Princess of Glass (3 page)

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"Ah, well, a hand or two with my lovely houseguest hardly counts as gambling deep," Lord Richard said airily.

Poppy could tell by the look in his eyes and the surprised way that many of the men in the room were staring at Lord Richard that it was a weightier matter than he made it seem. She wondered if he had come to grief because of cards in the past. She wondered, too, if she ought to let him win.

Before marrying her two oldest sisters, Poppy's brothers-in-law had both been common soldiers. They had taught the girls a number of things: to shoot a rifle and a pistol, make a fire, knit, cook stew, sing all twenty-eight verses of "Baden-Baden Mädchen," and play a number of card games not normally enjoyed by young ladies.

It came as quite a surprise to her family when Poppy proved to be fairly adept at knitting. It did not surprise them, however, when she also turned out to be the best card player in the bunch. Although Poppy's gambling had proved far less dangerous than Petunia's fascination with bonfires, which had resulted in her chopping up one of King Gregor's prize rosebushes for kindling.

Sitting down at the table, Poppy unbuttoned her gloves and folded them back so she could handle the cards better. She shuffled and dealt while Geoffrey and Dickon Thwaite stared in amazement. Lord Richard just chuckled.

"The princess is an uncommon young lady, you will find," he told the others. "Oh, and forgive my manners! Poppy, this is the Honorable Geoffrey Wainwright. Geoffrey, this is Princess Poppy of Westfalin."

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"Charmed," the Honorable Geoffrey murmured.

"Shall we set a minimum bid, gentlemen?" Poppy picked up her cards and arranged them.

"Let's keep it small, shall we?" Lord Richard also situated his hand, and the other two scrambled to pick up their cards. "Otherwise Margaret will think I'm corrupting the innocent."

Poppy glowered a bit at this, but Lord Richard just laughed. "Not you, my dear. But young Thwaite has only had a year at university."

Now it was "young Thwaite's" turn to glower. Poppy sighed, realizing that it was up to her to break the heavy mood in the card room. "First bid?"

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***

Guest

And this is the portrait hall," Prince George said.

"Very nice," Christian agreed, and tried not to yawn.

He'd traveled for two days to reach the Bretoner capital of Castleraugh, and when he'd arrived George had insisted on giving Christian a guided tour of Tuckington Palace. Christian had seen more portraits of unfortunately horse-faced Bretoners than he cared to remember, and passed more inviting chairs and sofas than he could bear. At that very moment they were standing two paces away from a silk-upholstered couch littered with small round cushions, and Christian thought he could hear it whispering enticingly to him.

"This armor belonged to my great-great-great-grandfather, King Gerald," George was saying. Then he frowned at the plaque affixed to the pedestal the armor stood on. "No, wait. It was my great-great-great-great-uncle, Prince Everard's." George pulled at his lower lip. "I could have sworn it was Gerald's," he muttered. "What's become of Gerald's kit, then?"

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Christian swayed on his feet and then pinched himself to stay awake. "George," he interrupted the prince's musing, trying not to stare at the couch. "Do you suppose we might take the tour in the direction of my room? I hate to admit it, but I'm exhausted. Perhaps I could see the portraits another time."

Blinking, George looked from Christian to the armor and back. "All right," he said finally, clearly flummoxed by this lack of interest in Prince Everard's breastplate and greaves. "Let me show you our guest rooms."

Apparently, when Prince George was in the mood to give a tour, nothing would deter him. On their way to Christian's room George led him through a number of other chambers, listing the famous guests who had stayed there over the years. When they at last reached the "Blue Room" assigned to Christian, which had once housed a Shijnren empress, they caught a little maid in the act of laying the fire.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Your Highnesses!" She scrambled to her feet and curtsied. She had frizzy red hair under a white linen cap and a smudge of soot on her nose.

Christian tapped his own nose. "You have a smut," he told her kindly. She turned bright red, dropped the basket she had been carrying the kindling in, snatched it up again, and backed out of the room with more apologies.

"Of course she had a smut," George said, laughing. "She's a
maid.
The question is: why hadn't she laid the fire earlier, sparing us the sight of seeing her and her smut?" He shook his head in exasperation; "Still, we've had worse ... that dark-haired one ..." He shuddered.

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The Dane court was a good deal more casual, Christian reflected, shedding his coat and flopping into a chair by the hearth. At home the maids came and went whether or not he was in the room, and Fru Jensen, the housekeeper, had scolded him a number of times for tracking mud on the carpet or mussing a freshly made bed. Breton was going to take a great deal of getting used to.

Not the least of which was because of George.

"Ball tonight," George said, taking the other hearthside seat. "Duke of Laurence, so wed best make an appearance."

Glancing at the clock, Christian stifled a groan. He'd have to start dressing in an hour if they were to attend a ball, and he was so tired the room was swimming.

"Perhaps you could give my excuses to the duke," Christian said. "I really am done in by my journey--"

"Nonsense," said George. "I've already told Laurence you'd be there. I'll have some tea and scones sent up for now. Very restorative, tea and scones." And George left.

Since this was not the Danelaw and Fru Jensen was not here to scold him, Christian threw himself facedown on the bed with his boots on. He'd been looking forward to having Prince George around for the first few weeks of his visit; another young man of the same rank would be interesting to talk to. But having just spent three hours in George's company, Christian couldn't wait for him to depart. Christian buried his head in a pillow and tried to erase the portrait of George's great-grandmother, the dowager queen Louisa, and her mustache from his mind.

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He managed a whole hour of sleep before Prince George's valet woke him. While Christian stumbled about in tired befuddlement, the man silently found his evening clothes and helped Christian dress, even combing his hair for him.

Before he knew it, Christian was a guest of honor at the Duke of Laurence's Harvest Ball. As soon as they had greeted their hosts, he found a chair and sank into it, waving off George, who turned away without any evidence of regret and positively threw himself at a knot of giggling young ladies.

Christian yawned and looked around. A dance was starting, and George was leading a tall blonde to the floor. Other couples followed, except for a black-haired girl across from him. Despite the lively music and the fact that there was plenty of space on the floor for another couple, the young woman did not get up to dance. Christian decided she must have too many suitors to choose from, and turned to look around the room.

The Duke of Laurence's mansion was huge, and the ballroom ran the width of the house, looking out over the gardens at the back. He could see through an open door into the supper room, where the tables had been laid for what he hoped was a splendid feast. The scones he'd gulped while dressing were nothing but a fond memory now.

"No card room, if that's what Your Highness is looking for," said the duke gruffly.

Christian looked up to see his host standing over him with a young woman on his arm.

"The wife and I disapprove of gambling," the duke explained, frowning at Christian.

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"Oh, no, I was just... admiring your home," he said lamely.

"Forget the house, admire the ladies!" The duke gestured to the girl on his arm. "Marianne, this is His Royal Highness Prince Christian of the Danelaw. Prince Christian, this is Lady Marianne Seadown. There, you're introduced; ask Marianne to dance."

Christian felt his ears grow hot, and was mollified to see that Lady Marianne was also blushing. He hadn't planned on dancing, but he didn't want to embarrass anyone either. He stood and took her arm.

"This dance is almost finished," she said timidly, looking down at the toes of her slippers. "Shall we take a turn about the room until it is over?"

"That would be fine," he agreed.

"Here, speed things up for you," the duke said. He stalked over to the corner where the orchestra sat and shouted, "We've done with that tune, start the next!"

"The duke is very...," Christian began.

"Blunt?" Marianne smiled as her blushes faded.

"I was going to say loud, but blunt would work as well."

"I swear I didn't put him up to it," she said as they took their places for the next dance, a
valse.

"I believe you," he told her.

As they twirled around the floor, he caught a glimpse of the black-haired girl again. She was still sitting in her chair by the wall, though she had fewer suitors this time. She didn't even tap her foot to the music, but sat with a frozen look of

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polite interest on her face. Christian noticed that she had no dance card dangling from her wrist, and wondered if she were crippled.

"Looking at Poppy?" Marianne raised a dark brow. "Quite a stunner, I know! I'll never compete!"

"You are quite beautiful," he said, the compliment coming easily to his lips. It helped that it was true. "I just wondered why she doesn't dance. She's the only young lady sitting out."

"Poppy doesn't dance," Marianne confided. "Ever." She studied his face, making Christian uncomfortable. "Don't you know who she is? She's from Westfalin ...?"

Christian stumbled and nearly tripped over Marianne's feet. When they recovered he said, "Is she one of
those
princesses?"

Marianne's face hardened. "There's no need to say it that way," she told him. "Poppy is my second cousin, you know."

"I'm terribly sorry, I meant no offense." Christian heartily wished he'd been able to get some sleep earlier. He felt incredibly slow-witted and was afraid he was going to trip again, with his tongue or his feet. "It's just that I'd heard about the ... slippers ... and that one of ... the Westfalin princesses would be here too."

In fact, it had nearly kept his father from sending him. When the letter outlining the travel arrangements had arrived, King Rupert had mentioned that one of his cousin's daughters would also be present. He had probably meant to show how generous and peaceable he was, but it had alarmed King Karl to no end.

"Witches loose in Castleraugh!" Karl had ranted. "You

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cannot go!" It was only when his wife and Christian had both pointed out that to back out now would insult both Westfalin and Breton, and perhaps cause the very international breach that this heir-swapping was to prevent, that he calmed down.

"Poppy says she's worn out enough dancing slippers for five lifetimes," Marianne said. "So she never dances." She gave a little laugh, which let Christian know that his unintentional insult had been forgiven. "If there's a card room, though, she usually plays."

"Really?" He wondered if it were different here in Breton-- back home the card rooms at balls were only for the gentlemen.

"It's quite shocking," Marianne assured him, guessing at his expression. "But she says there's no point in being a wallflower when she can earn some pin money off the gentlemen."

"Is she good at cards?"

"I don't think she's ever lost a hand," Marianne told him, as proud as if she were the one who'd taught her cousin to play.

"Really?" Christian decided that he wouldn't mind meeting this odd Westfalian princess. She didn't look at all like a witch, nor did she sound like the scheming heartbreaker he'd expected.

But he never got a chance to meet Poppy that night. Since George had insisted they arrive fashionably late, the
valse
with Marianne turned out to be the supper dance, so he escorted her in to the meal. It was quite sumptuous, and Marianne was good company. After supper he did his duty by dancing with the Laurence granddaughters.

After the third (rather bucktoothed) young Lady Laurence,

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Christian sat down by a window to catch his breath. He dozed for a time, something that would embarrass him later when he could think more clearly. What woke him was the sound of a struggle, followed by a young woman's voice saying, "Get away from me, you fool!"

He sat up straight and looked around, finally locating the sound as coming from the garden behind him. There was no door in sight, and he was still somewhat groggy, so he simply went to the open window and half-leaped, half-fell out of it.

Christian landed on top of a burly young man who swore and punched him in the ear. He had a dim recollection of a bluish white skirt flickering away as the young lady ran off, and then a better punch from the burly young man connected with his nose and he lost consciousness.