Some Enchanted Evening (9 page)

Clarice scanned the crowd. She'd already memorized most of the names.

There was Lady White, an austere woman whose daughter, the thoughtful Lady Lorraine, watched the proceedings with calm interest.

Mrs. Symlen's gracious smile hid a smug determination to place her sixteen-year-old daughter, Miss Georgia Symlen, into society and marriage long before that immature child was ready to leave the classroom.

Miss Diantha Erembourg, plain and sulky, was there without a parent; her mother was in Italy, touring with her second husband, and her grandmother, old Lady Mercer, chaperoned four granddaughters, including Diantha.

Beautiful Mrs. Trumbull was outshone only by her daughter. Miss Larissa Trumbull, a type of female Clarice recognized and did not like. Larissa was pale and willowy, with shining black hair and large doelike brown eyes that she could widen to attract the gentlemen or narrow to frighten off any competitors. She would be the belle of the ball no matter how many bodies she had to step on on the way, and Machiavelli himself could not outmaneuver her. .

And there were more. So many more.

"Are these all of the ladies," Clarice asked, "or will more arrive on the morrow?"

Millicent sipped her tea and ate one of the cakes, then with a little more composure said quietly, "I believe we're missing only Lady Barnelby and her five daughters, but what difference will six more make?"

"What difference, indeed? So I shall entertain them tonight."

Millicent blew her straggling hair out of her eyes. "That would be wonderful. So I can ... I can plan that dinner with Cook!"

"If there's one thing I know, it's how to capture the attention of vain young girls." Clarice scanned the matrons who sat, heads together, in the middle of the room. "And their aging mothers."

Millicent glanced at the older ladies too, and lowered her voice yet further. "They haven't spoken to you yet. They're leaving you strictly alone, but they're eyeing you. Will they plague you, do you suppose?"

"No." Clarice sounded, and was, sure of herself. "They haven't made up their minds about me yet."

"I told them you were a princess."

"I know." Clarice had noted the sideways glances, heard the hissed whispers. "The young girls want to believe it. The older ladies doubt my word. Even if I told them the name of my country, they would have reservations. It's not until they speak with me and learn what I can teach them, that they will begin to believe, too."

As if she were ashamed to repeat the accusation, Millicent whispered, "Lady Blackston said she went to a house party and met another woman who claimed to be a princess, and in the morning, the woman had stolen everyone's reticule."

"I have never yet stolen anyone's reticule. When they use my royal creams, they freely open their reticules to me. Don't worry, Lady Millicent, before the evening's out I'll have them feeding from my palms."

Millicent gave a sigh of relief — and admiration. "I wish I could emulate your confidence."

"You can." Clarice patted Millicent's arm. "Before the ball you shall."

"Oh." Shaking her head, Millicent stood up as if putting distance between her and Clarice would help. "No, not me. You must save your magic for the youthful girls who will win every heart."

"But then it's not magic, is it?" Clarice smiled. "You don't want to hurt my feelings by refusing my services."

Millicent gave a nervous snort. "You jest."

"Not at all. I like to help my friends."

"I ... well, thank you." Millicent looked flustered, pleased, and dismayed. "I had hoped ... I mean, I thought perhaps we could be —"

"Friends?" Clarice said warmly. "I think we already are."

"Yes. I think we are too." Millicent smiled, a slow, beautiful smile quite unlike her brother's derisive grimace. "But don't waste your valuable time on me. If you'll entertain these women tonight, that would be kindness aplenty. I don't know what I would do without you." As if she could scarcely wait to escape, she fled the room.

Clarice clapped her hands. No one paid a bit of attention. The girls continued to tumble over each other like anxious puppies, wrapping themselves in shawls and trying ever more ridiculous hairstyles. Their mothers saw no need to award their consideration to a woman who claimed to be a princess from some unknown country, and continued with their conversations.

Lifting her teacup, Clarice tapped it with her spoon until she had captured some of the younger girls' attention. "Ladies, we shall make our way to the conservatory, where I'll show you some activities to make yourself look fresh even after dancing the night away, and tell you about the newest styles from Paris."

The girls stared at Clarice like frogs being lured to a new lily pad.

"Many of you are tanned from your travels." Clarice was careful not to allow her gaze to rest on any face in particular. "I have an unguent that will help remove those stains."

Like offended cats, the mothers sat straighter.

Clarice played her trump card. "But first I'll show you how to clear your complexion and hide the freckles on your noses."

The shriek of rapture that rose from every throat made Clarice flinch and take a step toward the door.

Hepburn was right. Their high-pitched voices and the scent of their perfumes could easily drive a sane man to madness — and uneasily Clarice remembered that Hepburn's sanity had already been called into question.

But she thought him quite sane. Probably. Only ruthless and . . . dynamic.

And she thought about him far too much for a man she'd met that very day.

Tearing her mind away from contemplation of him, she glanced at the clock on the mantel. In ringing tones she said, "I shall see you in the conservatory at seven o'clock." Slowly and carefully she articulated, "In the conservatory at seven o'clock. Did everyone hear me?"

"In the conservatory at seven o'clock," a few of the younger ladies repeated.

Most of them, Clarice knew, would be late, but they would be there. The sum total of the girls' ambition was to be just like everyone else. Vaguely Clarice remembered a time when she wanted nothing more than the anonymity of being normal too. Now she just wanted to make it through the next week without being hung by her neck until dead — and without spending more time in Hepburn's company.

Slipping from the room, she strolled toward the conservatory and spoke to the first footman she encountered. "Greetings, my good man. May I inquire as to your name?"

"Ma'am? Urn, Your Highness? I'm . . . um . . ." The red-cheeked lad couldn't have been more than sixteen, and as his stocking slid down his skinny, hairy leg, he tugged it back up and stuck it beneath his powder-blue breeches. "I'm Norval."

"Norval." She committed his name to memory. Whatever home she visited, she always made sure the servants liked her and wished to do her bidding. One never knew when one might need a fire made up — or to make a fast escape. "I need to have the candles in the conservatory lit, and, Norval, I think you are the man to help me."

"Of course, Your Highness. I am. Your Highness." He beamed so much, she considered using him for illumination.

"Thank you, Norval. I knew I could depend on you." With a smile she walked down the corridor and into the conservatory.

Her casual air comprised part of her confident masquerade, one she always cultivated. She was gracious and made everyone around her feel at ease, and drew the Millicents of the world out of their shells.

Beauty was easy so much of the time. If a woman thought she was beautiful, and smiled and was gracious, she became beautiful. It was all a trick, one that Clarice knew well, one she would impart tonight to those who would listen.

She looked with satisfaction at the conservatory, easily the most welcoming room in MacKenzie Manor. The sun had not yet set, and golden light filled the glass-enclosed chamber. Violets and pinks bloomed together in small pots, while in larger pots pink damask roses grew over short trellises. A dwarf peach tree had been trained flat against the wall, and its espaliered limbs bore small green fruit.

The servants had already placed sofas and chairs in among the flowers, facing the table that Clarice had covered with a lace cloth and with balms and creams, hairpins and swaths of cloth. Now Norval entered with three more footmen, and swiftly they lit the candles set around the room. Before she had finished with the ladies, she would need the light, and the gentle illumination would make her task easier. A woman never looked so fair as by the light of a gently glowing candle.

She thanked each one of the footmen, noting that Norval was easily the youngest footman and therefore the most malleable — important, should she have to leave MacKenzie Manor without Hepburn's sanction.

Humming, she arranged the jars. She had done this presentation at least a hundred times, before ladies and peasants alike, yet whenever she picked a girl out of the crowd and fixed her hair and clothes, made her sit up straight and smile, Clarice saw hope blossom on a young face.

Amy thought they did nothing but bilk their patrons out of their money. Amy pointed to the times they'd had to leave town just ahead of the lynch mob. But Clarice knew that for some of those girls her instruction made them see themselves in a new light, and perhaps changed their lives.

She would do it again this evening. She had already picked out the lucky lass. Miss Diantha Erembourg flounced and sulked, wore the wrong color and the wrong hairstyle. Tonight she would be transformed into a lovely lady — and tomorrow she Would buy every ointment Clarice offered her.

Down the corridor Clarice heard the hum of voices and the tap of footsteps. They were comings filing into the conservatory and jockeying for the best position in the room. She waited until most of them had seated themselves, then used the line that always caught their attention. "I can cure your spots. I can dress your hair. I can tell you about the fashions that are au courant. But why bother with such prosaic transformations, when I can make you beautiful?"

Lady Mercer, outspoken, deaf, and seventy, brayed, "Can you make me beautiful?"

"More beautiful," Clarice corrected her.

Lady Mercer subsided with a "Humph!" and a half-smile.

Clarice loved women like Lady Mercer. She was plump, wrinkled, and soft-looking, an appearance totally at odds with her sharp tongue and razor wit. She was a force to be reckoned with, a woman who wore the newest styles and never tolerated fools. Her observations would keep Clarice on her toes and, more significantly, everyone interested in the presentation. Indicating Lady Mercer, Clarice said, "She knows the most important element of beauty."

The young girls turned to gaze incredulously at the old woman.

"What?" young Lady Robertson inelegantly asked.

"A smile," Clarice told her. "Any man will look twice at a lady who smiles as if she knows the secret of being a real woman."

"I ought to know the secret. I've been married four times," Lady Mercer snapped^, but at the same time she blushed so brightly, the rouge on her cheeks disappeared into the influx of color.

The girls leaned their heads together and tittered.

"So first we must practice our smiles." Clarice gestured, bringing their eyes front. "Smile now. Smile as if your dearest love stood before you."

Instead, they froze in place, expressions of dismay, pleasure, and infatuation on their faces. Then, as one, they smiled, stunning, tempting smiles of melting charm.

Turning, she saw why.

Lord Hepburn stood in the doorway.

Chapter Nine

Never frown. It causes frown lines.

— The Dowager Queen of Beaumontagne

Lord Hepburn wore a gentleman's casual dark blue jacket with a waistcoat and trousers of tan that accentuated his height. His black hair feathered over his forehead and fell around his ears, a shining, barbaric fall. His rough hands flexed at his sides like restless weapons. His face, with its hooked nose, broad chin, and intense eyes, reminded her of a painting she'd once seen of an ancient warrior. A ruthless warrior. A conquering warrior.

Clarice's heart gave a hard thump, then began a rapid race.

Why had she given in to temptation and come to his home? How could she have imagined she could outwit him? All the money in the world couldn't save her from him if he decided to take her.

Her palms grew damp, and she hoped desperately that he didn't plan to stay. Foolish even to think he might, but he made her nervous. She, Princess Clarice, the woman who could speak to any group with confidence.

In her loud tones Lady Mercer said, "Damn, that's one handsome man!"

He seemed not to have heard her. His gaze swept the girls in the rainbow of colorful gowns seated daintily throughout the room. He bowed at them all — and the gust of romantically inspired sighs almost knocked Clarice over.

In an elaborate display of obeisance he then bowed to Clarice. "Your Highness, tonight, when you have a free moment, may I have the pleasure of your company?"

Clarice heard a small hiss; Lady Blackston didn't approve of Lord Hepburn visiting with the princess.