Page 74 of The Grand Mistletoe Assembly
“Only if you beat me, Baron von List.” Stone gave him a sly smile and ordered a drink. “I know from the hosts personally that this is the last ticket. And winning it wouldn’t be very charitable.”
But Wolfgang wasn’t after charity, anyway. The Jews were his targets. His goal was to diminish their influence, eradicate it if possible, to set an example for their continental counterparts. They should keep low and not cause any more irritation than they already had.
* * *
An hour later,Stone blundered with a move of his bishop. Instead of sharp whiskey, Wolfgang had asked for some good old-fashioned beer. The British brew was, to his regret, quite a valid competition for his belovedWeizenback home. It must be all the rain the hops got in England, for the ale tonight was rather good. They were on their fourth serving, and Wolfgang’s stomach rumbled. He was ready for a glazed and roasted piglet by now, but he couldn’t interrupt the game. Stone slurred his speech, which made Wolfgang chuckle. The title of an aristocrat did not make Stone a proper drinking pal, especially not with a slow-sipping ale that was a little too warm and a lot too flat. The perfect kind to get someone drunk quickly.
So, Wolfgang found himself with a strong white king ready to jump to e6 to deliver the winning move. Stone was in an absolute pin, unable to move his pieces to protect his king.
Stone blinked his hooded puppy eyes. “You wouldn’t accept a stalemate at this point?” Beautiful men were nauseating.
“How would that translate in terms of the ticket to the ball?” Wolfgang asked.
“We could split it, one for you and one for me.”
“And you’d want me to wear a pink gown and hold your arm, too?” Wolfgang joked.
King on e6. Checkmate.
“Argh,” Stone growled, “here you go.” He threw the tickets on the chessboard. “I hope you’ll find a good companion.”
“I shall,” Wolfgang said, although he had no idea whom to ask.
In England, a dance with a debutante meant something. Two dances meant even more. After the third, the vicar was called. Well, at least theton, England’s aristocracy, cherished their traditions.
“I warn you, List. Read the requirements. You have to auction something off, something valuable. And that means something to the Pearlers because they are invested in the charity rather than the social event.”
And with that, he left Wolfgang pondering his bittersweet victory. Wolfgang didn’t have anyone to accompany him, nor anything of value for an auction. But it was November already, and he had to take this chance to get to know the Jews. It might be his only chance to get into their lavish home, which was financed through their business as crown jewelers and all sorts of treasures they got their fingers on. An opportunity to see how he could make their diamond dynasty crumble before theton.
CHAPTER 2
Sophia didn’t mind cowering in an alley between the elegant shops on Regent Street. She was on the prowl, waiting for her target to arrive.
Sofia Rosomakha. What a name. Not a single person in England had pronounced it correctly. Rosomakha meant wolverine. And it was a damn apt name for Sophia! She’d been hunting alone in life. Terrible experiences turned her into a predator. Better to eat than to be eaten, she always told herself.
Meanwhile, she opened her papers again, just to remind herself of the fake birthdate. Sophia Roche was born twenty-four years ago, a tender and imaginary Brit shelved by theton. Pah! If anyone knew what Sophia had truly seen in her eight-and-twenty years, they wouldn’t dare shelve her. What she’d done far surpassed the inexperienced debutantes at the usual balls. She was an expert pickpocket, an excellent shot, and danced like a prima ballerina.
In all her life struggles, her dream of becoming the prima ballerina at the Bolshoi Theatre had not come true. At her age, it was too late, she was a poltergeist at the ballet academy by now. Young dancers had come and gone, but the head, Michail Lopatin, had kept her there. She’d worked off her debts to him years ago after training the young dancers and entertaining Michail in any manner that he or his friends wished. And one of his friends was the great Vasily Gorsky. He could have gotten her into the Bolshoi. Well, he did. Except not as Sophia had hoped. He’d taken her backstage to meet the Tzar Alexander. Gorsky had told him of her many talents and her knack for languages. Instead of giving her a solo that season as she’d hoped, they’d shipped her solo to England.
And here she was, carrying around an umbrella all year and living on the pittance they deemed a fair salary to spy on the Jews. Had they known how strong the Pearlers were, in number and riches, they would have sent a small army, not an English-speaking ballerina.
Now that she was here, she had to please the tzar. Or else … Sophia preferred not to think about the end of her career and her life. Maybe she could win the tzar’s favor after all. But first she had to succeed in her mission—taking down the Jews in England. At least bringing them down a notch so that they would no longer stir up politics and push for naturalization, civil rights for Jews, and all that nonsense. Why couldn’t the British Jews stick within a certain geographic area like the Russian Jews? But no, the Jews here wanted to be equal citizens. Restricting them geographically had worked until they became ennobled through university degrees, growing wealth, and connections, like the ones in London. And their example inspired uproars among Jews in the Russian Empire. All of Europe, truly. How much damage one family in England could do made Sophia sick. The Jews should keep their heads down if they wanted to hang on to them. She’d internalized that lesson first-hand. Plus, there wasn’t enough money and nobility around to share with her, much less with Jews. Why should they have what she’d gone without, a pure-bred Russian?
But this family had means and connections. Unlike her. And what was worse, all their connections would be at the winter ball. It was the week before the Grand Mistletoe Assembly, and Sophia had not yet acquired a ticket. But she had to get in. She bit her lips. How could a Christmas charity ball be hosted by a Jewish family? They were not even ennobled. Only because Eve Pearler, the matriarch of the dynasty of jewelers, supported the foundling home and called it a charity. The ball was everything but that. Hypocritical aristocrats and parvenus paid exorbitant amounts for a ticket just to dance at the grand house of the Pearlers. Sophia nearly choked at the thought of how many children could have been fed and clothed or sent to ballet lessons if there were no ball, just the donations and the money that was wasted on the ball. Nobody had paid for her to go to the ballet academy to train as a prima ballerina when she was orphaned. Why should other children be luckier? And now, she gulped, she had to dance at the ball at the Jews’ luxurious home. The world was upside down. It was the event of the Season!
The cost of the tickets was another problem. The price was high. Impossibly high for Sophia. And since Parliament was still in session, thetonwould all be there, all the nobility of England. She’d asked Gorsky for more support, but he’d returned her letter. Sophia was on her own.
Clack-clack.Horse hooves came to a stop. The swirly P crest for Pearler on the cabin door indicated her target had arrived. It was time.
* * *
Half an hourlater at Mme Giselle’s, the Pearlers’ French modiste, according to Sophia’s surveillance, Eve and Rachel were receiving near royal treatment. Through the corner of her eyes, Sophia saw their assistant had brought them cream tea with scones. From the back room, the poor dressmakers, exploited for their expertly tight stitching, peeked at the infamous customers. This was Sophia’s chance. If she managed to take down the Jews, she could ascend in society herself. The tzar might even pay her pension for her old age. She filled her lungs with air and held out for courage to follow. Then she stepped onto the upholstered stool and admired her gown overtly, like a ballerina on stage.
It worked; the Pearlers were looking. It was a creamy white dress with a violet overlay and little embroidered flowers. The silk bodice felt like pure luxury on her skin. Even the puffy sleeves had tiny purple flowers embroidered on the rims. Her décolletage was not too deep, which pleased her. She preferred not to show her fine silhouette for free. It had only ever brought her trouble to be this pretty. Sophia was just like her mother in that regard. Too pretty for her own good.
When Sophia was still quite young, her father had drowned in the Baltic Sea during a British attack on Copenhagen in September 1807, just before Alexander formally declared war on the United Kingdom. Sophia, however, preferred to say her father had been a British soldier who died in honor, hence her knowledge of the English language. In truth, he’d been deemed a low-cost casualty, and her mother was forced into prostitution to afford food and clothes for Sophia. And tuition. It was not only Sophia’s dream to become a prima ballerina but also her mother’s, and they did anything to achieve it. Anything. Then her mother had died, too.
The current obstacle in her way was the Jewish problem, as the advisers to the tzar called it. Alexander I was liberal like his grandmother, Catherine the Great, but he couldn’t institute his dream of a Russian constitution if it applied equally to all people. Jews were not considered “people” but demanded such rights. They’d crawled their way into universities, trade, and even the ballet! It was Sophia’s civic duty, as well as her mission, to stop this nonsense. And if weakening the English Jews was a way to set an example for the growing numbers of Jews back home, so be it. If nothing else, a few spots would open up at the Bolshoi, and her chances could improve if the Jewish dancers were forced back to the Pale of Settlement, the area Catherine II had designated for Jews. It was too bad that Jews could shop freely among the gentiles here in London. They were taking goods away from other citizens, who deserved more than to shop alongside Jews.
