Marek. His expression was pinched, too, as if he didn’t feel well.
Marek shifted his gaze from the king to the edge of the dance floor. There he was, the young man with the dark hair, never more than a few feet away from the king. Like Marek, he wasn’t wearing a costume, but a formal suit of clothing. He was holding a pair of wineglasses in one gloved hand, and from this distance, it looked as if both of them were nearly empty. Marek assumed they belonged to the king and Princess Justine. Who had access to their drinks besides that young man? Had they come from the trays of one of the many footmen? Had someone else poured the wine?
Marek glanced around the crowded room in search of Dromio. He hadn’t seen the minister since he’d stopped to tell Marek that he looked peculiar, standing there as he was. “What’s the matter with you?” Dromio had slurred into his good ear in Weslorian. “You look like a vile old man, ogling women as you are.” He’d clapped his shoulder hard. “Have a care you don’t look the menace, Brendan. Look at her. She looks alarmed by you.”
He was referring, of course, to Mrs. Honeycutt. She hadn’t looked anything but lovely and curious. And, really, if there was a menace between them, it was certainly her. She was very inquisitive. “Where is the man with the drink?” Dromio had asked, his concern over Marek’s appearance apparently forgotten, and he’d stumbled away, his sailor trousers sagging in the rear to the point of distraction.
The dance ended, and the king escorted his daughter from the dance floor. The young man handed them the glasses of wine, but the princess shook her head. She leaned in close to her father’s ear, and then walked away.
The king stood alone with the young man. He glanced down at the glass of wine he held, almost as if he couldn’t stomach—
“Mr. Brendan!”
Incredible. Marek turned around. It was inconceivable that Mrs. Honeycutt had sought him out again. This time, her conical hat was gone, and in its place, a flower was stuck into her very dark hair.
She was not alone. She was in the company of a woman he knew to be the wife of Prince Leopold of Alucia. That one was dressed in an elaborate eighteenth-century costume, complete with a towering wig in which three cloth bluebirds were perched.
“May I introduce you to Lady Chartier?” Mrs. Honeycutt asked. “Or, if you prefer, Marie Antoinette.” The two women giggled. To Lady Chartier, she said, “This is my friend, Mr. Brendan.”
There was that friend business again. Was it supposed to mean something? Was it some curious English custom to call a complete stranger one’s friend?
She gestured quite unnecessarily to his neckcloth. “He’s from Wesloria!”
“How delightful!” Lady Chartier said and curtsied grandly. “How do you do, Mr. Brendan? Welcome to London.”
“Thank you.” He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed. From the corner of his eye, he tried to keep track of the king. But Lady Chartier turned her head to say something to Mrs. Honeycutt. And to him, apparently, as both of them looked at him expectantly. When he didn’t answer, Mrs. Honeycutt turned her head to her friend and said something more that Marek couldn’t make out.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
Mrs. Honeycutt and Lady Chartier exchanged a look. Mrs. Honeycutt spoke again, and this time, Marek watched her lips stretch and curve around the English words.
“She asked how you found the ball.”
There seemed to be an awful lot of concern about how he found the damn ball. When he didn’t respond right away, seeking the right words to convey how much he didn’t care without appearing rude, Lady Chartier cocked her head to one side at such a sharp angle he worried her towering wig might fall off. “Oh, dear,” she said plainly. “He really doesn’t care for it, does he?”
“I don’t think he does,” Mrs. Honeycutt said as she studied him. “I’m not certain he cares much for our customs, really.”
He looked between the two women. Was he supposed to deny it? Debate them? Rush to assure them that he’d never in all his life had a grander time?
Lady Chartier shrugged. “I suppose the ball is not for everyone, is it? I, for one, very much like a costume ball. And I adore the dancing. But then again, I’m quite good at it.”
“You’re a very fine dancer,” Mrs. Honeycutt agreed.
“One of the best, I’ve