It was so tedious that they voted this way, each country casting its vote one at a time, but Beatrice had stopped questioning protocol at this conference.
“No,” King Zog of Albania said decisively.
What? Beatrice had assumed Albania was a shoo-in; King Zog usually voted however the tsar did. Hadn’t Dmitri talked to him?
A minute later Beatrice was in a cold, sweating panic. So far Finland and Canada were the only ones who’d supported her. It was all okay, she told herself; they still had so much of the alphabet to go.
“France,” Frederick called out.
It took a moment for Beatrice to realize that Louise wasn’t saying anything.
Silence stretched across the room. Beatrice glanced over and saw that her friend’s eyes were closed, as if she felt dizzy or faint. Stop the voting, she was about to call out. Couldn’t everyone see that Louise needed a doctor?
Then Louise opened her eyes and looked straight at Beatrice, her features etched with regret. Beatrice’s stomach swooped in sickening understanding as Louise finally spoke.
“No.”
The rest of the vote went by in a whirlwind. The room had gone blurry, but Beatrice gritted her teeth and held her chin high, swallowing back her tears even though they burned at her eyelids. Louise had deserted her.
Louise, her confidante, her friend, who’d taken Beatrice under her wing and made her feel warm and glowing and worthy. Louise, who’d begged Beatrice to come to France with her because she couldn’t bear to face her father alone. Who’d cried on her shoulder, told her secrets out under the stars.
Louise, whom she’d made the mistake of trusting.
The nos cascaded after that, stacking one atop the other in a devastating landslide of rejection. Tsar Dmitri voted in favor of the accord, as promised—a Romanov always kept his word, didn’t he—but by then it didn’t really matter. The rest of them kept on denying her, one king or queen after the other.
Beatrice felt everyone casting avid, curious glances her way. Whispers rumbled through the room. Did you see her face? they were probably asking one another. She thought she had the votes, and look how wrong she was. Even her best friend didn’t support her.
Not to mention that the newspapers would eat her alive. They would take this vote as more proof that Beatrice could never accomplish anything, that she couldn’t hold her own amid more experienced rulers. That she was flighty and young and irresponsible.
Beatrice kept her gaze resolutely forward. She couldn’t bear to look at Louise and risk bursting into tears at her friend’s betrayal.
She’d thought they were friends, but in the end, what she’d told Teddy all those weeks ago was true. Hers was a lonely and isolating job, one that didn’t really allow for friends. It had been a mistake, letting her emotions get in the way, thinking she could rely upon Louise.
Beatrice had never been able to rely on anyone but herself. She was in this role alone, and she always would be.
There really was nothing so wonderful as a formal state ball, especially one filled with the most glamorous and influential people in the world. It made Daphne feel almost dizzy, as if she were drunk, or at altitude—and in a way she was both. Drunk on success, and at altitude because she’d ascended to the highest of social heights: the League of Kings farewell banquet.
The last time this party had taken place, Daphne hadn’t been dating Jefferson yet. She’d still been a nobody, saving up to buy every last magazine at the newsstand and stare at the photos. The royals had all looked so breathtakingly untouchable: the men in jeweled sashes over the crimson or navy of their blazers, the women in tiaras and gowns that glittered like fire. And now Daphne was one of them, a character on the world’s stage.
“There she is,” Nina breathed. Daphne followed her gaze to where Gabriella stood across the ballroom.
Gabriella looked up as if she’d heard them. Her eyes darted in their direction, and she stared at them for a slow, smoldering moment before turning aside.
Daphne smiled, jubilant. Gabriella was wearing the purple gown Nigel had custom-designed for her; and even though it had probably cost a hundred times more than Daphne’s vintage find, Daphne’s was classic and tasteful. Unlike Gabriella’s, which was covered in flounces and had a plunging V-neck.
It just went to show that more expensive didn’t always translate to better.
Daphne looked at Jefferson, who was chatting a few yards away with the crown princes of Austria and Greece. Daphne had apologized profusely for that fight at the End of Session party, and Jefferson had said not to worry about it, but she could tell that things were strained. She’d hurt him, publicly, and violated the most valuable thing she had—his trust.
She glanced down at the signet ring on her hand. Its weight felt reassuring, its gold W gleaming with promise and possibility.
She may have made a mistake, but she could still fix it. She had done worse to her relationship with Jefferson before, and she’d always managed to fix things in the end.
Daphne knew she should head over to where Jefferson stood. Yet as strange as it was, she found that she would rather stay with Nina than go out there and charm people.
If Daphne’s mother were here, she would have slapped her for her foolishness. But they had defeated Gabriella and saved her family’s title. Didn’t Daphne deserve a few minutes off from the endless, relentless climb that was her life?
“Do you know who all these people are, anyway?” Nina asked, glancing around the cocktail hour.
Daphne rolled her eyes indulgently. “Yes. And so should you.” She nodded toward the stately white-haired woman in a shimmering cheongsam. “That’s Empress Mei Ling. She’s an icon. They say she invented the evening bag.”
“That cannot be true. People have been using bags to hold their belongings since ancient times.”
Daphne sighed. “She was the first person to carry a clutch with an evening gown. It’s thanks to her that you’re wearing a cute bag right now, instead of an embellished fanny pack.”
Nina visibly brightened at the prospect of an embellished fanny pack, so Daphne hurried to continue. “That man with the dark mustache is Sebastian, the King of Chile. He’s in some feud with the King of Bolivia, though no one knows precisely what it is. And that woman with the blond updo is Princess Louise of France.”
Nina stared at Louise with idle curiosity. “Sam says that Louise and Beatrice have been hanging out a lot.”
Daphne nodded to where Samantha stood with her boyfriend. “Speaking of hanging out, how are Samantha and Marshall?” For once, she wasn’t trying to fish for gossip. It had just surprised her how readily the two of them had broken up, then gotten back together.