an inn, would one?” Annabelle said reasonably. “I’m surprised you agreed to go.”
“Decent bloke, Tizsa,” Timothy said vaguely.
Certainly, the thought of the rumpled, careless Dragan in evening dress was one that both amused Griz and tightened that knot in her stomach. She might tell herself it was all about discussing with him what she had learned that day, but in truth, he had a peculiar effect on her. She wanted to see him enjoying himself. She wanted the haunted expression gone from his eyes, even if just for a few hours.
The event was held upstairs at the inn. Entry was by an outside staircase. Inside, they were greeted by the evening’s hostess, a Mrs. Cartwright, representing the Society, and an ancient, faded but extremely proud looking Hungarian countess.
Mrs. Cartwright, smiling archly beneath her feathered headdress, waved a bulging string bag beneath their noses. Obligingly, Griz and Timothy each dropped in a substantial banknote.
“My mother’s card is there, too,” Grizelda told Mrs. Cartwright. “If you write to her, she will be happy to donate.”
“Thank you for your kind contribution,” Mrs. Cartwright beamed and glanced down at the invitation cards Timothy had passed to her. “Mrs…” Her eyes widened and flickered to the Worths and back. “Lady Grizelda?”
Griz smiled encouragingly, and the woman turned, flustered to the haughty noblewoman beside her.
“Lady Grizelda Niven, ma’am! Who, if I am not mistaken, is the Duke of Kelburn’s daughter! And Mr. and Mrs. Worth.” She smiled as they all bowed. “Our patroness and guest of honor, Countess Miranyi.”
The countess shook hands, using only two deceptively frail fingers. Griz imagined them wringing the necks of chickens. Or of peasants with egalitarian pretensions.
Grizelda accompanied the Worths further into the room to make way for a family behind. While Timothy was dispatched to fetch wine, Griz looked around the guests already assembled and eagerly chatting. Dragan did not appear to be among them.
Two violinists were scraping gently away in a corner, supplying background music with a vaguely eastern sound. Catching sight of the Cordells, Griz took Annabelle’s arm and led her across to meet them.
“Miss Niven!” Mrs. Cordell exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise.” Her elder daughter nudged her, and she blushed as she took Grizelda’s outstretched hand. “It isn’t Miss Niven, though, is it? Excuse me. Lady Grizelda.”
“Excuse me,” Griz replied ruefully. “It seemed silly to correct a reasonable assumption. I never stand on ceremony. Annabelle, this is Mrs. Cordell, Dr. Cordell, and the Misses Cordell. My friend, Mrs. Worth.”
“And Mr. Worth with the wine,” Annabelle said gaily as her husband joined them, ably distributing wine glasses.
After the introductions, Timothy proposed a toast “to the confusion of tyranny,” and everyone drank.
“Mr. Tizsa is not here yet?” Annabelle asked, saving Griz the trouble.
“He’s brushing the cobwebs off his evening coat,” confided the youngest Cordell.
Her sister curled her lip. “He doesn’t want to come. He’s only doing it because they’re his people.”
“Hush, Annie,” her mother scolded. “It’s not quite as simple as that. But I do think he doesn’t always like being reminded of what he has lost.”
The reason for his invitation became a little clearer to Griz. She sipped her wine, spotting a couple in colorfully embroidered dress seated beside the violinists. She supposed it was national Hungarian costume and let her gaze drift on to a crowd of young people eagerly clustered around a couple, as though hanging on their every word. The man, young, thin with dark blond hair, did not look well, but kept a faint smile on his lips. The young lady with him, modestly dressed, was the only other female in the room to be wearing spectacles.
“Is there an order of events for the evening?” Annabelle asked Dr. Cordell.
Dr. Cordell smiled placidly. “I believe there will be a poetry reading, a dancing demonstration, supper, and more dancing, but in what order, I have no idea. Ah, there is Dragan at last.”
Grizelda’s heart gave the funny little leap she was growing used to. Dragan strolled in, bowing to both the countess and Mrs. Cartwright. As always, he looked almost ridiculously handsome, but in his dark green and gold military uniform, he snatched at her breath.
Several faces turned in his direction as his gaze swept the room, coming to rest on Griz. For the barest instant, she was sure he smiled, and then, abruptly, his gaze flew back over people he had already scanned—the lady with the spectacles and her partner.
His eyes widened, and then he strode up to the blond man.