Page 80 of A Queen's Match
“I’mso bundled up? You’re the one in corsets.” Eddy tugged at the ribbon along the neckline of her white blouse. “You should dress like this more often. Far more convenient.”
Hélène swatted playfully at his hand, and Eddy caught hers, lacing their fingers. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss on her palm. It was such an uncharacteristically tender gesture that she felt a strange urge to cry.
He released her hand as the band struck up another song. Soon everyone around them was singing, clinking glasses as they belted out the words. Hélène hurried to join in.
“ ‘Oh, the boy I love is up in the gallery! The boy I love is looking at me!’ ” When he remained silent, she hissed, “Eddy, can’t you sing along? You’re ruining the mood, standing there frowning during a drinking song.”
“I would sing if I knew the words!” he whispered back. “This is hardly the national anthem, Hélène.”
“Yes, it’s a bit more fun than your stodgy anthem.”
Eddy chuckled at that—then suddenly his laugh dissolved into a cough. Hélène looked at him in concern. When the cough deepened, she drew him farther away from the crowds, into a relatively quiet corner near a side street.
“Eddy, are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. Just a bit of a cold. You know, the change in weather.” His voice was still hoarse, his eyes glassy.
“Perhaps we should get a drink.” Maybe some ale would bring the color back to his face.
“I’ll do it. You stay here.” Already Eddy sounded better. Nothing to worry about, Hélène told herself.
Hélène watched him retreat toward one of the stalls that sold wine and warm ale. Even in his plain-spun jacket, he looked like a prince: it was clear in the way he walked, the bold directness of his gaze. The crowds around him seemed to part instinctively, as if they, too, knew on some level that he was different.
“Excuse me, miss!” a voice chirped behind her.
Hélène turned to see a young woman near her own age. Her heart-shaped face was flushed with exertion, probably from the dancing. “I had to ask—I heard your accent—are you French?”
“I am.” Hélène smiled and gestured down to her clothes. “I’m a lady’s maid, in a house off Belgrave Square.” Many lady’s maidswereFrench, after all; it was quite fashionable to have one’s hair styled by a Frenchwoman.
The girl’s eyes widened. “In Belgravia! Oh, but you must work for a countess at least!”
Before Hélène could reply, a young man stepped forward. “Frances is a milliner, and dreams of making hats for duchesses someday.” He cast an affectionate smile in Frances’s direction.
“I work at Mrs.Astley’s shop. Do you know it? Just last week I made a hat that the mayor’s sister wore!” Frances sighed wistfully. “It was trimmed with real ostrich feathers. Someday I’m going to open my own shop.”
“I have no doubt that you will,” Hélène agreed, smiling. She caught sight of Eddy coming back toward them and hurried to exclaim, “Anthony! There you are!”
She doubted that anyone here would recognize Eddy; the closest they would have ever gotten to him, after all, was at a parade. And he didn’t exactly resemble the pictures that had been printed in the newspapers, not dressed like this. Still, it was better not to call him by his real name.
“Violette,” Eddy greeted her, his eyes bright with amusement. The ale he handed her was a dark amber color, with foam along the top. Hélène took an eager sip.
When she looked back up, she realized that Frances was staring at Eddy with marked interest. “Do I know you? You seem so familiar….”
Eddy gave a theatrical bow, flipping out his jacket behind him as if it were a cape. “You must have seen my performance earlier today,” he said without missing a beat. “I was in one of the tents, doingRomeo and Juliet.”
Hélène nearly choked on a laugh, then took a quick sip of beer to hide it.
“An actor,” the young man with Frances scoffed.
Ignoring him, Eddy fixed his eyes on Frances as he recited, “ ‘With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do, that dares love attempt.’ ”
“Oh my.” Frances looked as dazed as Hélène felt.
The young man held out a hand. Eddy hesitated just a fraction of an instant—no one ever presumed to shake his hand—then took it with a hearty smile.
“John Sheffield,” the man introduced himself. “I work as an engineer on the London and North Western Railway.”
“He once saw the queen’s private car!” Frances cut in.
