Eglantine got to Prince Rupprecht first, but Austorga was just behind her. Seraphina lurked in the background, seemingly content to be left out of the whole thing.
Poor Eglantine and Austorga. Ophelia wasn’t a coquette—that sort of trickery was for ladies of a less practical bent. But she did know that pushing and shoving your way into a fellow’s notice wasn’t the best way to conduct matrimonial business. Fellows were like cats: getting the cold shoulder only made them that much more keen.
Or, so Ophelia had thought. Because the peculiar thing was, Prince Rupprecht seemed mighty taken with the stepsisters. Both of them.
“Ah, mademoiselles!” Prince Rupprecht boomed. “What an unexpected delight to find you here!” He spoke English, Ophelia figured, on account of Seraphina, although she was staring at the submersible steamship, not at the prince. “Mademoiselle Eglantine, your bonnet—how charming! And Austorga, yours, too. What are those—pheasant feathers? Delightful!”
The stepsisters tittered and preened.
“Such a shame that your delightful soirée last week was ruined in such a fashion,” Prince Rupprecht said. “Your home is superb, one of the oldest of such houses in Paris, I am told. I would very much enjoy another visit.”
“Indeed, Prince Rupprecht,” Eglantine said, “and we would be most obliged if you would visit again.”
“Most obliged,” Austorga said, giggling.
Ophelia happened to see Eglantine stomp on her sister’s foot.
“Soon, perhaps?” Prince Rupprecht’s blue eyes glinted. They were only the tiniest bit bloodshot from last night’s brandy.
“Oui,” both stepsisters breathed in unison.
16
Ophelia reckoned it was odd that Prince Rupprecht took such an interest in the stepsisters. Eglantine and Austorga didn’t appear to have much in the way of funds. Prince Rupprecht certainly didn’t need their family name. And from what Ophelia had heard him say about the dancing girls at the ballet last night, Prince Rupprecht was a bird fancier. Yet he did not seem put off by their plain looks or their forward ways. Or by their rashy upper lips.
While Ophelia chewed this over, the crowd somehow jostled her forward to the red velvet rope that surrounded one of the daises. At last she could view one of the contraptions up close. She could not read the plaque, but it looked to be some sort of steam-powered digging machine, as big as a stagecoach, with wheels and cogs, a few sets of exposed gears, and a large shovel with sharp-looking teeth. The shovel was poised midair, and just as Ophelia was noting how the shovel was quaking from the vibrations of the throng, she felt a hard shove against her Mrs. Brand rump padding. She stumbled forward, over the top of the velvet rope. Just before she collapsed onto the dais, a strong hand caught her arm and pulled her upright.
The shovel hit the dais with a metallic clang.
The crowd gasped and a lady squealed.
“Ah, c’est dangereux, madame,” a husky voice said in Ophelia’s ear, “to stand so close to such a machine, non?”
“I beg your pardon,” Ophelia said, looking up at the Count de Griffe. “I do not believe we have been introduced. And kindly remove your hand.” Her heart pounded and the crowd seemed to swim. She could have sworn she’d been deliberately pushed. But by whom? Surely not Griffe.
“I beg your pardon a thousand and one times, madame.” Griffe swooped her hand to his lips. “I am the Count de Griffe. You must be the young mademoiselles’ chaperone, eh?”
“Yes. Quite.” Ophelia ripped her hand from his grasp.
“Et you are une Americaine?” Griffe studied her face and her gray hair, just visible beneath the brim of her bonnet.
Ophelia fought the urge to hightail it. Had he recognized her—or, rather, had he recognized Miss Stonewall?
She made a mental note not to ever, ever juggle two disguises again. Better yet: once she’d straightened out all this Henrietta and Sybille business, no more disguises at all.