The Address(39)

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” She clutched the ties of her mask tightly. “It wouldn’t do for you to be seen with a member of the staff of the Dakota. They’ll have my hide. And yours.”

“I’ve informed them that my second cousin, Imogen Cuthberg, will be joining me. We’ll flit around the edges before making a run for the door. No one will notice, I promise.”

“‘Imogen Cuthberg’? Is that the best you can do?”

He gave her a mock pout. “I’ll have you know I do have a second cousin named Imogen Cuthberg, and she’s a delightful soul.” He paused, thinking. “Her teeth are quite crooked and she’s not the quickest wit, but delightful nonetheless.”

“I can only imagine what you see in me, in that case.” The darkness made her bold.

“Lovely teeth and a rapier-sharp wit, if you must know.”

Thankfully, he couldn’t see the pink glow that stole up her neck to the top of her head.

The carriage finally lurched to a halt in front of the Rutherfords’ mansion. Sara took a deep breath and descended. Now that she was wearing a proper gown, all of her mother’s admonishments regarding posture and deportment kicked in, and she glided along the sidewalk to the enormous front door encased by white marble columns.

Inside, they found themselves in a crush of guests. Mr. Camden had said the invitation list numbered over a thousand, and for that she was thankful, as it encouraged anonymity. Everyone was trying to squeeze into the great hall, and Sara let herself be swept along, with Mr. Camden’s hand on her elbow providing reassurance. He maneuvered them into a corner of an enormous ballroom where they could gape without being trodden upon.

If this night weren’t already a dream, the great hall was designed to be just that. Its recessed fountain alcoves and climbing stone vines turned the world inside out. The weight of the rusticated walls added to the soaring illusion of the trompe l’oeil sky that covered the vaulted ceiling.

“Your dress is lovely.” Mr. Camden took a few steps back, his lips parted. No mirror was needed to know that she filled out the gown nicely—his face showed his delight. “It matches the flowers.” He pointed to the vase of blush roses that blocked them from view, only one of hundreds of similar arrangements in hues from ivory to crimson. The current craze for indoor greenery was evident as well, with enormous palms and ferns clustered around the marble columns.

“It’s like a jungle.” She was proud and bashful and eager to deflect his attention.

“A jungle with wainscoting stripped from a chateau in France.”

“I believe their fireplace rivals ours,” Sara noted.

Mr. Camden studied it. “Carlisle stone and carved oak. Looks about twenty feet wide. The one in the Dakota dining room is a slight fifteen feet wide. I do apologize for that, Miss Cuthberg.”

“As you should.”

He might as well have shouted out her true name for all the attention, or lack thereof, they garnered. Mr. Camden purloined a couple of champagne glasses from a passing tray and handed one to her.

“Come, let’s explore.” He took her down a hallway that led away from the crowds, the tails of his dress coat fluttering behind him.

“How many servants does it take to keep a place like this running?” she asked. The champagne bubbled in her nose and she coughed.

“A little under forty, from what I’ve heard.” He opened a door and raised his eyebrows. “Here we go.”

They stood inside a library, the grandest Sara had ever seen. Bookshelves lined every wall, three levels in all, ringed by narrow balconies. The fireplace of bloodred marble reminded her of a piece of raw steak, streaked with fat. She drew closer, drawn to the figures carved along the mantel: a row of a dozen fat babies, all grabbing at one another in anger or churlishness.

“What on earth?”

Mr. Camden drew closer and sighed. “I know, awful, isn’t it?”

“I would have thought cherubs would be better suited for such a grand space.” She gestured up at the coffered ceiling. “Not these devilish creatures.”

“Now do you understand my frustration? To have so much money, to waste it on such garishness.” He turned to her. “That’s why I want to get away from Hardenbergh, start my own firm and begin changing the world. One building at a time. No more European flourishes. Straight lines soaring into the sky.”

“You’re talking about remaking the entire city, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I am. Someone must.”

Sara studied the stained-glass windows and porcelain vases. “How do you know what’s truly valuable, when everything is valuable?”

He laughed. “Precisely.” His mask covered his expression, but his eyes danced with pleasure.

Sara froze as a deep voice from the hallway drew closer. “Someone’s coming. What shall we do?”

Mr. Camden took her hand and pulled her into an alcove off the main room, out of sight.

She resisted at first, but it was no use. They were trapped.

Mr. Camden put his mouth close to her ear. “We’ll stay here, quiet, for a moment. They’ve probably come for a smoke and will leave soon enough.”

Sara squeezed as far back as she could. Shelves lined the alcove, but instead of leather-bound books, they contained artifacts of all sorts. Ancient manuscripts sat alongside gleaming swords, and grotesque figurines from some foreign land leered back at them. Terrified she’d knock something over, Sara stood as still as possible.