Page 8 of Heartless

Cath lowered her eyes and tried to look sheepish, though with every reminder she was becoming less embarrassed and more annoyed. ‘There seems to have been some miscommunication.’

‘You look stupid,’ said Jack.

Catherine bristled. ‘There’s no cause for rudeness.’

Jack huffed, scanning her dress again. And again. ‘You’re not half as lovely as you think you are, Lady Pinkerton. Not a quarter as lovely even, and I’ve only got one eye to see it.’

‘I assure you I don’t—’

‘Everyone thinks as much, just won’t say it to your face like I will. But I’m not afraid of you, not one little bit.’

‘I never said—’

‘I don’t even like you all that very much.’

Catherine pressed her lips tight and inhaled a patient breath. ‘Yes, I do believe you told me that the last time I saw you, Jack. And the time before that. And the time before that. You’ve been reminding me how much you dislike me since we were six years old and dressing up the maypole, if I recall correctly.’

‘Yes. Right. Because it’s true.’ Jack’s cheeks had reddened. ‘Also, you smell like a daisy. Except, one of those awful, stinky ones.’

‘Naturally, one of those,’ said Catherine. ‘Heaven forbid I mistake that for a compliment.’

Jack grunted, then reached up and pulled on one of her curls.

‘Ow!’

The Knave had swivelled on his feet and marched away before Catherine could think of a response, though she would later wish she had taken the opportunity to give him a good kick in the shins.

‘What an oaf,’ Margaret said after he had gone.

‘He most certainly is,’ agreed Catherine, rubbing her scalp and wondering how long she’d been there and how much longer she would have to stay.

‘Of course,’ Margaret continued, ‘it is most deplorable of you to encourage such oafish behaviour.’

Catherine spun towards her, aghast. ‘I do not encourage it.’

‘If that’s what you believe, I suppose we must agree to be disagreeable,’ said Margaret. ‘And the moral of that is—’

But before she could extrapolate some nonsensical proof of ill behaviour, a blare of a trumpet echoed through the ballroom. At the top of the steps, the White Rabbit proclaimed in his nasally voice –

‘PRESENTING HIS ROYAL MAJESTY THE KING OF HEARTS.’

The White Rabbit blew the horn again, then tucked the instrument against his side and bowed. Cath turned with the rest of the guests as the King emerged at the top of his own private staircase. The entire chessboard of aristocrats rippled with bows and curtsies.

The King wore full regalia – a white fur cloak, black-and-white-striped pantaloons, glossy white shoes with diamond-studded buckles, and a heart-tipped sceptre in one hand. This was all topped with the crown, trimmed with more rubies and diamonds and velvet and a central heart-shaped finial.

It would have been a striking ensemble, except the fur had some syrupy substance near the collar, the pantaloons were bunching around one knee, and the crown – which Catherine had always thought looked too heavy for the King’s tiny head – had slipped to one side. Also, His Majesty was grinning like a loon when Catherine rose from her curtsy.

And he was grinning at her.

Catherine stiffened as the King jostled down the steps. The crowd fanned out to allow him through, creating a direct pathway, and before Catherine could think to move aside herself, the King was standing before her.

‘Fair evening, Lady Pinkerton!’ He arched up on to his toes, which drew even more attention to his minuscule stature. He stood at least two hands shorter than Catherine, despite the rumour that he had special-crafted shoes with two-inch soles.

‘Fair evening, Your Majesty. How do you do?’ She curtsied again.

The White Rabbit, who had followed in the King’s wake, cleared his throat. ‘His Royal Majesty would like to request the hand of Lady Catherine Pinkerton for the first quadrille.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Why, thank you, Your Majesty. I would be honoured.’ Catherine dipped into a third curtsy – her practised reaction to anything that was said in the King’s presence. It was not at all that he was an intimidating man. Much the opposite. The King, perhaps fifteen years her senior, was round-bodied and rosy-cheeked and had a tendency to giggle at the most inopportune times. It was his very lack of intimidation that kept Catherine on her best behaviour, otherwise it would be too easy to forget that he was her sovereign.

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