“It is traditional, I believe, to have a masked stranger make away with a beautiful woman at affairs like this. . . .” The man’s voice certainly matched that of Mr. Smith. Heris looked around the room. The Crown Minister had turned white, but most people were amused, interested . . . already the hum of conversation had returned. The servant Heris had first seen came in sight again; the masked man turned and handed him the reins. “Here—hold my mount, please.” Wide-eyed, the servant did so. Then the masked man strode into the dining hall, up the length to the family’s table, and grabbed Raffaele firmly by one wrist. With a bow to Ronnie, he said, “You stole a singer from me; I but return the compliment—”
“Imposter!” Ronnie leapt to his feet and yanked the mask from the man’s face and the sword from his hand. Heris heard the startled gasps. Mr. Smith, without a doubt. But Ronnie’s furious stare down the table denied it. “You would have us think you’re the prince, because everyone knows I quarrelled with the prince . . . but you’re only a common mechanic.”
“Let go of my arm,” Raffaele said, in the tone she would have used to a social inferior. Mr. Smith complied, looking confused.
“But I am the prince—”
“You’re a . . . a mole,” Ronnie said. Raffaele rubbed her wrist and looked away, pointedly ignoring the intruder. Heris suddenly realized where Ronnie was going with this, and could hardly believe he had thought so fast. She waited for the cue she was sure he would give. “Don’t think I didn’t see you ogling Raffa on my aunt’s yacht. Just because you are fair-haired and tall, just because you know how to use makeup, you thought you could pass yourself off as the prince.” He shook the man’s shoulder. “Look at you! You’re in a roomful of people who know the prince—didn’t you think of that? Did you really expect to fool people by covering your face? Did you hear what Lord Thornbuckle’s aunt said? We know how to dress in period costumes—this mess you have on is a—a travesty. Pitiful.” He looked down the table at Heris. “I must complain, Captain Serrano, about the actions of your crewman.”
Heris stood smoothly. “You’re quite right. I regret that I didn’t recognize him in his disguise, but he is only the junior environmental tech, and I’ve never seen him in anything but a shipsuit. I take full responsibility. Petris—” Petris stood, as well. “We’ll make sure this—individual—” She could not think of a name to give him. Mr. Smith was too dangerous now. “—doesn’t intrude again, and I daresay his working papers will be cancelled permanently.”
“But I am—and this was all I could find—”
“Silence.” Bunny had found his voice at last; when he chose to be loud, he could be heard across an open field in a blowing wind. Here it silenced everyone, even the furtive whisperers in the corners. “I insist that my militia escort this individual to the shuttleport, and all the way into the custody of your yacht, Lady Cecelia. I believe I am correct in saying there may be charges beyond my jurisdiction, involving impersonation of a member of the Royal Family—?” He inclined his head to Kevil Mahoney, who nodded. “Then I would not have him on this planet one hour longer than necessary. Captain Serrano, if you will inform your standing watch?”
“With pleasure.”
Still protesting, but uselessly, Mr. Smith found himself overpowered and dragged away by militia, while Heris called the yacht and arranged for his confinement. Ronnie still stood at the end of the table, and when the room quieted, he looked to Bunny for permission to speak. Bunny nodded.
Ronnie rubbed his nose a moment, until he had everyone’s attention. “Most of you know that I was exiled for a year after the prince and I had a dispute. Some of you know more. But what you may not know is how I could be so sure the prince had not come here in some disguise or other. When I knew where my aunt was bringing me, I worried about that myself, and looked it up. The prince was posted to the Royal Aero-Space Service depot on Naverrn—” Ronnie was looking at the Crown Minister, who, Heris noted, suddenly looked very alert. “I’m sure any of you can check that posting, and confirm it. And this man—I don’t even know his name—caught my eye on the yacht because he did somewhat resemble the prince, and he was sneaking around Raffaele.”
“But are you sure it wasn’t the prince pretending to be an environmental tech?” asked a woman near one corner.
“Of course it wasn’t,” Ronnie said. “We had both sworn an oath to duel if we saw each other within the next year—do you think both of us would be coward enough to ignore that? That—that person didn’t even know how to use a sword.” He looked angry; Raffa patted his hand, and he sat down again.
Heris could almost hear the collective lurch with which everyone tried to return to the mood of a Hunt Dinner and Ball and ignore the interruption, as Bunny signalled and the servants brought in another course.
George leaned against the mirrored wall of the ballroom feeling sulky again. Ronnie and Raffa hardly seemed to notice the music, but flowed with it like leaves on a stream. Captain Serrano and Petris . . . he would like to have made a jest of them, but could not. They had gone through so much; they deserved their obvious happiness. If only Bubbles had not turned against him . . . they could have made another good match, he was sure. He liked her well enough, now that Raffa had turned to Ronnie. Blondes set off his own dark handsomeness.
It was unfair. He and the prince alone, out of all that crowd, could not enjoy the party. And while he was luckier than the prince, in being here and not under guard somewhere, he had no one to share his evening. He watched the whirling dancers idly for awhile, then stared. His father. His father and Ronnie’s aunt. Talking, laughing, obviously enjoying each other. . . . They danced by, and Lady Cecelia winked at him. His father, and that old . . . although she wasn’t all that bad, really. She danced remarkably well, in fact. He just didn’t want her as a stepmother, or aunt, or whatever she and his father might have in mind. The two of them together were definitely too smart for him; he and Ronnie would never enjoy more pranks. He turned away, ready to take a long walk somewhere, and almost fell over the girl coming his way. Her eyes widened. “You’re—you’re George Starbridge Mahoney, aren’t you? Kevil Mahoney’s son?” He knew what to do with that kind of look, and drew himself up.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
“Somebody told me your nickname was Odious, but I don’t believe it. I think you’re nice.” She had hazel eyes and fluffy hair of a red-brown shade he couldn’t have put a name to. Something about her made him feel protective, something more than the slender wrists and hands, he was sure, or the somewhat pointy face. “You don’t know me,” she said, almost timidly. “I’m just one of the cousins; you’ve seen me out hunting, but usually covered with mud.”
“I should have seen beneath it,” he said gallantly. He liked being gallant. “Would you care to dance?” He led her onto the floor.
“I love Hunt Balls,” the girl said. They whirled around; she danced as lightly as a fox over a fence on its way to take a chicken from the coop. George drew back a moment, wondering. Was he the hunter, or was she? It didn’t matter, he decided; she couldn’t be that certain herself.
“So do I,” he said, and took her past his father and Ronnie’s aunt, enjoying their reaction. “So do I.”