Princess of Glass - Jessica Day George [38]
Ellen didn’t have time to say good-bye to her godmother, or thank her, before she staggered into the manor, dazed and half-dressed, to see that it was now two minutes past midnight. Her feet were still icy cold and she carried her underclothes, stockings, and shoes jumbled together in her arms. She had just enough time to put herself back together before the Seadowns arrived home, full of questions about Lady Ella.
Confused
Was her father an earl?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Christian said.
“A duke? A knight?”
“Honestly, King Rupert, I don’t know. She wouldn’t say. No family name, and not a hint of where I had met her before.”
“Odd.” King Rupert steepled his fingers.
“Very, Your Majesty,” Christian said with a sigh. He and the king had been through this many times already, and it was only noon.
“But you seemed quite taken with her,” King Rupert stated for the hundredth time.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Christian said, and then shook himself a little.
Why had he said that? Lady Ella was certainly pretty, but more than a little strange, in his opinion. And not the good kind of strange, like Poppy. Yet the first thing he had done that morning was to ask Queen Edith if she knew Lady Ella’s family. That was what had started the endless round of questions by King Rupert. Christian could predict what was coming next.
“Bretoner? You’re certain?” King Rupert leaned over his desk eagerly.
This was the most important question to the king, and he would never be satisfied until they had tracked down Lady Ella and had her write out her lineage to the twelfth generation, Christian was sure.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Christian said. “She had no accent and she said that she lived in Castleraugh. I believe that both Pop—Princess Poppy, that is—and Roger Thwaite know her.”
“The princess wouldn’t know: she isn’t Bretoner,” King Rupert said dismissively.
“True, however—,” Christian began, but the king was off and running.
“We must make sure that this girl comes to our masked ball,” King Rupert said, turning to gaze out the window at the royal gardens, face set with thought. “Everyone who was invited to the gala has also been invited to the masquerade, so that shouldn’t be a problem. The difficulty will be recognizing her.” He put his hands behind his back, eyes narrowed.
Christian wondered if he should just slip out. Or excuse himself and go. He wanted to visit Seadown House and talk to Poppy, though he could not remember why. Had he been planning on asking her about Lady Ella? No, that didn’t seem right. He could always ask Roger Thwaite about that. Still, he would probably remember when he got there.
Just as Christian got to his feet, a footman knocked at the door and then entered carrying a silver tray.
“What’s this?” King Rupert turned away from his window, irritated, and caught Christian in the act of escaping.
The footman, who valued his job too much to show any sign of surprise at the prince’s guilty, frozen stance, merely presented the tray. “Today’s correspondence, Your Majesty,” the man said blandly.
One of the letters, a small creamy envelope with a blue seal on it, made the king turn to Christian. The prince, for his part, was wondering if he dared slip out of the room with the footman when the servant was dismissed.
“Seadowns are throwing a ball next week,” King Rupert said. He grunted. “Trying to marry off that princess, do y’suppose?”
“It’s Marianne’s birthday,” Christian said. He wondered if Lady Ella would be there. The Seadowns didn’t seem to know her, but Poppy did.
“Oh yes,” King Rupert said, and shrugged. “Should probably make an appearance. Send Edith and the girls at the least. You, too, I suppose. The Thwaites are already planning the marriage feast for the younger son and Lady Marianne, but no harm in trying if this Lady Ella proves unsuitable.” The king was already turning back to the window, his mind elsewhere.
Christian beat a hasty retreat.
He also had an invitation to Marianne’s ball waiting in his room, along with letters from his parents and sisters, and one, oddly, that came from Westfalin.