"Do you need my handkerchief?" the elderly woman inquired, fishing out a small white square and holdingit out to her. The handkerchief fluttered out of the woman's pale, well-veined hand to the floor. "I've dropped the damned thing," she said, and Mira smiled, finding a certain delight in the discovery of another woman besides herself who knew how to swear effectively. "Where the deuce is it?" The woman leaned forward slightly, squinting at the floor until she located the patch of white and pointed to it. "There. Drat, my companion has taken leave for a few minutes and isn't here to fetch it. That confounded girl is never here when I need her."
Mira bent over and picked up the small lace article slowly, looking at the woman's face closely before standing up. There was what appeared to be a thin, light film covering her eyes, and Mira's heart softened with compassion as she realized that she could not see very well.
"Madam," she said, placing the handkerchief on the woman's lap carefully, "may I ask you a question?"
"I suppose so," she replied sharply, as if being asked questions were a bother she would have liked to do without.
"You are not the kind of woman who would be easily offended, I can see that…"
"Of course I'm not!" came the indignant reply.
"Then," Mira continued, "I could not help noticing that you… well, it seemed to be a strain for you to look down at the—"
"Impertinent chit. There is nothing wrong with my eyes. Now, be off with you, and go on dancing and prattling with your—"
"I am glad there is nothing wrong with them," Mira said, dabbing hurriedly at the punch stains again, which had all but disappeared. "I just thought that if they were blurry, I could make a suggestion that migirt help."
"You? By all appearances, you left the cradle last week. Now, run along with you.""Yes, madam. Thank you for your offer of the…" Mira's voice faded as the woman waved her away impatiently.
Shrugging lightly, she walked back to where the punch had been spilled and found that Carr had finally consoled Henrietta Lester by asking her to dance. He stared at Mira as he turned the girl around the floor sedately, and he made a brief, anguished grimace that caused Mira to laugh softly. Her attention was caught by the sight of Rand waltzing with one of the Berkeley cousins and wearing that polite, attentive expression that could only mean he was bored to distraction. Mira's smile changed to a thoughtful frown. If Rand wasn't dancing with his wife, then where was Rosalie?
It was not difficult to spot Rosalie's red-and-gold gown amidst the throng of costumes. She was dancing with a man that Mira did not recognize. From the satisfied expression on her face, it was likely that her partner was George Canning.
"I'd lay a quart of heavy wet on it," Mira said out loud, using an expression that was popular in certain districts of London, and she crossed her fingers. If it was indeed Canning, he appeared to be far more approachable than she had expected. Dressed plainly in the costume of a Greek philosopher, he was handsome, compactly built, and rather short. There was an aura of innate assurance and confidence around him… but would he dare grant Rosalie a favor if it risked the displeasure of the king?
The dance ended, and among the rain of applause, Rosalie's partner left the room discreetly. It took Mira less than half a minute to reach Rosalie's side, and they walked to the punch table, talking rapidly.
"Canning," Rosalie said breathlessly. "He's agreed to speak with me—he's going to wait in one of the rooms nearby. We can't let anyone find out—"
"Shhh—your husband is coming," Mira whispered,and pasted a look of solicitous concern on her face as Rand walked up to them with a few long strides.
"Rose?" Rand inquired, his hazel eyes darkening to deep olive as he regarded his wife with concern.
"She is not feeling well," Mira said smoothly, her expression guileless and sincere. "Too much wine and dancing, probably."
"Yes, that's it," Rosalie said, not daring to look at Rand, who could always tell when she was lying. She kept her panicked blue eyes on Mira's face.
"I'm going to take you upstairs to rest—" Rand began, settling a square brown hand on his wife's arm.
"I'll accompany her upstairs," Mira interrupted, taking hold of Rosalie's other arm.
"Yes, Mira will go with me," Rosalie chimed in, giving her husband an agitated smile. "You stay here for a little longer—remember, you still haven't danced with your cousin Thalia, and I don't want her to feel like a wallflower."
"I'm not going to dance with Thalia," Rand said, his tawny brows lowering over his eyes. "Not when you're feeling ill, and certainly not when her habit of stepping on her partners' feet is still fresh in my memory."