. I’ll wager we never even get to perform one step.” He retained his hold on her arms, as though he expected her to run away if he released her. She doubted that she was capable of crawling away at the moment, let alone running. “And even if we do, I can’t believe that the whole future of the Stuart dynasty depends on whether I can perform a demi-coupé correctly or not.”

At last. His face relaxed a little, the corners of his mouth turning upwards.

“No, that’s true,” he conceded. “It may depend on us finding Henri, though. And we have a much better chance of doing that if we’re invited back to the palace. And our best chance of being invited back is…”

“To impress them with our dexterity and grace in the menuet,” she said tiredly.

“Exactly. And in spite of being low in the pecking order, we
will
be asked to demonstrate our skill, because we’re new to the Court, and because it seems King Louis has invited us personally.” That still puzzled him. But the important thing was that they were in. Now they had to stay in. “So,” he said, planting a kiss on her forehead before releasing her and moving back into the starting position, arms forward and down, hands out, palms facing the floor. “Let’s try it one more time.”

Defeated, she stood, hands folded, heels together and took her weight on her left foot, preparing to step forward onto her right. She felt the sharp stab under her little toe as the blister burst. He had got his way, again. He always got his way. It was one of the things she loved about him. It was one of the things she hated about him.

* * *

To Beth’s great relief, they practised the now detested menuet for only an hour the following morning, as she had finally mastered the dreaded turns. The final rehearsal was conducted in front of Lord and Lady Winter, Miss Maynard, and half a dozen other assorted guests staying at the hotel, one of whom helpfully produced a violin and proceeded to play a menuet for the couple, which was a great improvement on Angus humming and beating the rhythm out on the arm of the chair. Their performance was greeted with applause, and a few very minor improvements to hand position, elevation of leg etc were suggested.

Lady Winter also informed Beth of the best way to cure a blister, and to that young lady’s surprise, called for water, a cloth, and needle and thread, and personally cleaned and dried Beth’s foot, before running a thread through the blister.

“I have worn enough beautiful but impractical shoes in my time to know how to deal with such things,” she said, replacing her needle in its little embroidered case. “The trick is to leave the thread protruding a little from each side. That way the blister cannot keep refilling, as the water will drain out along the thread.”

To Beth’s amazement, the trick worked, and although the toe was still a little sore in the evening, the blister had not swollen again. In return, she promised to give the envious ladies a blow-by-blow account of the evening when she returned.

Sir Anthony was resplendent in burgundy and gold-embroidered velvet. Beth, complementing him, wore a dress of the same wine-red colour, cut almost indecently low at the neckline, but relieved by a fichu of gold lace, which partially hid her cleavage. She had rarely looked more beautiful. Or more nervous.

“Relax,” he whispered as they carefully ascended the stairway which led to the king’s apartments. Beth hardly noticed the coloured marbles and wall paintings; she was too busy trying to stop her legs, which were trembling violently, from giving way beneath her. It was not the thought of meeting the king that bothered her; he meant nothing to her. She had been more nervous about meeting Prince Charles, but had not shaken like this. It was not even the thought of dancing in front of the French Court that terrified her, although it was a little unnerving.

No, it was the thought that she might fall on her face, become an object of derision, and be rejected from the Court. Then they would never find Henri, who would be free to speed off to London with the invasion plans, and Angus would spend the rest of his life thinking himself personally responsible for the death of the Jacobite cause. It did not bear thinking about.

“Try not to think about it,” her husband said, unconsciously echoing her thoughts. “If this fails, there are other ways to achieve our aims. Don’t worry.”

He did not say what the other ways were, but he would find one. He always did. She felt a little better, but even so, at the top of the stairs she halted, allowing the following couples to pass her before stamping her feet hard on the marble floor.

“What on earth are you doing, my dear?” Sir Anthony asked, puzzled.

“If it worked for the girl at Tyburn, it might work for me, too,” she said.

It did, a little, and the couple were smiling as they entered the Salon of Apollo, where the dance was to take place, which made an impression immediately on the man who had been intermittently keeping an eye out for them.

Both Sir Anthony and Beth were surprised on entering the salon. They had expected an enormous, luxuriously appointed room. Luxurious it certainly was, but it was not large, by Versailles standards, and there were no more than fifty couples standing in groups chatting. It
was
a small dance then, as the messenger had said. Even more strange that they had been invited.

One end of the room was dominated by a carpeted dais, at the top of which was an elaborate gilt and burgundy damask throne under a canopy of cloth of gold. The throne was currently unoccupied. Beth gave it no more than a cursory glance, relieved that the king was not yet present, and that she would have a little time to familiarise herself with her surroundings before he put in an appearance.

She stayed at her husband’s side as he reacquainted himself with the courtier in blue, today in green, who he had so successfully accosted earlier in the week. She allowed the conversation to flow around her for a time without listening or taking part, absorbed the admiring glances of the men and the envious darts of the women, and started to relax a little.

The courtier introduced the baronet to others of his acquaintance, and a conversation took place in which the fact that Britain was in all but name at war with France was courteously avoided. There would be no controversy tonight. Beth nodded and murmured polite responses, a cipher at her husband’s side, but listening now, and observing the courtiers. She would take a lesson from Anne Maynard, and echo the expressions and mannerisms of the company.

Sir Anthony was far more unobtrusive at the French Court than he was in England, she noticed. More than one man wore paint and rouge, was dressed in brightly coloured clothes and adopted affected gestures. He was at home here, chattering merrily, insinuating himself into the company.

After a time the musicians entered and took their places at the opposite end of the room from the dais. The throne was still empty. The conversation continued. Everyone was very friendly. It would not be onerous to dance in front of these people, Beth told herself. She thought that perhaps the king had changed his mind and would not make an appearance after all.

Then a man who had been lounging casually on some cushions on the steps of the dais, and whom Beth had only seen glimpses of through the mass of courtiers, and to whom she had paid no attention, stood, and the hubbub quietened. The throng moved to the sides of the room, bowing and curtseying, and the man took the hand of the beautiful slender lady in green silk who had already risen beside him.

King Louis XV of France moved down to take his place on the parquet floor, clapped his hands, and the music started.

It was as Alex had told her. The king and his partner performed their elaborate sequence of steps to much applause before leaving the floor to the next couple, and so on, down the social ladder.

Beth watched, memorising foot positions, hand movements, the carriage of the body. They were all very accomplished. She realised now what a good teacher Alex was. If she could perform the steps exactly as he had taught her, she would not be greeted with derision.

Then her husband was taking her hand, squeezing it reassuringly, smiling, and leading her to her place on the floor. She felt as though a million eyes were watching her, ready to find fault. She felt the colour drain from her face. She turned her head, looked into Sir Anthony’s eyes, Alex’s eyes, and saw there only love, and the confidence that she could do this, reassure their place at Court. And give them the chance to find Henri. Oh God.

Her gaze roamed panicked over his shoulder and met that of the woman standing by the king. She had noted Beth’s sudden pallor and was scornful, mocking, uncertain. It was the gaze of a woman who had thought her beauty unsurpassable, and who had just discovered she was wrong. The challenge was given, and accepted. It was what Beth had needed. She raised her head, and smiled. If she could only remember which foot to start with, she would be fine.

“Wait three counts, right foot,” Sir Anthony whispered as the music started. She moved forward into the reverence and the million eyes melted into the background, leaving only herself and Alex, dancing for Angus in their room. She did not stumble, or look at her feet, or mess up the turns.

“That was wonderful, my dear,” Sir Anthony said as they left the floor to applause a few minutes later.

“The other couples performed much more complex moves,” she pointed out. She felt exhilarated, drunk. They would not be laughed out of the palace. The beautiful woman no longer looked mocking, but sour. Beth reminded herself that she was not supposed to be making enemies, but friends. She would make amends later. She could afford to be magnanimous in victory.

“Their moves were more complex, but not as well executed,” her husband pointed out. “You have a natural grace. I am proud of you. Now, for God’s sake relax and enjoy yourself. I doubt we will find the one we seek tonight, but I am sure we will have other opportunities.”

The evening progressed. Beth drank one glass of wine, then two. The king returned to his cushions, chatting amiably with his companions, watching the dancing. People talked and talked. Her faced ached with smiling, and she was weary. She had become separated from her husband now, and during a pause in the conversation, looked round for him in vain.

A man approached, dressed in dark blue silk, and because of the noise of music and laughter had to repeat himself twice before she understood what he was saying. Then he took her arm and led her to the bronze-clad figure lounging on the steps, who rose to his feet. She curtseyed, deeply. The courtier moved back a few paces.

“You dance very well, Lady Elizabeth,” King Louis said, smiling. The woman had also risen.

“I had an excellent tutor, your majesty,” Beth replied.

“Ah,” he said. “The best tutors of dancing, as of many other things, are French. What is his name? Perhaps I am acquainted with the man.”

“I think not, Your Majesty, although I hope you soon will be. My husband taught me the steps of the menuet only this week.”

“Only this week?” The king’s eyes widened. “But you must certainly be adept in other dances. No one could learn the menuet so quickly otherwise.”

“I am familiar with some of our English country dances, Your Majesty.”

“Then I look forward to partnering you in one at our next meeting,” he said. Was he flirting with her? Surely not. Although the beautiful woman seemed to think so. She moved forward now, eyes flashing.

“And where is your husband?” she asked. “I would like to meet such an accomplished man. You must treasure him.” Her eyes scanned the room.

“Indeed I do. He is a most unique individual,” Beth replied. She did not give the woman a title. If rebuked, she could claim, rightly, that she did not know it.

Louis’ eyes were occupied with Beth’s fichu. The woman’s gaze passed from him to her enemy.

“I must compliment you on your dress, Lady Elizabeth,” she said. “I was unaware that the remnants from the wall hangings had been put on sale to the general public.”

The Peters’ outfits did indeed match the colour of the burgundy and gold-embroidered wall hangings. It was a coincidence. Sir Anthony had found it amusing. So had Beth, until now.

Louis raised his eyes from Beth’s bodice and smiled. He had a strong, rather than a handsome face, she thought. Regal, certainly, and the eyes were shrewd, but there was something petulant about the mouth.

“For myself, I take it as a compliment to my good taste that you should see fit to attire yourselves in a colour I favour so much. Red becomes you,
ma chere.
As green becomes Marguerite.”

Beth’s mind raced. Green was the colour of envy. Had the girl Marguerite noticed? Yes. She was astute, then. And probably knew the king well. He must often utter
double entendres
. Red was the colour of passion. Take care. Take it at face value.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Her smile was innocent, pleased at the compliment to her attire, no more. Louis raised her hand to his lips, then changed his mind, drew her towards him and kissed her lightly on the mouth. He nodded at the servant who took his place at her side.

“I look forward to furthering our acquaintance in the near future,” the king smiled, before turning away. She was dismissed