“Of course,” Jane murmured. Her temper was flaring at his assessment of her as na?ve.
“Your sister is a natural beauty, but she lives in an age where beauty plus art can equal perfection. No matter the state of the rice imports or whatever boring thing is claiming her husband’s attention, you see how the Prime Minister’s wife draws the eye. Helen must learn her art.”
“The art of taking a lover?” she said pointedly, but he laughed this off, unaffected by her rudeness. He was insufferable, and she let go of his hands, pulled back from the dance. “Thank you, Mr. Huntingdon, but I tire easily,” she said.
Alistair’s fingers lingered at her silver waist. “You will never land a husband that way, you know. Keep your veil over your face, dance even when you are fatigued. It is the only way to win the war between men and women.”
“The only way, is it?”
He leaned closer and she could smell the spirits on his breath. His cheeks were flushed. “Perhaps you are not as na?ve as you seem. Perhaps you know that your charms could win a man in the dark, before he sees the imperfections under your mask. Come to the ballroom and I will whisper in your ear what man may be thus caught. I know all their secrets, you know. I will find one for you. Tell you his weaknesses, tell you in what curtained room you may find him tonight.…”
Jane squirmed free from his touch. “I do not require such assistance, sir.” Her cheeks flushed as her temper struggled to burst free. “Perhaps you had better return to your guests.”
He straightened, smiled, seemingly not offended. “Remember I am ever at your service.” A short nod and he was gone.
Jane backed against the wall, her breaths short and furious, rage lighting her cheek, bursting flame against the iron mask. “The Merry Mistress” finished with a flourish, and the old fiddler eyed her with concern. For a breath only, then he swung into a foxtrot. The children danced, the women cackled, and Jane felt as though the air had been squeezed from her chest. Pince-Nez’s face swung in front of her, the old woman dreaming of a time when to be snatched by the fey might still be romantic—a shattered illusion, a vanished past.…
Helen drifted in on the arm of a young man, her face lit with laughter. Halfway through she saw Jane’s mutinous expression and excused herself with a smile and flutter.
She whisked Jane into the corner. “What is it?”
“I have employment,” Jane said through fierce breaths, holding back angry tears that flickered orange at the corners of her eyes. “I am independent.”
“Shh, I know,” said Helen. She rubbed Jane’s arm in a calming gesture she often used when Jane became overwrought. “You’re my brave sister. Breathe.”
But Jane was too incensed to stop. “I am not grasping blindly for a husband, no matter what yours may think of our family.”
“Come, Jane, that’s too unfair. What did Alistair say to you?”
Jane did not think that Mr. Huntingdon’s infuriating words were meant to be a pass at her—they were merely his own horrid assessment of the world they lived in. A brief shut of the eyelids—thoughts of cooling water, putting out the fire. Feel Helen’s calming touch, let it soothe the rage.
Jane studied her sister’s face, her heart rate slowing, the orange fog clearing. “Tell me, Helen.” A breath, another. “Do you love him?”
Helen’s pink-and-white face closed off and she let go of Jane. She laughed, copper curls tossing backward; took a swallow of her champagne. “Enough to grace his bed tonight.”
Jane knew the look: stubborn Helen, determined to see a madcap course to the end of it.
Helen’s eyes danced back to her young man. She pulled away from Jane and into his waiting, willing flirtation, her champagne sparkling green-yellow in the gaslight. The room was an extension of Helen, chartreuse-glowing champagne, the glitter of citrine, topaz, aquamarine, waxy pearls, and the shiny tops of curled hair. Glittering and silent, a shiny mask of gaiety hiding all.
Jane would get no truths from her.
Chapter 6
THE FOUNDRY