Afterward, the invited singers and musicians continued to offer splendid songs and performances, and the salon’s mood turned warm and convivial. The Empress seemed in good spirits, livelier than usual, and the trouble the guests had feared did not occur.
Princess Roella, too, looked unlikely to pull any further stunts tonight. Judging from the way her reddened eyes fixed on Laila, she seemed enraged by the failure of her plan, but she was not the sort to pick a fight with someone whose conduct left no fault to seize.
Most of those gathered were lovers of music, and they were greatly satisfied with the evening’s program. Above all, Marquis Zallier, flushed with excitement, could not bring himself to let Luna go; she was by far the most outstanding talent on display.
Those interested in Sion were, for the most part, women. He received handkerchiefs and flowers from nearly all of them; among them were even handkerchiefs with names and addresses written on them.
Yet the one who left the strongest impression was Laila. With graceful, dignified bearing, she stood among those exchanging impressions about the harpist who had played last; her presence was so commanding that even those in other conversations kept stealing glances her way.
Count Ferdinand of Zeppelin, a young man who had joined no conversation and stood by the refreshment table nursing his drink, overheard a few ladies speaking.
“Who made that dress, I wonder?”
“Surely it was made as stage costume? Otherwise how could she wear black when it isn’t mourning?”
“Black or not, beautiful is beautiful. Wait here. I’m going to ask.”
Ferdinand smiled. It was true—though Lady Laila’s gown was a style he had never seen before, it stood out as strikingly lovely even among the profusion of sumptuous evening dresses in this salon.
That dress—and the wide-brimmed hat—would likely be in vogue at once. Even knowing Princess Roella was hostile to her, people drifted toward Laila as if drawn. One could see at a glance why she was taking society by storm.
'I only hope the Princess doesn’t make a greater scene…'
It did not seem likely.
That woman drew the eye too strongly. It was not merely a matter of beauty. There was presence, there was poise—one might call it the weight of a person.
So too with tonight’s opera. The final reveal was superb, but had it not been Lady Laila behind that curtain, the effect would never have been the same.
Well, Ezekiel Schwaben would surely put a stop to things at a sensible point.
Thinking thus, Ferdinand let his gaze rove through the salon in search of Ezekiel—and realized he was gone.
Unexpected. Ezekiel cared little for social gatherings, but once he attended, he generally saw them through. And with the Empress still present, to leave first—
Princess Roella was nowhere to be seen either. It seemed she had left with Ezekiel.
'Hm.'
So that was why the Princess had gone so quiet.
Letting his indifferent gaze drift, Ferdinand accidentally met the eyes of a young lady. Meeting his frank green eyes, her face flushed with shy color. He thought he’d erred, and yet offered a polite, slight smile.
As he turned his head, Lady Laila had already drawn near.
“Good evening, Count Zeppelin.”
“Good evening, Lady Laila. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Ferdinand inclined his head with formal courtesy. Laila smiled and said:
“Did I startle you, approaching so suddenly? The color of your cocktail is so lovely—I wanted to ask what it was.”
“Ah.”
Glancing at the crimson drink in his hand, Ferdinand let out a short exclamation. Held by Laila—dressed in black from head to toe—the glass would be exquisite indeed.
Perhaps she had thought as much when she addressed him, he mused.
“I do not know its name. Pray, one moment.”
Gladly for the lady’s sake, he summoned a footman to ask the cocktail’s name and requested another glass. Then he looked at Laila.
Up close, her features were even more beautiful. At the same time, Ferdinand felt a faint sense of déjà vu. A face like this was rare; had he seen someone similar somewhere, he would not have forgotten it—yet no memory surfaced.
They chatted briefly about the evening’s performance. It wasn’t long before the footman returned with the drink.
Ferdinand supposed Laila would take the glass and move on. She did not.
“Had you something to say to me, perhaps?”
“With so many women likely interested in Count Zeppelin, why do you look so startled?”
Laila said it with serene amusement. Ferdinand gave a small shake of his head.
“Well. There are not so many who take serious interest in the son of a house on the decline.”
“The House of Zeppelin, on the decline? Whatever do you mean?”
“A matter of the future. It is rare that a cadet branch survives when the main line falls. You have not been long in Laniere, my lady, so you may not know.”
Ferdinand smiled mildly. If another said it, it would be an insult; from his own mouth, it could be a joke.
But Laila did not fluster. Keeping her smile, she said:
“I may not know Shirah’s noble houses well, but as a troupe-owner I can scarce help being interested in the proprietor of the Lich Theater.”
Ferdinand looked at her in surprise. That was not widely known. The Lich Theater was a respectable house, but not a fortune in itself, and it had not been long since he took it over.
“I do not involve myself in its management. Besides, from what I saw tonight, a troupe like Marel would be welcomed with whatever repertoire you brought.”
“Are you telling me you have no wish to meet with me?”
Ferdinand cleared his throat. That was not his meaning. He was a man who could separate beauty from business—but even so, he could hardly help being intrigued by this woman.
Smiling brightly, she said:
“I ought to give you my card, but as this is the palace, I could not bring a maid, and this dress has no pockets; I did not bring one. Would it be acceptable if I write to your house later?”
“I shall come pay my respects.”
“That would please me even more.”
Laila’s voice was gentle.
Then she let her gaze sweep the salon once more. Sion caught her eye and winked. He was in place; without thinking, she let a small smile slip.
A resounding success.
Silence filled the carriage of the Schwaben ducal house.
Ezekiel sat with his mouth shut as if angered by something, and Roella watched him anxiously.
He had left the moment the performances ended and the banquet began. Roella had hurried after him. Yet Ezekiel had not so much as looked at her.
And he had remained thus to this moment. He had not even stopped her from climbing into the carriage after him. That was strange. Ordinarily, even if he had reason to leave early, he would have told Roella not to do the same. She sensed something was wrong.
But Ezekiel, though aware she was gauging him, could not bring himself to care.
'Raging, and mocking…'
The lyrics the male actor had sung returned to his mind. Why was he this furious?
The woman had been beautiful. Ezekiel admitted that. With the illusion of flame catching at a fuse, in an instant a dull ache had seized between his legs.
It was nothing of consequence. He was not a man ignorant of lust. If a woman pleased him, he would speak to her, propose she become his mistress. A noblewoman mistress was somewhat troublesome to handle, but he had more than enough to compensate both her and her house.
Roella would be irksome again, but a mistress or two was something she would have to accept—as she always had.
If he were refused, that would be the end of it.
And yet, unaccountably, rage boiled up. Even he could not comprehend what, precisely, he was angry about.