The Stepsister and the Slipper by Nina Clare
Lancelot de Troye
Charlotte did not needto find the servant, for Blanche met her downstairs with good news: she had found the stables, and they housed a small two-seater carriage and a pair of white horses.
“I can’t find the coachman,” said Blanche.
“What’s the carriage like?” said Charlotte. “I suppose it’s as old-fashioned as the furniture? The horses must belong to the servant. They’re old nags, no doubt.”
“The carriage is unusual,” admitted Blanche. “Come and see.”
“It looks like a pumpkin,” said Charlotte, eying the globular carriage with its golden sheen. “I’ve never seen such an odd design.” She examined it closer. “It is well made,” she admitted.
She called her mother to see the carriage. The dowager sniffed at it and said it smelled like a pumpkin. “A rotten one. And those aren’t carriage horses, they’re ponies.”
“Aren’t they adorable?” said Blanche, scratching the pair behind their ears. “Someone looks after them very well, see how nicely brushed they are and how clean their stalls are kept.”
“I never saw such an eccentric vehicle and pair of beasts,” said the dowager.
“They will suit our purpose, Mama,” said Charlotte. “You know what an expense it would be to hire a carriage. But what shall we do for a coachman?”
“Did someone call for a coachman,” said a low, raspy voice, startling them all.
“You must be Madame Fée’s servant,” said Blanche, recovering first and speaking to the short, wiry man dressed in green livery. “I am Madame Fée’s goddaughter, Blanche de Bellerose. I hope she informed you of our arrival?”
The man in green bowed deeply to Blanche. “At your service, my lady. Your wish is my command.”
“Get this carriage out onto the road and take me to the Mantua-makers’ quarter,” ordered the dowager. “I want it ready by the time I put on my hat and cloak.”
The man paid the dowager no attention, but stood with his bright green eyes fixed on Blanche.
“Get on then, man.”
“Your wish is my command, my lady,” repeated the servant, looking only to Blanche.
Blanche flushed with embarrassment, while the dowager flushed with anger. “Please would you get the carriage ready to drive my stepmother into town?”
The man bowed and darted to the stalls, working to hitch up the ponies with amazing speed and dexterity.
Blanche satin Charlotte’s bedchamber, working diligently on the yellow gown, sewing frothy frills of lace to the skirts to make it fit for a ball. “Where did your mother get this pretty lace?” Blanche wondered. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Oh, you know Mama. She always contrives something. Save some lace for a little veil for my headdress, just enough to cover my eyes and make me mysterious.”
“Aren’t you nervous of going into a ballroom where you don’t know anyone?” Blanche asked, snipping her thread and turning the gown to sew on the next frill.
“Nervous of what?” Charlotte was trying out different hair styles before a mirror. Her dark hair was piled up and pinned into a fashionable mound. Now she was trying to determine whether to complete the look with ringlets or a feathery headdress. “They’re only people.”
“But they are courtly people. They have many customs and manners that we’re not familiar with. I’ve been reading the book Madame Fée lent me all about the different ways you must address different ranks of people.”
“Oh, they’re all just men and women. They’re no better than us just because they have titles and money. Some of them don’t even have money.” She wound a long strand of dark hair around her finger and let it rest as a curl against her neck. “Men are men. You flatter them, you make them feel as though they are the most interesting person in the world, you flutter your eyelashes and laugh at all their silly jokes, and they fall into your lap like a ripe plum.”
Blanche ceased sewing for a minute to watch her stepsister. “Don’t you want to meet a man that you can love?” she asked.
Charlotte snorted and unpinned her hair. She threw the hair cushion down on the dressing table. “Mama is probably right. Men are all fools who will let you down and abandon you in a heartbeat. How’s my gown coming along? Sew faster. I need you to practise dance steps with me.”
Blanche wavedoff Charlotte and her mother; the dowager was in another blaze of fury at the coachman refusing to obey her orders. Only when Blanche asked him to drive her stepsister and stepmother to the royal ballrooms and wait to bring them home again would he prepare the carriage.
The royal balls began at nine in the evening and ended at one in the morning. But no one of rank or fashion would dream of arriving on time. Charlotte would make her grand entrance at a quarter to ten.
Charlotte’s ploy worked. The ballroom was full, and there was no crowd of people waiting to be announced. She stood at the head of the steps, looking down at the ballroom floor while the Master of the Ball called out: “Baroness de Bellerose and Lady Charlotte-Genevieve de Bellerose.”
“Empty!” exclaimed her mother, nodding at the thrones sitting vacant on their dais. It was a great disappointment. Charlotte had shared her mother’s hopes that the prince would be in attendance, or the king or queen at least. All that practising of their deep curtseys had been in vain.
“Ah, well,” said Charlotte airily, the sight of the glitter and gold below enough to revive her spirits. “There might be some rich dukes or counts to charm instead.”
She descended the stairs slowly, tilting her hips at the precise degree so her skirts would swing just enough to draw the eye.
She held her head high. Confidence was always attractive, but she kept her movements demure, while the little lace veil shielded her eyes to give her an air of mystery. Her full lips were coloured expertly with an alkanes-root and beeswax salve, her skin dusted gently with pearl powder, and she wore the lightest touch of carmine rouge. Her eyelashes were naturally long and dark; only a little oil was required to deepen their hue, and a little charcoal powder dusted expertly around her eyes made them large and luminous. It was a good trick of allurement to tilt her head and allow a man to get a glimpse of her large, dark eyes beneath the veil of lace. It created a little connection of intimacy. But she would save it for the men she wished to encourage as beaux.
She did not lack for dance partners. A beautiful new face at court was always a welcome novelty. Charlotte accepted the men her mother gave the nod to; the dowager worked her way around the room, listening in on conversations that she might learn which of the men were single and rich, discreetly pointing them out to Charlotte between dances.
In this way, Charlotte soon gained several new beaux to encourage, and became the object of indignation from the ladies whose dance partners she had stolen. She laughed inwardly at the ladies and laughed aloud at the silly flirtations of the men. The evening was proving to be a success.
Around midnight she stood sipping her champagne between dances. A murmuring began among the crowd, and she looked up to see a fashionably dressed man at the top of the stairwell.
“Monsieur Lancelot de Troye,” called the Master of the Ball, and more whispers ran round among the ladies. The words sohandsome, most charming, wonderful dancer echoed among the young ladies. But dreadful reputation, quite a rake, gambler! were hissed among the matrons, and more than one mother pulled her daughter away that she might not fall in the path of Lancelot de Troye.
Charlotte watched his approach with interest. She cared not if he was a rake. She only cared if he was rich. He paused close by to speak to an acquaintance, and at the sound of his voice Charlotte’s mother whispered, “It’s him! The man at the inn!”
“So it is,” said Charlotte. “I thought he was familiar.”
“He’s not the prince.” The dowager’s disappointment was clear.
“Hush, I think he’s recognised us, Mama. He’s coming over.”
“Give me your glass. You cannot curtsey properly with it.”
Lancelot de Troye was indeed coming towards them. Charlotte’s lips formed a smile.
“Good evening, ladies,” he greeted, bowing elegantly. “You found your way to the ballroom without delay.”
Mother and daughter curtsied. “What a pleasure to meet you again,” said the dowager. “How can we thank you enough for your kindness to us yesterday?”
“You can thank me by granting me a dance with your daughter.”
“She would be honoured. Ah, the minuet has just begun.”
Charlotte took his outstretched hand and permitted him to lead her to the floor. He was a little above average height for a man, and she was tall for a woman, so they were almost at eye level. But his shoulders were broader than average, and her quick eye for fashion ascertained that he did not require corsetry to achieve his tapered figure beneath his handsome coat.
“It is Lady Charlotte, is it not?”
“Well remembered, sir. We did not know the name of our rescuer, but now I know it is Monsieur de Troye.”
“Call me Lance.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Lance.”
“Not as delighted as I am to make yours, Lady Charlotte.”
She rewarded him with one of her best smiles.
“Of course, you owe me a favour now.”
Her smile faltered. She glanced at him to gauge his expression. Was he merely flirting boldly, or was he really a rake, the kind who would demand indecent favours in return for assistance?
He saw her smile slip, but did not reassure her, only smiled lazily back.
“Once we have danced, your favour has been returned, sir.” She recovered her composure.
“And the silver?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There was a good deal of silver in that hotel bill.”
“There was?”
“And a pair of lace curtains.”
Charlotte gave a little gasp of dismay. “It was not me,” was all she could say, feeling all her usual self assurance fail her for one horrible moment.
“Therefore, I will require more than a dance.”
“What do you require?” Thoughts raced through Charlotte’s mind as she struggled to regain a dignified air. Was he going to blackmail her? Would he call the authorities and have them charged with theft? Would he demand something demeaning?
“I shall require your hand in marriage.”
“Pardon?” He released her hand, and they spun away in the dance. Those moments of separation seemed an age before they faced one another again.
“Only for a quarter of an hour,” he said.
“I don’t understand!” For the first time in her life, Charlotte felt out of control while in the company of a man.
“I have a trifling problem with some foreign count about to challenge me to a duel. Of course, I would win the duel, but I find them a bore. I have ruined too many good shirts with bloodstains.”
“A count? A duel?” Charlotte’s mind was whirling as fast as the music. Was he jesting? It was impossible to tell with a man who talked of duels and bloodstains while smiling in that carefree manner.
“He has a foolish daughter, determined to snare me as a husband. She’s threatened to tattle tales to her papa if I don’t marry her, and I need to convince the said papa that I am not free to wed. I will show him that I have a wife already.”
“You want me to pretend?”
“You can act, can’t you? Or did you think it was a real proposal?”
Relief flooded Charlotte, and she broke into a laugh. He grinned back.
“And we would be even?” she asked.
“And we would be even.”
“And why do you not wish to marry the daughter of a count? Do you aspire to a higher rank?”
“I aspire to remain free and single, my lady. I shall earn my own fortune.”
“So, you have not a fortune of your own yet?”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
She shrugged, knowing that the little lift of her shoulders would draw his eyes to them, then travel across her throat and up to her neck. She was very proud of her neck; it was long and slender and discreetly dusted with pearl powder. He made the anticipated look, and she felt she was regaining her usual command.
“And to think poor Mama thought you might be the crown prince. She will be disappointed.”
“Crown prince?”
“You charged your servant to show the hotelier your signet, and to send the bill to the palace.”
“So I did.”
“How do you come to hold the royal signet, sir?”
“Prince Artus and I are second cousins and childhood friends. He allows me the use of the royal purse when the need arises.”
“I see.” Charlotte’s thoughts ran swiftly again. This man would be worth keeping close if he were an intimate friend of the prince.
The dance ended and they drew apart and bowed. Someone came darting up to Monsieur Lance. Charlotte recognised his servant, Joly, as he whispered something in his master’s ear.
“Now about that little quarter of an hour as my wife…” Monsieur Lance said, when his servant slipped away again.
“Yes?”
“I am informed that the count is in the gaming room, so we will make our little public announcement.”
“Gaming room? I cannot go in there. Mama would be appalled.”
“Lots of married women gamble. And better a lady gambler than a lady thief.” He looked pointedly at the lace swathes on her gown.
“Oh dear. If word gets around that I am your wife, it’s all up with me this season. I may as well go home.” It was painful to admit this to a stranger, but it was the truth.
“You don’t want to marry any of these fools,” said Lance, looking around the room.
“I have met some very worthy men already,” argued Charlotte. “Monsieur Tavernier, Lord Carrey, Sir Dauphin.”
She spied gangly Louis Tavernier whom she had danced a gavotte with. His wig and heeled shoes were ludicrously tall to make up for his very short stature, but he had adorable emerald buttons on his doublet; buttons that she meant to winkle out of him as a gift before their acquaintance was over. Lord Carrey had not taken his eyes off her since her arrival; his beetle brows scowled at every man she danced with. She had definitely made a conquest of him. And Sir Nicolas Dauphin, the younger son of a duke no less, had practically proposed marriage already after only two dances; it was only a pity he smelled strongly of tallow.
“Lord Carrey’s estate is entailed away, even if he does produce an heir,” said Lance. “Sir Nicolas Dauphin is commonly known as Sir Nit, due to his aversion to bathing. He lives in a manor the size of a dog kennel, and less clean than one. And Tavernier’s emerald buttons are fake, as is everything he claims to be.”
Charlotte felt her stomach tighten beneath her already tight corset. Dismay, followed by anger rushed over her, and she had to fan herself vigorously to hide her feelings and cool the heat rushing to her cheeks. Was he telling the truth, or was this his idea of a joke?
“I can get you entry to the real court,” he offered.
“Real court? I thought this was the real court?”
“Do you see any royalty present?”
“Why, no. But this is the royal ballroom, is it not?”
“For those on the outer circle.”
“There is an inner circle?”
“Highly exclusive. And the two do not mix. The inner court is where the eligible spouses are to be procured.”
“Procured? You make it sound like a marketplace.” She fanned harder.
“Isn’t it?”
“But you go there, I assume. And yet you are here.”
“I, Lady Charlotte, am the exception. I go all over.”
“And where is this exclusive court?”
“In the private wing of the palace. Prince Artus is about to host a series of three balls. Only the most beautiful noblewomen of the kingdoms will have an invitation. All part of the king and queen’s plan to get him married. They are restless for grandchildren.”
Charlotte felt giddy from a rush of longing. “Could you…? Would you…?”
“Of course I can.”
She stared wide-eyed at him, trying to read his face to determine if he was serious or not. This was a very big gamble. If he were telling the truth, it would mean the highest prize within her reach—the chance to meet the prince and dance and flirt and beguile the most elite men of the kingdom. But if this man was lying to her, she might as well go home and resign herself to a life of poverty. Mama’s creditors would take Bellerose estate away, and they would all end up in some tumbledown cottage, unless she could persuade the old admiral to marry her before the scandal broke.
The thought of the admiral’s purple-veined nose and his booming, cannon-like voice was the deciding factor. She took as deep a breath as her tightly laced stays would allow. “Very well. Let’s get this over with.”