“Bradford!” said Azalea. “Like the former prime minister?”
“Very much like,” he said. And Azalea caught the spark of light in his eyes, twinkling through his solemn expression. It made her smile. No wonder he looked so familiar! She considered him and wondered if he knew that all of Eathesbury expected him to run for P.M., like his father. With his tousled hair and mussed suit, he didn’t quite look the picture.
“You’re not…engaged for this next dance, are you?” he said. “That is, if you—”
He stopped abruptly, clamping his mouth shut. His eyes stared straight ahead. Ornaments tinkled behind them, and Azalea looked down to see a pudgy little hand reaching out from beneath the tree, grabbing at his trouser ankle. Azalea cringed.
“Not there, Ivy, you great idiot,” came a whispered voice from among the boughs. “Left—left—no, left is this way—”
The hands peeking from between the tree skirts felt around, grabbed the ends of the platter, and slowly, with clinks and clatters, dragged the plate in. Lord Bradford’s eyebrows rose as the castle of puddings inched away and disappeared beneath the boughs. Squeals echoed from the trees.
Azalea buried her face in her hands.
“Ah—” said Lord Bradford.
“Don’t,” said Azalea. “Just…don’t.”
“There you are! Oh, dear. Am I interrupting something?”
Azalea and Lord Bradford quickly stepped apart to see Lady Caversham a pace away, her eyes wide with innocence. Lady Caversham reminded Azalea of one of the dolls in the shops on Silver Street: pale and perfect and expensive. Azalea forced a smile.
“Definitely not,” she said. “He’s mended up now.”
Lord Bradford’s eyes turned back to the trees behind them, his eyebrows high on his head, and Azalea looked up at him with the most pleading expression she could muster, begging him to not make a scene.
“Oh!” Lady Caversham gave a sharp cry. “What was that?”
“What was what?” said Azalea and Lord Bradford at the same time.
“The tree! Something moved behind it!”
The color drained from Azalea’s face.
“I didn’t…see anything,” she stammered.
Lady Caversham strode forward, the wispy flounces of her skirts fluttering behind her, trying to peer through the branches. “There was something—oh! There it was again!”
“Lady Caversham,” said Lord Bradford, stepping in front of her. He offered his hand and bowed. “If I may have the honor of this next dance?”
Lady Caversham tore her eyes away from the tree and narrowed them at Lord Bradford’s offered hand. She cast a glance at Azalea, and a slight smile crossed her perfect face.
“Well, if you insist,” she said. With a look at Azalea that said I win, she grasped Lord Bradford’s outstretched hand right over the handkerchief bandage—both he and Azalea winced—and part escorted, part dragged Lord Bradford to the dance floor.
He cast a glance back at Azalea. She fought the urge to pull him back and smooth his hair down.
Azalea didn’t catch sight of him for the rest of the night. The ball wound down like a music box, the guests leaving as the hours grew late. Near midnight, when Azalea delivered yet another plate of goodies to the girls, she rolled a Christmas apple underneath the trees, and it rolled back out. They had fallen asleep.
The last dance, the Entwine, was Azalea’s favorite. She had hoped to be asked it by Lord Bradford, but he had left, and instead she stood in dance position with a young, rather moist gentleman named Mr. Penbrook, who looked as though he couldn’t believe his luck. The rest of the guests moved in a ring to watch as she and Mr. Penbrook took the ends of a long sash.
The musicians began, and—
Slam.
The ballroom doors ricocheted open, startling the guests and silencing the music.
Fairweller.
“The ball is over!” he said, striding to the first window.
Polite protestations came from the guests.
“Minister?” said Azalea, stepping out of dance position. “What are you doing?”
Fairweller did not answer. He took a poker from the fireplace stand and used it to unlatch the high cords that held the drapery up in arches. The fabric rippled to the floor, masking the frosted windows.
“Oh, ho,” said an older parliament gentleman. “It’s the little princesses again, is it? Ho, ho! Have you looked in the chandeliers?”
Some of the guests chuckled at this. Azalea flushed.
“Do you need us to find them?” said one of the ladies. “They nearly froze to death last year.”
“I need you all to go home.” Fairweller strode to the next window and unlatched the cords there as well. “If you please.”
The guests turned to Azalea, whose cheeks burned.
“Minister,” she said.
Across the ballroom, Fairweller’s iron gray eyes met Azalea’s. Something hardened in them—something Azalea could not read—and it staggered her. She dropped the end of the sash.