A Single Thread of Moonlight Page 4

  I put the lid back on the box and made my way through to the shop. Madame Solange was still there, sorting through an enormous display of ribbons. It was one of the things that made the long hours bearable – no one worked harder than Madame herself. She was as tough as they came.

  “Still here?” she asked, without turning. “I thought you’d have pushed off with Annie.”

  “I just wanted to finish the Scott-Holland order so that it can go over first thing in the morning.”

  She nodded, pleased.

  “I can’t find the green lamé,” I said hesitantly. “Did someone buy it?”

  “The green … oh, yes, this morning. A lady’s maid arrived and asked for it. It was strange actually, because she didn’t want any alterations, said it was fine as it was … though how she could know that I’ve got no idea. Still” – she heaved herself to her feet – “I wasn’t about to argue. Easiest sale I’ve ever made, didn’t even quibble on the price. Must be another one of these fine ladies desperate for something to wear to tomorrow’s ball.”

  “Do you know who it was that bought it?” I asked.

  “The name will be in the accounts book.” Madame waved a hand dismissively, her interest already waning. “But I don’t think it was anyone I recognized.”

  I ducked behind the counter to pull out the heavy accounts book, bound in soft black leather. I flicked through the pages until I came to the right one and ran my finger down the list. There it was: one green lamé silk evening gown, paid in full.

  And the name on the account was Serena Fox.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next evening, I stood in my room, staring at the mirror.

  The girl in the expensive dress staring back at me could not have looked more out of place in my dingy rented rooms.

  I lived in a shabby but respectable boarding house about two miles from the shop. It was owned by my landlady, Mrs Turnbull, and I had been there for almost two years now. Before that I had lived in a small box room above Madame Solange’s shop along with Annie. Compared to that, my rooms here were positively palatial, and I loved the feeling of independence it gave me to live alone, and to pay my own way out of my wages. I had worked hard for that feeling.

  Mrs Turnbull was a widow in her forties who seemed perfectly happy to have seen the back of her husband. She liked to talk about the various torments her vicar assured her were going on in Hell and how Mr Turnbull would be enjoying all of them. I had the impression he had treated her very badly, and so I did not at all mind hearing about Mr Turnbull being strapped to a burning wheel or swimming through a river of fire and blood.

  Apart from her keen interest in her husband’s fiery afterlife, Mrs T was a gentle soul and a terrible cook. Various grey, lumpy meals were included in my rent, though I tried to eat there as little as possible, and I frequently snuck in greasy packets of chips wrapped in newspaper for Mrs Turnbull’s twelve-year-old son, Tommy – a gesture which had earned me a level of chivalrous loyalty one might typically associate with a medieval knight.

  My room was clean, but impersonal. I didn’t spend a huge amount of time there, so I had never seen the need to change things much. The floorboards were bare, and a pair of pale blue cotton curtains hung at the window. There was a small bed with an iron frame and a thin mattress, a large cupboard, a battered but comfortable old armchair in front of the fireplace, and a shelf containing a stack of fashion magazines and novels from the circulating library.

  As of today, there was also a long, slightly tarnished mirror that I had borrowed from Mrs Turnbull, and I stood in front of it now, moving from side to side, the low light from the oil lamp catching on the fine gold threads in my skirts.

  I had washed my hair and braided it into an intricate crown on top of my head, several loose curls resting against my shoulders, which were left bare thanks to the cut of the dress. There had been a pair of gold silk slippers in the box underneath the dress; these were slightly too big, so I had stitched ribbons into the sides and tied them tightly. I held the lace mask at my side, the silk lining cool in my too-warm hand.

  I suppose that the girl in the mirror was Iris Scott-Holland. The girl I could have been. In another world it would have been my name on the invitation. My shoes, like everything else, would fit perfectly. I would fit perfectly.

  But tonight I wasn’t Iris Scott-Holland. I wasn’t even Iris Grey.

  No; tonight I would be Serena Fox.

  For the thousandth time I wondered who she was, wondered why she had left me a dress and her invitation. I wondered if I had ever met her. I imagined her, auburn-haired with a cupid’s-bow mouth and dancing sable-brown eyes. Was this some sort of prank? But why would anyone do such a thing?

  I had hesitated only briefly before accepting the invitation. It was too good a chance to pass up. And I had to admit that there was a part of me that thrilled at the mystery, that loved the idea of bluffing my way into the social event of the season. I could feel my heart beating harder at the thought of such an adventure, and I watched in the mirror as the colour rose in my cheeks.

  The opportunity to disrupt Helena’s careful plans had literally fallen at my feet; how could I possibly ignore it? I couldn’t. I was going to grasp it with both hands.

  My wish had come true. Perhaps Serena Fox was my fairy godmother. It certainly felt as though I had willed the whole thing into being.

  Without any further hesitation I held the mask against my face and tied the ribbons behind my head. I looked like a stranger. Even my eyes were different, a darker blue, dancing with secrets. I smiled, and the girl in the mirror smiled back – a smile like the sharp edge of a knife.

  “Coo! Iris!” Mrs Turnbull exclaimed when I made my way downstairs. “You look like a fine lady! I can’t believe you’re going to such a fancy party.”

  Knowing that I would have difficulty sneaking out of the house and back in an enormous ball gown, I had hastily constructed a story about modelling dresses at a society do, which Mrs Turnbull had thankfully accepted without question.

  “I’ve sent Tommy to hail a cab for you,” she said, her fingers half-reaching towards my skirts as though she longed to touch them but didn’t quite dare.

  “Thank you,” I replied. “I shouldn’t be back too late.”

  “I’ll leave the door on the latch,” she said. “But you know you can always shout up for Tommy. You go and have fun, it’s nice to see you enjoying yourself for a change, and you look pretty as a picture.”

  I smiled at her, touched by the genuine pleasure in her voice. She didn’t need to know that I wasn’t going to this party for fun.

  If the driver of the hansom cab was surprised to be picking up a woman in a mask and a spectacular ball gown from an unassuming boarding house, then he showed no sign of it. I suppose London cab drivers have seen it all. Once I had clambered into the cab and adjusted my skirts – which rather overpowered the cramped interior – he set the horse going with a snap of his whip.

  The carriage rattled over cobblestones, the world outside the window a silver-streaked blur of fog broken only by the brief flicker of the gas lamps. I clasped my hands in my lap, forcing myself to breathe deeply, to remain calm and steady. I was ready for this. I had been born to it, after all.

  It was half-past nine when I arrived. The rest of the guests would have enjoyed sumptuous dinner parties across town before making their way towards the party. I had made do with a bowl of Mrs Turnbull’s beef stew. At least, I think it was beef.

  My cab joined the long queue of carriages drawing up to the house. Already I could feel the festival air of excitement that filled the street. There were squeals and laughter, and the sound of people calling to one another from the windows of their coaches.

  I asked the driver to set me down. I would continue up to the house on foot. It might be unusual, but I thought Serena Fox was unlikely to pull up in a common hansom cab. Once I got close to the house itself, I could join the eager throng, and hopefully no one would look too closel
y at where I had come from.

  I checked that my mask was firmly in place and picked up the silk train of my dress, looping it carefully over my arm so that it wouldn’t drag on the ground. It did not technically belong to me, after all.

  I reached the gates that I had stood in front of only yesterday, my invitation clutched in my hand. At the top of the gate the Devonshire family crest gleamed gold, a trio of stags and the words: Cavendo Tutus. Safety through caution. A breath of nervous laughter escaped me. Well, that was a neat joke.

  There were two men in elegant black uniforms stitched with silver thread, who were guiding coaches through. One of them blinked as I approached on foot.

  “My invitation,” I said, in my most blue-blooded voice. I craned my neck past them and gave a wave, as though I had just seen someone I knew inside.

  The man took the invitation from me and examined it. I could see his eyes taking in the extravagance of my gown, the aristocratic tilt of my chin. I forced myself to stand straight under his scrutiny, to school my face so that it only betrayed a slight boredom at being held up.

  “Very good, madam,” the man rumbled in a deep voice. “Enjoy your evening.”

  “Thank you.” I flashed him a smile, and sailed past him, joining the press of bodies making their way up the drive and through the enormous front doors. Despite the cool of the evening, the air was feverish, heat coming off the crowd in waves, as if the growing excitement was burning inside everyone.

  “Bloody ridiculous herding us about like cattle,” a man next to me complained. He wore a dark coat and a mask that covered the top half of his face.

  “Oh, don’t be so impatient, John,” the woman with him chided. “They have to make sure they’re not letting just anyone in, after all.” I smiled.

  We were ushered through into the entrance hall. I had never seen anything like it, and I had to stop myself from gawping like a provincial fool at the grandeur already on display. The walls and the ceiling were covered in gilt, candlelight flickering over the crowd.

  The room was dominated by the famous Devonshire House staircase. I had heard about it, but never really believed it could exist – as if it were a creature from a myth or fairy tale.

  Curving along the wall, shallow marble steps stretched upwards, smooth and shining. The handrail and all the intricate carved posts that ran the full length of the staircase were made of crystal, and the effect was dazzling. The light winked and gleamed off them, sending miniature rainbows dancing across the walls, the floors, and ladies’ gowns.

  A waiter in another dark suit, this time accompanied by a black domino mask, offered me a drink from a silver tray: a coupe of champagne, the palest shade of lemon and sparkling with bubbles. I took a glass gratefully, enjoying the sharp, cool taste.

  The last time I’d drunk champagne was to try a sip from my father’s glass. The bubbles had tickled my nose and made me sneeze.

  I could hear his laughter now. “That will teach you, little cub! You’re not supposed to swig the lot!”

  It was a shame that seamstresses didn’t get much chance to drink the stuff – I found that I liked it much better now. Strange that you could grow into a taste, as if it were a pair of shoes.

  People were milling around in the entrance hall before climbing the staircase. I could guess why: the ballroom was at the top of it, and no one wanted to enter in a large group. They wanted a moment with all eyes on them. There were clothes to show off after all. It seemed that I was alone in wanting to keep a low profile.

  I drained my drink in one more long swallow and placed the empty glass back on the tray. The effects were invigorating, and I took my long skirts in one hand, and placed the other on the crystal handrail.

  With a final deep breath, I began the climb.

  My plan was to slip in quietly, but it seemed that whatever mischief making spinners of fate were at work that evening had other ideas.

  As I reached the final stair, the makeshift lace on my shoe came untied, and I almost left it behind on the staircase. I stopped on the landing and bent down to re-tie it. The sound of music drifted through from the open doors; a lively waltz played by a large orchestra.

  If I hadn’t stopped to tie my shoe, it would never have happened.

  As it was, I entered the room alone, just as the music came to a finish, and the couples on the large dance floor swept to a halt, most of them facing the door, and therefore … me.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The final notes of the song still resonated from the violin strings, a sweet humming that hung in the air, an echo of something beautiful, that seemed in that moment like a bugle announcing my arrival.

  I thought I was prepared for this party, for what a society occasion would entail, but suddenly I found hundreds of pairs of eyes on me – eager, rapacious eyes that devoured the sight of me in my dress and my mask. Eyes that all seemed to ask one question: who is she?

  I felt a brief, shattering moment of panic – an overwhelming urge to turn and run back down the staircase, through the doors and down the drive, past the gates with their Latin warning, and through the city streets and shadows, all the way home.

  I wasn’t going to do that. Instead of running, I lifted my eyes, staring them all down. I allowed my mouth to curl into the sort of smile I had seen Helena wear – a smile that spoke of power and confidence and something else. Something seductive.

  A man stepped forward. He was dressed elegantly in a dark suit, almost severe in its simplicity. The black mask that covered the top half of his face framed warm, sherry-brown eyes. His hair was blond, so fair that it looked threaded through with silver. He wore a dark red rose in his lapel, and the smile he aimed at me was a crescent moon of straight white teeth.

  “Madam,” he said with a bow. “You have brought the party to a standstill. Shall we get it moving again?”

  His English was perfect, and yet his words were touched by a light accent, one that sounded faintly Germanic. He stood now with his hand held out to me, an invitation to waltz.

  I placed my fingers in his and smiled again. “I would be delighted.”

  A glimmer of pleasure lighting his eyes, he bowed once more and led me on to the dance floor. The crowd parted before us.

  So much for keeping to the shadows.

  There was a brief, taut moment, like the feeling before a storm breaks, and then the orchestra began to play. The room seemed to exhale, and the dance began again, only this time I found myself in the centre of it.

  It had been a long time since I had danced, but fortunately for me, the waltz largely consisted of being spun around the room by an able partner. All I had to do was relax into his arms.

  It was no hardship. A firm hand clasped mine, the other pressed gently against the small of my back. The man was taller than me, and broad shouldered. I could feel tight bands of muscle beneath my own fingers.

  We twirled around the room, and I had only a confused impression of colourful gowns like wild paint strokes daubed around me, high, ornate ceilings, and the fractured light from an enormous chandelier strung with jewels. The walls were covered in paintings framed in heavy gold, and the long windows were draped with rich crimson velvet, the same colour as the rose in my partner’s lapel.

  It was stiflingly warm, and there must have been at least three hundred people in here. Somewhere among them was Helena. I wanted to find her. Here, and on my own terms, I finally had the opportunity to talk to her face to face. If I wanted to keep Agatha’s engagement from going forward then I needed more information … and perhaps the man with his arm around my waist could help with that too.

  “You dance beautifully,” he said, smiling down at me.

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” I replied. “I think on this occasion I owe my success to my partner.”

  The prince laughed and shook his head. “Tell me, what is the point of a masked ball, if you know at once who I am?”

  “I’m afraid it was quite obvious,” I said apologetically. “All eyes ar
e on you, you know.”

  This was true. There may have been other couples dancing around us, but it was as though the prince was illuminated, the crowds unable to keep from staring.

  “I think I bear only half the responsibility for their interest.”

  “A very pretty compliment,” I said approvingly.

  He laughed again, a deep, carefree laugh, as if laughing came easily to him. “May I have the pleasure of knowing who I am sharing a dance with?” he asked.

  I smiled at him. “I don’t think so, Your Highness. After all, I may still take advantage of the mystery that a masked ball can provide.”

  “Very true,” he sighed. “At least one of us should enjoy the benefits.”

  “Oh, I intend to.” I grinned.

  The music ended then, and there was a light smattering of applause, but the prince didn’t stop. Instead he kept hold of my hand, immediately spinning me into the next dance, the orchestra leaping to keep up with him. Two dances in a row … I felt the interest in the room quicken, like a piece of kindling catching light.

  “A second waltz?” I raised my eyebrows. “It’s not the done thing.” Even I knew that.

  The prince’s grin only widened. “And I think such rules are made to be broken.”

  There was no ignoring the hum of gossip now, I heard it buzzing all around us, the ballroom transformed to a furious beehive, and the prince and I caught at the centre. It seemed as though the other couples on the dance floor had fallen back, making more space for us as the prince turned me faster and faster. It was exhilarating, as the music spiralled around us, building to a crescendo. We didn’t talk, but he held my gaze for several long, crackling moments.

  He spun me one final time, and the music ended. Then he bowed over my hand, holding it tightly in his own.

  “I am reluctant to let such a charming partner escape me,” he murmured.

  “I do not think even you dare risk a third dance.” I smiled, and then, seeing the words land as a challenge that he was all too inclined to accept, I added hastily, “Perhaps we will meet again.”