Page 17

T HE MOMENT C ATH STEPPED through the garden arbor onto the sweeping green lawn of Heart Castle, she was searching for him.

She couldn’t help it, try as she might. Her eyes skimmed over the guests, hunting for a three-pointed jester’s hat amid the bonnets and wide-brimmed sun hats.

Her entire body was bating its breath, waiting for the moment she would see him—should he even be present.

Did jokers attend garden parties? She didn’t know.

She felt like an idiot, curtsying to the lords and barons, ladies and countesses, all the while letting her attention scurry off to each new arrival, each glimpse of black amid the colorful clothing of the nobility.

She knew she should be looking for the King.

Her mother had been adamant that Catherine make herself known to the King immediately upon arrival.

She was to give him the delicate rose-flavored macarons that were tucked into her skirt pocket and she was not to leave his side until either the party was over or she had a gem on her finger.

To Cath’s relief, as she made one complete turn around the lawn, the King was nowhere in sight.

To her disappointment, neither was Jest.

Stupid dreams. Stupid fantasies. Stupid lemon tree and white roses and—

What if he didn’t come at all? It felt like it would be a wasted outing in her prettiest day dress. She hadn’t realized until that moment that she’d chosen it specifically for him.

“My dear Catherine, how appropriately attired you are today.”

She swiveled around to see Margaret Mearle gamboling across the grass, clutching two battledore rackets in her hands. She was dressed all in sunflower-yellow and on her head was a fascinator that looked like an enormous yellow rosebud waiting to bloom.

Catherine cocked her head. There was something different about Margaret today. Something difficult to place. If Cath hadn’t known better, she would have thought that today, in that hat, in this light, Margaret looked almost…

Well, not pretty. But unoffensive to the eyes, at the least.

Perhaps she was seeing her in a new light, knowing how fond the Duke was of her.

“Good day, Lady Margaret,” she said, curtsying.

“Good enough, one supposes,” said Margaret, “though unwarranted optimism is unwise for one who wishes to eschew disappointment. Nevertheless, I do hope it shall be a better day than the ball, at the least. Have you heard of my trauma?” She clutched the rackets against her chest.

“Oh yes, I heard all about the Jabberwock attack. I can only imagine how horrifying it was! I’m so glad to see you unharmed.” Catherine, upon saying it, realized that it was true.

But Margaret only huffed. “Yes, yes, quite horrifying, but before that , have you heard tell what your awful cat did?”

“My… cat? You mean Cheshire? I wouldn’t call him mine, precisely.”

“Nevertheless, he is a nuisance that should not be suffered among civilized society. I hope you left him at home today.”

Cath cocked her head, feigning ignorance. “What has he done?”

“Oh dear, I find it difficult to believe that word has not yet reached your ears. It was dreadful. The mongrel appeared from nowhere, in that uncanny way he does, and plopped right down on my head.” She shuddered.

“I’m sure Cheshire meant no harm. I actually think he’s rather fond of you.”

Margaret pouted. “I hope not. My one solace is that everyone was distracted by the Jabberwock and that has overshadowed my torment—ah, my mortification!”

“Yes, we can hope.” Catherine wrung her wrists and buried a remark about the poor Diamond courtiers. “Is it true, do you know, that the King also made mention of a… a bride at the ball?”

“He was about to propose before all turned chaotic. You did miss much that night, Lady Catherine.”

“My loss, to be sure. And has there been much speculation as to who it might be?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not one to gossip. Gossiping always leads to spoiled milk.”

“Of course. That’s a very good rule to live by.

” Cath was nodding sagely when she spotted Lord Warthog taking a turn around the lawn with the Dowager Countess Wontuthry.

The Countess had her hand on the Duke’s elbow, the other gripping a cane that kept sinking into the soft grass.

She was speaking fervently on some topic, but the Duke’s gaze was darting from Catherine to Margaret to the ground and back to Margaret.

His jowled face was warped with anxiety.

Clearing her throat, Catherine leaned closer to Margaret, like a conspirator. “Tell me more about the Jabberwock attack,” she whispered. “Were you very frightened?”

“Oh! Must we speak of it?” Margaret placed a hand to her brow.

“I feel faint at the memory. Did you know—that beast broke through the windows and headed straight for me! I cannot be sure why. One is made to wonder if a creature with such wicked propensities might not be naturally drawn to one of goodness and pristine moral values, such as myself.”

“Er, yes,” said Catherine. “One is made to wonder.”

“Indeed, and the nightmares shall haunt me unto my deathbed. Even now I see its jaws when I shut my eyes, still hear the click-clacking of its enormous claws.”

Catherine gripped her elbow for support. “Yes, but… you were rescued, were you not? I heard the Duke was very heroic. Is it true that he threw himself in between you and the beast?”

Margaret sniffed. “More like he couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. That man has all the grace of a wild boar.”

She squinted. “Actually, I think wild boars can be quite quick and athletic…”

“Oh! There he is! Wave, quickly, or he’ll think we’ve been talking about him.” With a look that was as much grimace as smile, Margaret wiggled her fingers at the Duke and the Countess.

The Duke immediately looked away, ducking his large chin behind a green cravat.

Margaret grunted. “Such arrogance.”

“I’m beginning to think he might just be shy…”

“We mustn’t encourage such ill behavior, Catherine. That is just like paying the cart in carrots before the horse gets his gift.”

Cath tried to puzzle this out for a moment, but quickly gave up. “How I do wish I could find fault with your wisdom, Margaret.”

Margaret scoffed. “Why—I daresay the Countess is flirting with him! What a vile woman.”

“I’m not sure—”

“I could grab on to any man’s arm, too, if I wanted to pretend to have a crooked spine.”

“To be fair, she does have a crooked spine. ”

“Yes, and evidently a desire to add to her wealth. Can you imagine, curtsying to Her Ladyship, the Dutch Countess Wontuthry? Or the Counting Duchess of Tuskany? Who needs that many syllables, anyway?”

“It seems to me that he’s just helping an old lady across the lawn.”

Margaret glowered. “You are observant as a toadstool, Lady Pinkerton.”

Cath scrambled to right the teetering ship of their conversation. “Well, even if the Countess were flirting, I think the Duke is actually taken with—”

“Oh no. Now they’re coming this way.” Margaret turned her back on them. “Let’s look as though we’re caught in a game of Battledore and Shuttlecock so they won’t pester us.” Margaret thrust the extra racket into Catherine’s hand.

“Won’t that be rude?”

Ignoring her, Margaret hustled a fair distance away and threw up the shuttlecock—a needle-nosed hummingbird—striking it in Catherine’s direction. Instinctively, Cath dove to hit it back, but missed. The hummingbird stuck nose-first into the sod.

“Sorry, dearest Catherine!” Margaret preened, loud enough to be heard halfway across the lawn. “You really must take more time to practice.”

Stooping, Catherine pried the bird out of the grass. Its jittery wings buzzed. She glanced up at Margaret, who was adamantly not looking at the Duke, while the Duke, standing not far away, had eyes only for her, now that he was in no danger of being found out.

The Countess continued to prattle on beside him, oblivious to his wandering attention.

“Come on, Catherine,” Margaret urged. “Hit it back.”

Sighing, Cath tossed the bird into the air and batted it toward Margaret.

They made it through three passes, Margaret growing more competitive with every hit.

Though Catherine would never have considered herself athletic, she was in better shape than her competitor, who was soon wheezing with the effort, her face blotchy and scrunched in concentration.

But her lack of skill was made up for in determination, and on her third hit, she sent the bird flying over Catherine’s head.

Cath ducked and swiveled to follow its path through the sky—straight toward an enormous jet-black raven.

Catherine gasped.

The hummingbird froze mid-flight and backed up fast on its fluttering wings. It hesitated a moment, not knowing what else to do, then turned and flew off toward the hedge maze.

Catherine did not care. Her heart was in her throat, her eyes scouring the crowd. Dresses and waistcoats, top hats and bonnets.

She spotted him amid the tables where the ladies were fanning themselves and sipping at their tea and beaming at the Joker as he strummed a mandolin. Above them, the Raven cawed, and Jest glanced up, still strumming. The Raven soared down and settled on his shoulder.

He hardly seemed to notice at first. Then, as Catherine stared as openly as a child at her first parade, Jest glanced toward her.

His eyes connected with hers in an instant, as if he’d known just where she was.

As if he’d been watching her for some while, and waiting for her to notice.

Even from so far a distance, she thought she detected a faint smile shot her way.

All sensation left her body. No more soft grass beneath her feet. No more racket clutched between her hands. No more hair clinging to the back of her damp neck.

The moment answered one question, at least. She felt as drawn to him as ever, though whether it was mere attraction or some other, stronger force, she had no way of knowing, and no previous experience to draw from.