Music soared at the far end of the long gallery, and the crowd surged toward the violin quartet. Becca was trapped, pulled along by strangers as if she were caught in the current of a flooding stream. She elbowed her way to the side of the room, excusing herself as she careened into one guest after another. She reached the open windows and inhaled the cool night air, her rib cage pressing hard against the stays beneath her gown.
Becca swiveled, searching the crowd for Daniel. One of them could stay with Dr. Franklin. The other could search for Gabriel’s relaxation tea. It should have been simple to find a man in a black suit in a room full of men dressed like peacocks. But she didn’t see him. Exasperation turned to worry.
The crowd was settling, guests joining the dance or watching from a distance. Men and women formed two lines, and they met in the center with arms half raised, fingers elegantly bent, and steps more complex than Becca had ever seen. The minuet was a child’s game of hopscotch in comparison.
The quartet began a new song, a faster one, and the dancers increased their pace to match the rhythm. Patience Wright and Edward Bancroft flickered in and out of view behind the dancers. Bancroft slapped Dr. Franklin on the back. They strolled toward the queen and a door behind her.
Becca’s perspective changed in an instant. Was the relationship between Patience Wright and Edward Bancroft merely romantic? What if they were joined by hatred as well as attraction?
Patience had hated Jude enough to kill him. Bancroft must detest Dr. Franklin. What else could motivate someone to spy against an old friend? What if Patience murdered Jude, with Bancroft placing his body on the lightning rod for the sheer pleasure of humiliating the good doctor?
It was all possible, possible enough that Becca lifted the hem of her gown and ran through the dancers to reach them. The musicians stood to see who had broken the beautiful symmetry of the dance at Versailles. A violin screamed in protest.
She came to a sudden stop, feet from Dr. Franklin, still too out of breath to speak.
“I do not require a nanny, Mrs. Parcell. I thought I was clear.” Franklin turned his back to her.
Marie-Antoinette raised a graceful hand to her collarbone either in surprise at Franklin’s unusual lack of manners or at Becca’s disheveled appearance.
But Patience Wright looked positively beatific. “I am in your debt, Mrs. Parcell, for recommending me to the queen.”
“Her Majesty is graciousness herself.” Franklin bowed to Marie-Antoinette, who smiled shyly.
The queen raised her fan and whispered to a grim middle-aged woman standing behind her, who spoke to Patience. “You shall come next Thursday for a first sitting with the queen.”
It seemed the queen did not speak directly to commoners, at least not at Versailles.
Marie-Antoinette raised her fan again to speak to the grim woman, who nodded. “You will ask for Nicolette when you arrive.”
Patience didn’t appear offended by the queen’s indirect directions. She dipped a deep awkward curtsy and grabbed Bancroft’s arm to rise. The two of them backed away.
Franklin smiled as if he and Becca were having a friendly conversation. They were not. “I am old, Mrs. Parcell,” He spoke in English. “That does not make me an imbecile, nor does it deprive me of the good judgment I have employed since I was younger than you.”
Becca winced and widened her stance. She had earned this reprimand.
“I intend to remain safely here in the bosom of the French court.” He bowed again to the queen. “With France’s most exquisite queen.”
Marie-Antoinette glowed. She was not immune to Franklin’s charm, even when he spoke in a language she didn’t understand.
His smile was frozen in place. “Because that is the safest course in my judgment. Not your judgment. Not Mr. Alloway’s. Now, go away, Mrs. Parcell. Enjoy the ball. Enjoy Versailles, and leave me alone. I shall be fine.”
“I cannot decide whether to be relieved or appalled at myself,” Becca said
Franklin’s expression softened. “Be relieved, Mrs. Parcell. Enjoy the ball.”
Becca was being dismissed again. She curtsied and backed away. More couples joined the dance. Becca scanned the room for Daniel.
Patience and Edward Bancroft stood near one of the doors leading out of the Hall of Mirrors. There was no point in asking them outright whether they’d killed Jude. But there was another matter she could settle.
She wove through the crowd to reach them just as Edward Bancroft turned away to speak to a gentleman in matching purple breeches and jacket. Becca leaned toward Patience. She forced amusement into her voice. “You and Mr. Bancroft have developed a tenderness for each other.”
“Now that we are friends, Mrs. Parcell, I can say that I am happy. But we will continue to be discrete.”
Becca nodded. “And you and Mr. Bancroft were together the night of Dr. Franklin’s carriage accident?” Patience and Edward had refused to explain why they had not returned with Dr. Franklin to the mansion. How would the artist interpret her open-ended question? Would she answer at all?
Patience’s forehead furrowed. “How shall I put this? Mr. Bancroft and I were being discrete that night. Well into the night.”
Becca felt her eyebrows rise. “At the neighbor’s house?”
Patience shrugged. “There are as many bedrooms there as at Dr. Franklin’s house.” Her lips rose in a smug smile. “Have I embarrassed you? I did not intend to.”
Becca did not want any more details, though it appeared Patience would be happy to share. She changed the subject. “Have you seen Mr. Alloway?” she asked. Dr. Franklin was safe for now, and she was still curious about Gabriel d’Aumont’s tea.
Patience shook his head.
Near the violin quartet, Becca caught a glimpse of Gabriel flirting with a woman who wore a glistening silver gown. Gabriel had secrets. That was clear. His violence tonight was a shock. So was his hatred for American-style independence. But did his secrets have anything to do with Dr. Franklin or Jude Fenimore’s death?
If she was going to examine Monsieur d’Aumont’s apartment, it would be safest to wait for Daniel. Go. You won’t have another chance.
Go. “If you see Mr. Alloway, will you let him know that I am visiting Monsieur d’Aumont’s apartment?” Becca asked Patience.
The artist’s eyes sparkled. “You want me to tell your former lover that you are taking a new one?” Patience honked a laugh.
“I wish to make Mr. Alloway jealous.” Becca sent Melodié a silent thank you for providing the excuse she needed, a complicated affair of the heart. “I hope the thought of me with another man tears him apart.” Becca pulled back her shoulders and mimicked Patience’s own bitter, cynical tone.
“You have more spirit than I gave you credit for. Perhaps I will sculpt you, Mrs. Parcell,” Patience said.
“It would be an honor.” That was another lie. Becca wondered how many she would tell before the evening was over. She dipped a small curtsy before hurrying from the room.
There were fewer guests now in the upper hallway. Their voices ricocheted against the stone walls and banister. Becca came to a stop, her gown bobbing forward and back. She had no idea where to find a staircase that would lead upstairs to Gabriel’s apartment. She raised her hand as one servant rushed by. He shrugged and hurried past. So did the second.
Becca pressed her fingernails into her palms. Finding her way around Versailles clearly called for a different approach.
A third servant in red and blue livery shot up the stairs from below.
Becca blocked his way. “You are to take me to Monsieur d’Aumont’s apartment. Now.”
He stepped left, ignoring her. Becca stepped right. “Apartment ninety-two.” She smiled as if he’d already agreed to accompany her.
The man shook his head. The candlelight highlighted the smallpox scars on his high forehead.
“You have never heard me scream,” she said in an equally pleasant voice, her smile still intact. “It is a blood-curdling sound, and if I also faint, you will have many questions to answer, and you will be even later getting where you are going.” All of that was true. “You will find it much quicker and more peaceful to help me.”
“You are a witch.” The whites of his eyes shone in the candlelight.
“An American witch. The worse kind.” Was this her third lie tonight? She had lost count.
His long nose twitched with doubt. “Follow,” he finally said.
Painted cherubs lounging on ceilings and walls followed their progress. White moths beat their wings against darkened windows. Their footsteps echoed in the empty hallways. Left, then another left. Gray stone. Red brocade wallpaper. Back to gray stone. She memorized the turns they took.
The servant pulled a lit candle from a gold-plated candelabra and stopped at a nearby door. The flame flickered as he opened it. He held the candle out to her, his face as closed and unfriendly as ever.
“Aren’t you coming?” Becca asked.
He shook his head, pushing the candle forward again.
She exhaled with exasperation and grabbed the taper, careful not to touch his hand. “I can find my way from here. Are all the apartments numbered?”
He nodded. “Make a right, a left, another left, and a right. His nose twitched again. “And don’t get lost.”
“Thank you. I am sorry that I….” But he was gone before she could apologize for harassing him into helping her get this far.