Ophelia had always had a way with animals. For starters, she’d spent her girlhood on a farmstead where her mother had been a maid-of-all-work. Ophelia had fed the chickens, milked the cows, and in the summertime, supervised a bratty herd of goats as they foraged along sloping green meadows. Later, when she’d joined P. Q. Putnam’s Traveling Circus, she’d been not only a trick rider, but assistant to a poodle who leapt through hoops.
For some reason, this all came to mind as she regarded Griffe and his lionlike aspect.
“Mademoiselle Stonewall,” he said with a gruff French accent, “I beg of you, what is your given name? I shall perish, perish like the buffalo of your American soil, if you do not consent to bestow upon me that small morsel.”
He was a regular Lord Byron, wasn’t he? Well, surely there was no harm in telling him her real given name. “My name is Miss Ophelia Stonewall.”
Griffe kissed her hand. “Merci, ah, merci! Mademoiselle Ophelia Stonewall. Like an angel’s name, no?”
Ophelia yanked her hand from his grasp. “I’ve always thought it sounded a little forbidding.”
“I fall at your feet in shame, please, if I have offended you. Please, where are you from?”
“From? Oh—”
“Ohio? I have heard of it.”
“Yes. Ohio. Cleveland, Ohio.”
“I, myself, am from the Périgord, a most beautiful region to the south. Cleveland. Your family has been settled there long?”
“Not terribly. My father is a—a soap manufacturer. Tallow, you know.”
“A soap and tallow heiress? Magnifique.”
“Heiress? Well, I . . .” Ophelia was wearing a gown and mantle that had probably cost more than most folks’ yearly wages. The mantle, by the by, had become stifling. She was going to have to bite the bullet and take it off. “Yes,” she said, sliding it from her shoulders, “Papa has met with good fortune.” She sighed in relief as cooler air flowed over her neck and shoulders.
Griffe’s eyes were glued to her bodice. Pinning it hadn’t helped, so Ophelia had had no choice but to stuff it full of rolled-up stockings. The result was the sort of hourglass shape one only saw in fashion plates.
“Perhaps, Mademoiselle Stonewall, I might call upon you at your residence tomorrow?”
“Oh. Well. Not tomorrow.”
Mercifully, the lights dimmed and the second act overture began. Ophelia edged away from Griffe to a seat at the front railing.
The professor sat beside her. “Have you and the Count de Griffe much in common?”
“Not a drop.” Ophelia willed her bosom to deflate.
“Did you accuse him of murder?”
“Certainly not. I don’t know why, but I simply can’t believe he would hurt a fly.”
“Really.” Penrose’s eyes slid sideways, lit for a fraction of a second on her bosom, and then met her gaze. “You didn’t . . . give anything away, did you? About our inquiries?”
The professor wasn’t going to mention her faux bosom, then. He’d seen her real, beanstalkish shape in everyday garb back in Germany.
“I’ll give away whatever I please,” Ophelia said, warm with embarrassment.
*
The ballet’s second act was even more marvelous than the first. The centerpiece was an enormous, orange-painted mechanical pumpkin. When the music escalated and Cinderella’s fairy godmother waved her wand, the pumpkin contraption slowly unfurled like an enormous blossom and the middle of it rose up. The pumpkin had become a glistening golden coach.
Oooooo, the thousands of people in the audience breathed. Ahhhhh.
Ophelia glanced at Colifichet. He looked mighty pleased with himself. The apprentice Pierre rested his chin in his hand, elbow on the railing, frowning. The prince and the count were helping themselves to more brandy.
The music swirled and the fairy godmother transformed rats, mice, and lizards into footmen, a coachman, and horses. With a last wave of the wand, sky-high violin trills, and a poof of fake smoke, Cinderella’s rags fell away to reveal a gorgeous ball gown.
Ophelia started. “Professor, pass me the opera glasses, would you?”
He passed them.