Percy stays with us, though a bit apart—his desire to keep post-kiss distance from me seems to be doing battle with his desire to not be alone in this crowd. If I’m riding on the coattails of my father’s connections in being here, he’s clinging to the seams, with no title, a gentry family, and the darkest skin of anyone who isn’t minding the refreshments. Most people we meet either gape openly like he’s fine art on display or pretend he doesn’t exist. One woman actually claps her hands in delight when she spots him, like she’s just witnessed a soft-eared puppy perform a trick.
“You know, I’m very involved in your cause,” she keeps saying to him as her husband natters on to Worthington and me, until Percy finally asks, “What cause?”
She looks shocked he had to ask. “The abolition of the slave trade, of course. My club has been boycotting slave-grown sugarcane since the winter.”
“That’s not really my cause,” Percy replies.
“Where are you headed next?” her husband asks, and it’s a moment before I realize he’s addressing me. I’m caught between wanting to smack the pox patches off this woman’s face and to smack Percy because I’m still angry about our kiss. Perhaps I could get them both with a wide swing.
“Marseilles at the end of summer, didn’t you say, Disley?” Worthington prompts.
“Yes,” I reply. “Then east to Venice, Florence, and Rome. Perhaps Geneva.”
“How long since you came from Africa?” the woman asks, and Percy replies, his tone remarkably gentle for what a jilt she’s being, “I was raised in England, madam.”
“You should speak to my club before you leave Paris,” she says, bobbing toward him like a top about to tip.
“I don’t think—”
“We were in Venice earlier this year,” her husband says, dragging me back into his conversation. “Quite a place. You should see Saint Bartolomeo’s while you’re there—the frescoes are better than at Saint Mark’s, and the friars will walk you up to the bell tower if you’re willing to part with some coinage. Avoid the Carnevale—it’s all hedonism and masquerades. Oh, and there’s an island off the coast, with a chapel—can’t remember the name, but it’s been sinking into the Lagoon. It’ll be underwater by the end of summer.”
“My club meets Thursday evenings,” the woman is saying, and Percy is replying, “I don’t think I’d have anything to say.”
But she pushes on. “To have been raised the way you were! In a wealthy household, with natural children . . .”
I can feel waves of secondhand embarrassment wafting off Percy like I’m standing too close to an oven, and the gentleman is tapping the bowl of his clay pipe against the back of his hand out of time with the music, and I want a drink so badly I can hardly think straight.
“It’s a dramatic sight, crumbling and half sunk into the sea.” His pipe knocks into his ring with a clatter that sets my teeth on edge. “We took a boat out, though they only let you get so close—”
“Well, doesn’t that just sound like the most fun thing I can imagine,” I interrupt, louder than I mean to though I don’t retreat from it.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sitting in a boat and watching an island sink slowly into the sea,” I say. “What a thrill. Perhaps while we’re a thousand miles from home, we’ll also take in an eyeful of tea boiling.”
The gentleman is so shocked he takes an actual step backward from me, which is a tad dramatic. “Merely a suggestion, my lord. I thought you might enjoy—”
“I can’t imagine I would,” I reply, stone-faced.
“Well, then. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Excuse us.”
He takes his wife’s arm, and as he leads her away, I hear her say, “Negroes are so standoffish.” A fitting end to a conversation that was essentially prolonged mortification for all parties involved.
The ambassador looks as though he’s about to scold me, but he’s distracted when his wig catches on a passing woman’s and they’re both nearly uncoiffed. I look over at Percy, hoping he might thank me for saving him from conversing further with that cow, and then we’ll conspire about how bloody awful this night has turned out to be. But he’s frowning at me with nearly the same enthusiasm as the ambassador. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask.
He blows a sharp sigh through his nose. “Must you be an ass to everyone you meet?”
“He was the one giving daft travel advice.”
“You’re being obnoxious.”
“Zounds, Perce. Be a bit gentle, why don’t you?”
“Can’t you put in some effort? Please? Even if you don’t give a whit what anyone has to say, these are important people. People who could be good for you to know. And even if they weren’t, you should at least try to be kind.”
God, I would cut off my own feet for my champagne glass to magically refill itself in this moment. I’m craning my neck for a passing server. “I really don’t care who anyone here is.”
Percy grabs me by the sleeve, pulling me around so we’re face-to-face. The back of his hand brushes mine, and we shy from each other like spooked horses. That goddamn kiss is ruining my life. “Well, you should.”
“Why does it matter to you?” I snap, shoving my fists into my pockets. His cravat has slipped, and I can see my teethmarks crawling up his neck, which is just bloody aggravating.
“Because we can’t all have the luxury of not caring what people think of us.”
I scowl. “Leave me alone. Go speak to someone else.”
“Who am I meant to speak to?”
“Fine, go serve the drinks, then,” I snap, and immediately wish I hadn’t. I reach out before he can say anything and take hold of his arm. “Wait, I’m sorry—”
He shrugs off my grip. “Thanks for that, Monty.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“But you did,” he says, then stalks away. All the righteous indignation I’ve been nursing for days wilts like butter in the sun.
Worthington reappears suddenly at my side, scraping a hand along his wig. A small blossom of starchy powder blooms from its strands. “Where’s Mr. Newton gone?”
“Don’t know,” I reply, resisting the urge to toss back my coupe one more time to make certain there isn’t a last swallow clinging to the bottom.
“Come here, you should be introduced to the Duke of Bourbon,” he says, fastening my arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and I am pivoted to face a man coming toward us. He’s a stocky and ungenial-looking fellow in a red-and-gold justacorps, with a curled wig enveloping his head like a horned cyclone. “Do try and be civil. This is the young king’s former prime minister—he’s just been dismissed for unknown reasons. Still a touchy subject.”
“I really don’t care,” I reply, though in the back of my head I can hear Percy’s admonition to try and be kinder like the echo of a cymbal. A stab of guilt goes through me, and I think, perhaps, it might be novel to give this society-manners thing a bit of an effort.
“Good evening, my lord.” The ambassador darts into the path of the duke, who looked ready to pass us by, and offers a short bow.