The Gilded Cage Read Free Page B

brunette wearing a delicate pink gown and a sour expression. “That is Miss Livia Collins, normally a rather humorous girl, but just now she’s being jilted by that fellow with the unconvincing mustache.” She inclines her chin toward a pompous-looking young man wearing brightly buckled shoes and a spray of sparse hair on his upper lip.
    I giggle, and forget for a moment to wonder whether I ought to.
    â€œAnd that is Thomas Evans,” she says, pointing to a stocky, square-jawed man in long black tails. “He’s heir to a small fortune but best avoided, as his mother is insufferable.”
    We make our way about the party, and Jane feeds me tidbits of gossip on the guests. I feel almost as though I’m back in Virginia, elbowing George and laughing at a church supper.
    As we circle the party, we pass an open door leading to a small morning room, where Grace occasionally visits with her more intimate friends. By the half-light within, I see a tall man. He looks to be made of two colors only, black and white. A dark suit against a pale collar. Long black hair and almost porcelain skin. He’s staring at the wall.
    â€œAnd what about him?” I ask.
    Jane frowns. “I’ve never seen him before. He looks rather serious, though, don’t you think?”
    A maid bearing a tray of small pastries passes us, and Jane takes one. “Get one now, or the men will eat them all,” she advises.
    I do as she says. Just then, Jane’s father calls her name. We look across the ballroom, to where he stands next to an earnest-looking young man in an aggressively green jacket. “Good Lord,” says Jane. “I believe he has hooked me another suitor. You must find out more about our mystery guest, while I make my father remember why he does not try too hard to throw men in my way. Here, take this.”
    She hands me her pastry and sets off demurely through the crowd. I return my gaze to the young man. His quiet shape in the dim light has a curious gravity to it as I slip through the doorway behind him. The room is cool and quiet after the din of the ballroom, the dusky pinks and greens of its furnishings glowing flatly golden in the meager candlelight. Moving closer, I see that the man is studying a painting on the wall—one that Grace pointed out to me on my first day here.
    It depicts my grandfather, the late Lord Walthingham, as a younger man astride a tan horse. He looks much like my father did, only narrower in the face. It would have been a rather classical portrait, but for one detail: crouching next to the horse is a lean black panther. Its body is almost lost in the background, but its steady yellow eyes gaze straight out from the canvas. While I find it strange enough in daytime, it is more unsettling still at night, touched by candlelight. My slipper squeaks on the floor a little, and the man spins around.
    â€œSorry!” I say.
    For the half second he is silent, I take him in. His black hair curls up along his neck and the strong line of his jaw. A lock of it falls over his brow, and for one mad moment I long to push it back for him. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I should not be in here. Excuse me.”
    He turns to walk away.
    â€œNo, please stay,” I say. “It is I who should apologize, for intruding upon your private moment.”
    He flushes with embarrassment. “I was just admiring this painting,” he says. “I’m afraid such gatherings”—he nods toward the party—“are not to my taste.”
    â€œNor mine,” I say. “I try to keep up with all the names, but I’m still not sure if one lady’s name is Arabella or Annabella, and whether so-and-so is an earl or a viscount or a lord.” He looks unsure if I’m joking or not, half-smiling and half-frowning. “I warn you, if you tell me your name, I may forget it.”
    He shuffles his feet uncomfortably.
    â€œBut,