Fortunately, she wasn't the only lady present who'd chosen to eschew those monstrously stiff fabric enclosures, so while she wasn't exactly the height of fashion, neither did she particularly stand out. And it meant she was far more comfortable, and far more agile, than most of the women crammed into the Lamarr household.
Gliding through the room (or, more accurately, shoving and elbowing her way through the room with as much courtesy as shoving and elbowing permit), she took a dainty bite of this, a small sip of that, an appreciative sniff of the other; bestowed a dazzling smile or a respectful nod to all who knew her; and otherwise allowed her body to coast through the party-going motions while straining her own ears and Olgun's magics to pick up any words of import.
Unfortunately, while most conversations she overheard touched on Davillon's current woes, she learned precious little that she hadn't already known. Conspiracies regarding the identity of the crazed killer ranged from some sort of demon summoned from the Pit, to a witch preparing for a horrid ritual, to a scheme on the part of city officials to take more power from the private citizens and place it in the hands of the Guard, to the ghosts of the poor who had died during Davillon's financial difficulties. (There were, of course, a few who assumed that none of the rumors were true, and that no such attacks or murders had occurred at all, but these were largely excluded from the conversation by those who knew better, or thought they did.)
She learned that the Guard patrols had indeed doubled in size and frequency, that every noble house had hired on extra soldiers of their own, and that-in the face of the murderer's apparent supernatural nature-attendance at religious services had quadrupled in the past week, as people's anger at the Church for its treatment of the city slowly gave way to their need for protection against the ghouls and goblins of the night.
But as to hard facts, believable theories, or actual plans regarding what the city should do about it all…well, they were about as common at this aristocrats' party as honest smiles or genuine compliments.
“Why, Mademoiselle Valois! What an exquisite pleasure to see you here!”
“Oh, goose muffins. Olgun, you really need to learn how to make either me, or other people, completely invisible.” In a far louder and more cheerful tone, she called, “Baron d'Orreille! As I live and breathe!” And then, once more in a tone far too low to be overheard, “And gag. And possibly retch.”
She felt Olgun's chuckle across the back of her scalp.
Charles Doumerge, the Baron d'Orreille-or “Baron Weasel-face,” where Madeleine was concerned-scurried and twisted his way through the throng so that he might bow obsequiously to her and kiss the back of her hand with thin, dry lips. Since Madeleine couldn't have escaped without Olgun's supernatural aid (aid, it's worth pointing out, that she seriously considered calling upon, despite the need for secrecy and subtlety), she kept the smile plastered firmly to her face and allowed her hand to suffer in order to protect the rest of her.
Doumerge's bony form straightened so awkwardly, Madeleine actually found herself looking for the strings that must surely be puppeteering him. A gray-faced, straw-haired, limp rag of a fellow, Doumerge had attempted to gussy himself up in tunic and trousers of pristine white, a vest sparkling with gold lace, and a broad sash of a wine hue. The last was so near to being royal purple that it not only bordered on insolence, but stuck a toe across that border and mouthed various obscenities at anyone on the other side.
None of it did the tiniest glimmer of good. He remained a gaunt, unimpressive rodent of a man. But he was a man with powerful friends, and who himself hosted many elaborate soirees, and whom Widdershins had successfully robbed more than once, so it paid to stay polite, however difficult it might be.
The baron rose, and Madeleine successfully fought off the urge to find something on which to wipe her hand. “And what do you think of the marquise's party?” she asked, mostly to keep Doumerge from guiding the conversation himself.
“Eh.” The weasel twitched his fingers as though brushing off a length of cobweb. “Acceptable, I suppose, for one of her means, but she's clearly trying to rise above her station. I doubt she's fooling anyone with her pretensions to greater wealth and breeding. Or, well, she's certainly not fooling me. I suppose I oughtn't speak for those with less refined sensibilities.”
“Well,” Madeleine breathed, clearly hanging on Doumerge's every word (and trying not to cringe as said breath drew his attention, with alarming rapidity, to her neckline). “I certainly wouldn't even consider disagreeing with you, dear baron.” Mostly, she added silently, because if I did, I'd probably start by folding you in half like an envelope and shoving your heels up your nostrils.
She was just trying to think of some polite way to extricate herself from further conversation-which shouldn't have been that difficult, since the two of them weren't precisely good friends or even close acquaintances-but apparently Doumerge was feeling particularly gregarious. (That, or he believed he recognized, in Madeleine, a potentially captive audience for his great social insight.) Even as she drew breath to speak, the baron turned so that he might intertwine his arm in hers. “Come, my dear. I can tell you with complete confidence who's worth being seen with and who isn't. Perhaps I can even introduce you to a few new friends, hmm?”
When the woman who had three separate names, and until recently had made her living entirely through theft, responded with, “I'd be delighted,” it was perhaps the single greatest lie she'd ever uttered. She offered her unwanted companion a tight smile, mostly intended to keep her from gritting her teeth, and allowed him to half lead, half drag her through the packed multitudes of high society.
For endless minutes, he prattled on about this lord or that baroness, this marquis or that mistress. Everything from wealth to breeding, from the size of one person's estate to the size of another's debt, from the mismatched colors of one outfit to the fraying wig of another…If it could be commented on or gossiped about with any degree of disdain, Doumerge was ready with a wit that was about as pointed and razor-honed as a bowl of soup.
For her part, Madeleine pretended fascination with his droning, nodding or gasping or grumbling in all the right places, and otherwise continued listening for information regarding her actual interests. Information that, as before, was proving frustratingly elusive.
She was, however, paying enough attention to Doumerge to drag him abruptly to a halt in both midstep and midsentence.
“I'm sorry,” she said sweetly. “Introduce me to who, now?”
“Gurrerre Marguilles,” the baron repeated. “Lord of-”
“I know who Monsieur Marguilles is,” Madeleine told him, allowing a touch of frost to condense over her words. “I fear that I find the man rather frightfully boorish, and I've nothing I care to say to him.”
Which, while not entirely true, was far safer than saying, He's met me as someone else, and while I don't think he knows Widdershins well enough to see through the makeup, I'm not about to take the risk. Plus, if I have to talk to him, I'll either start crying over Genevieve, or punch him somewhere really rude.