Star Promise (19 page)

I stepped in front of her, forcing her to a stop. “Why, Charlotte?”

“I told you.” She picked at the buttons on my coat. “I researched it. Cossack trousers were very uncool. I just talked them up so you’d wear them.”

I squinted down at her, playing along. “How uncool?”

“They wrote poems about them.” The rhyme that tumbled out of her mouth was effortless. The accent she used was not. She sounded like a drunken pirate. “Some folks in the street by the Lord make me stare, so comical droll is the dress that they wear. For the gentlemen’s waist is a top of their back, and their large Cossack trousers that fit like a sack.”

The world through Charli’s eyes was phenomenal. I couldn’t always live there, but I visited often.

“Arr, me hearties,” I added.

Her head fell forward, burying her laugh in my chest. The casual hold I had on her was nothing out of the ordinary, but a quick look around the foyer reminded me that it probably wasn’t appropriate considering the company we were in. I held her hands and took a step back.

Charli took no offense. “We should go inside.”

I was seconds away from agreeing until I took one last look around the foyer. In a blow that I felt, I locked eyes with Olivia. I knew she’d be there, but it didn’t making seeing her any less unpleasant.

She was travelling solo, sashaying across the marble foyer as elegantly as she always did, despite the big dress she was wearing. Judging by her expression, she wasn’t thrilled to see me, either. I could feel the poison in her glare, but that wasn’t the damaging part. The bigger picture was far more disturbing.

She had to look past her daughter to get to me, and she did it with absolute ease.

The foyer gave no hint of the extravagant event taking place in the ballroom. It looked nothing like the cheesy Christmas party we’d attended there years earlier. I knew Fiona must’ve had a hand in decorating the tables: there was an excess of cut flowers on all of them, and the settings were perfect.

Weaving through tables while wearing a wide dress was like navigating though a maze in the dark. Terrified of knocking something over, I impolitely clung to the tails of Adam’s coat for direction. Fiona and Jean-Luc were already seated when we made it to our table. I was trussed up like a Christmas ham underneath my heavy dress, but the queen certainly wasn’t wearing a corset. Her ivory chemise gown was free flowing and far more forgiving. Fiona should’ve been relaxed and cool, but she was flapping a paper fan in front of her face as if she was on fire.

Despite her odd conduct, it was Jean-Luc who stole my attention. His navy blue coat was velvet with a line of brass buttons down his chest and a ruffled shirt poking out at the top.

The king was undeniably handsome, and like Ryan, he knew it. Not a man in the room looked so much at ease, strengthening my theory that he truly was Lord Muck.

“Sit, my darlings,” urged Fiona, almost whimpering.

Adam pulled out my chair and I sat, studying the queen the whole time. She didn’t look good. “Are you alright?” I whispered.

“No, Charli,” she miserably replied. “My wig itches and it’s terribly hot in here.”

Her hair should’ve had its own postcode. A huge arrangement of brunette curls was piled on top of her head. Another heap trailed down her back. Pulling it off would’ve brought her instant relief, but she was much too vain to do it.

I tried taking her mind off her discomfort. “You look beautiful,” I said. “I love your dress.”

She smiled. “Do you love yours?”

I looked down at my gown. “Yes. I’m going to wear it for the rest of the week.”

Jean-Luc tutted as if I’d said something ridiculous enough to bring shame on the family. It was all the encouragement I needed to rattle his cage. “I like your tights, J-man,” I quipped. “They suit you.”

Adam’s chuckle earned him a swat of his mother’s fan. My punishment was far more brutal. Jean-Luc stood, extended his arm like he was checking the time on his watch, and then asked me to dance.

“I don’t dance,” I replied.

“I’ll teach you,” he shot back.

“Oh, fine,” I grumbled, gathering my skirt as best I could. “Who am I to defy the king?”

“
Lèse-majesté
is probably one of your lesser crimes, Charli.”

I looked to Adam for a translation.

“Treason against the king,” he said simply.

There was no point denying it so I left it at that and begrudgingly accompanied him to the dance floor.

Jean-Luc was too polite to call me out on my dire lack of dancing skills, but he gave up trying to give me instruction after just a few minutes, content to let me concentrate all my efforts on not stepping on his feet.

“Do you like events like this?” I asked.

“They’re important to Fiona,” he replied. “Her charities do a lot of good work. It’s important to show support.”

“A bit different to the Odeon theatre days, eh?”

“Quite,” he agreed, briefly dropping his head to smile at me.

Conversation lulled, but it wasn’t weird. I suspect Jean-Luc enjoyed the peace. When we turned, I looked across at Adam and Fiona. Adam looked like he’d rather be at home with a good book and Fiona looked miserable, still flapping the fan to cool herself down.

I turned back to the king. “Jean-Luc, have you ever heard of Jean-Pierre Duvelleroy?”

“No. Should I have?”

“He was a fan-maker,” I replied. “When he was twenty-five, he established his own fan house in Paris.”

With a firm hand to my back, he spun us around. “Fascinating,” he said, not very sincerely.

“I thought you appreciated ambition.”

“Indeed I do,” he agreed. “Tell me the story of our friend, Jean-Pierre.”

Never before had my father-in-law shown a skerrick of interest in any of my tales. I tried to find reason for the change of heart. “Are you drunk?” I wondered.

“Not yet,” he replied, spinning us around again.

“He started his business in the 1820s,” I began. “The only problem was, fans had gone out of fashion after the French Revolution.”

“Not a bright business venture then, was it?”

“He had vision,” I told him. “Jean-Pierre was convinced that they’d come back into style. He struggled along for two years before he got his big break.”

The music stopped and so did we, but the conversation kept going.

“A duchess friend threw a grand party to bring him luck. For the quadrille, all the women sported his fans,” I explained. “And that’s all it took. Fans came back into vogue, and Jean-Pierre was a huge success.”

Another song started, and Jean-Luc reached for my hand again. If anything, my dancing was getting worse, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t understand why you retain such mindless information, then choose to bring it up whenever the urge to be odd hits you,” he said, frowning down at me.

“You’ll never understand me,” I grumbled. “You’re La La deficient.”

“Continue,” he grunted. “Silly girl.”

I squeezed his hand, mildly hopeful of breaking his fingers. It didn’t work so I tortured him with my words instead. “Jean-Pierre developed a communication system – a secret fan language.”

It was too much for the close-minded king to grasp. He threw his head back and laughed. “Of course he did.”

“It’s true,” I insisted.

“Do you speak fan language, Charli?” he mocked.

“Luckily for you, I do,” I replied smugly. “Some of the gestures are simple. If the woman rests her fan on her right cheek, that means yes. The left cheek means no.”

“Ah,” he crowed. “But what was the question?”

“It’s simple body language,” I replied. “There is no question.”

After a few minutes of unrestricted shuffling, the dance floor suddenly became crowded with oversized dresses and man-tights. We were barely moving so I spoke quickly, determined to get to the end of the tale before Jean-Luc called it quits. “If she places the fan near her heart, it means you have won her love. If it’s over her left ear, she wants you gone – you’re done.”

“It doesn’t sound terribly accurate, Charli,” he complained. “Lots of room for misinterpretation.”

I smiled, enjoying the feeling of victory that came with making him think outside the box. “What do you think Fiona’s fanning is saying right now?” I asked curiously.

He huffed. “I have no idea.”

I craned my neck, looking up at him. “I dare you to turn around and look.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, he turned both of us around to face the table. “She’s scratching her head with it,” he noted. “What does that mean?”

My reply came quickly. “It means she’s totally miserable, her wig is itchy and she wants you to take her home.”

Jean-Luc looked down at me, almost smiling. “You may be right.”

“I’m always right,” I said smugly. “But she won’t leave unless you woo her away.”

“Couldn’t you have just suggested that in the first place?” he asked. “There was no need for theatrics.”

“
Au contraire, monsieur
.” My accent was so appalling that both of us grimaced. “Because of my theatrics, you’re now acquainted with Jean-Pierre Duvelleroy, the French fan maker.”

I was Cupid in a big dress. Jean-Luc went back to the table, whispered a few sweet nothings in his wife’s ear and helped her to her feet. After too many kisses on the cheek and orders to have a good time, they left.

I looked at Adam, who was clearly plotting the rest of our evening in his head. Judging by his smile, his plans didn’t include Cossack trousers and a four-course meal. “We’ll leave,” he suggested. “I will take you anywhere you want to go.”

“Adam, do you know your father paid ten thousand dollars for this table?”

He shrugged. “He wouldn’t care about that. They bailed too, remember?”

I put my hand on his leg. “You’d really take me anywhere?”

“Anywhere.” His voice was low and gorgeous.

“The bathroom?”

A sly grin crept across his face. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“To make a few adjustments,” I clarified. “This corset is really tight.”

There were at least a hundred people seated in the ballroom. As far as I was concerned, these were good odds. I’d been on the lookout for Olivia all night, but hadn’t seen her since the stare-down in the foyer. Even on the move, the chances of running into her were slim, and if by chance we did I was doubtful she’d give us the time of day anyway.

Breaking through the double doors into the vast foyer was as good as a receiving a rush of fresh air. Charli must’ve felt it too. Her walk slowed and she made a grab for my hand.

“This way, I think,” I said, pointing toward a corridor to our left.

Figuring she’d need help adjusting her underwear, I offered to venture into the bathroom with her. “I could make a few bucks,” I teased. “I could stand in there and be a professional corset loosener, for a price.”

“Not in those pants, peasant.”

With a cheeky grin she shoved the door open with her back and tried to make her way inside. A smooth entrance was never going to happen. Several layers of her skirt didn’t make it through before the door closed, trapping her.

“Adam, help me,” came her plea from the other side.

I leaned close to the door. “I would Charlotte, but I’m just a simple peasant.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted a horribly familiar voice from behind. “You’re in the way.”

If my brain planned for me to speak, it took too long. Olivia pushed her way past and bumped the door with her shoulder. The fabric of Charli’s skirt disappeared as the door opened, and a second later Olivia did too.

Our charmed life was about to be ripped to pieces, and it was all going down in a hotel bathroom.

It was ridiculous to think I was going to be able to loosen the laces down my back by myself, so I didn’t bother trying. I did what I needed to and spent a long minute in front of the mirror. I couldn’t be comfortable, but was marginally hopeful of making myself appear that way.

I didn’t really pay much attention to the woman standing off to the side. I assumed she was waiting for someone, or for a chance to use the mirror I was hogging.

“I won’t be a minute,” I said, smiling at her.

“Take your time, Charli,” she quietly replied. “I’ve already been waiting forever.”

Surprised that she knew my name, I turned to look at her. Momentarily forgetting that I was wearing a big flouncy dress too, I was struck by how out of place she looked. Her black velvet gown was more Vivienne Leigh than Marie Antoinette, but she was impeccably put together. I tried hard to place her face, but couldn’t. I had no clue who she was.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

I got no reply.

I was at the door when the woman made a move. She stepped in front of me, reached for the handle and twisted the lock. That was the moment I realised that no one else was in the room. I was alone with a potentially crazy lady.

“Open the door,” I demanded. “My husband is right outside.”

She lurched for the handle when I did. I contemplated screaming.

“Please Charli,” she said. “Don’t call Adam in. He won’t be pleased.”

“Who are you?” I snapped. “How do you know me?”

Crazy lady reached behind her neck and undid the clasp on her necklace. “I met Adam and Bridget last week,” she explained, holding her locket out to me. “I teach ballet.”

I kept my hands by my sides. “Minuet Ballet School?”

“Yes.” She dropped her hand, and began winding the chain around her fingers. “Adam read the prospectus folder my receptionist gave him while I tutored Bridget.”

“So?”

She stared at me, her blue eyes wide and worried. “All of my information is in there – my complete résumé,” she continued. “He realised something very important, Charli.” She held out the locket. “Please take it.”

Curiosity was killing me and I’d never been good at playing it cool. I reached out, keeping my eyes on hers. “What is it?”

“Open it, please.”

I took a second to study it first. It wasn’t a pretty piece. The front was etched with a tacky floral pattern, and the thing was huge – about the size of a small makeup compact. Opening the stiff lid took effort. Holding onto it once I saw what was inside took even more. The photo was rough, and probably always had been. It was crudely cut to fit the inside frame, and faded with age.