Reserved for the Cat

Then again, Monsieur Ciccolini did not stand to profit as highly as she did from the upcoming grand production, Escape from the Harem. There was no doubt in Nina’s mind that she was going to be worth every farthing, but the total still dazzled.

“’Tis not another one of those,” Ailse replied, her brow furrowed with puzzlement. “Canna make out what, exactly, this laddie wants . . . looks like he is inviting ye t’ tea, nobbut he writes like he’s invitin’ ye t’ Royal Audience.”

Ninette took it from her, read it through, and began to laugh. “Oh my!” she chuckled. “That is exactly what it is. Have you ever heard of this fellow?” she asked, handing the card back to Ailse.

The maid shook her head. “What with all the cards and flowers and all, a body would think ye knew every name that wasna already in the papers,” she said dubiously.

“Exactly.” Ninette chuckled. “This is nobody, but he thinks very highly of himself. I expect that this is not tea he is inviting me to. I think this is an audition to have the honor of being his mistress. And if I pass, he will permit me if you will—”

Ailse went scarlet, although Ninette could not tell if it was from outrage, amusement, embarrassment, or a combination of all three. Although she suspected the latter.

“Now,” Ninette continued thoughtfully, “it might barely be possible that this is someone of great importance masquerading behind an unknown name.”

“What?” Ailse gasped. “The Prince? Prince Edward? But—”

“But I think it highly unlikely.” Ninette serenely counted off the reasons on her fingers. “First, the royal yacht is nowhere to be seen, nor the royal car on the rails here. Second, Prince Edward was reported by the papers yesterday to be in Monte Carlo. Thirdly, should the prince seek to hide behind an unknown name it would be the name of one of his gentlemen, and he would not send a plain-jacketed manservant with dusty shoes to deliver the note. And what is more, anyone he sent would stay for an answer, because as royalty knows, the answer might be ‘no,’ and it would not do for a Prince to be loitering even in a private room of a common chophouse.”

Ailse breathed a sigh, half of relief, half of regret.

“And I do not intend to answer the invitation of someone who clearly regards himself as no less than royalty who is, in fact not royalty.” She turned to the dressing room mirror. “Particularly not when we have so much work to do. If this man had even the faintest idea of what my life is like, he would issue an invitation for a late supper, after the performance, not an afternoon tea. Toss it away, Ailse.”

“We are shooting today, Mademoiselle,” Ailse said firmly.

“I know. Nigel is sending his automobile in an hour. And in the meanwhile, I intend to practice the solo from Giselle.” Monsieur Ciccolini had the choreography from that ballet memorized so well that he probably could have taught it had he been blinded, and although Ninette was hardly performing the classical repertoire anymore, she intended to continue to learn it. One never knew. Perhaps, one day, if only to indulge her, Nigel would stage a real ballet. She felt faintly guilty about claiming to be a ballerina, and yet never actually doing real ballet.

With Ailse keeping careful track of time, she had just enough time to leave the studio garbed in a most peculiar costume and jump into the back of the auto before the driver became impatient.

“Hoy!” Jonathon said, looking at her in astonishment. “I thought I was taking Mademoiselle Ninette to shoot!”

“So you are,” Ninette replied, pushing back the boy’s cap on her head. “And this is a much more practical costume for shooting than any gown I own.”

She had put her hair up in the ballerina’s bun, and clapped a tweed cap, purchased from a shop that sold boy’s hats, over the top of it. She wore a shirt, rather than a blouse, of very severe cut; this had been purchased from a shop that sold the sort of things that ladies who typed wore to their offices. There were no lace cuffs or frou-frous to get in the way. On her legs, Ninette wore the contraption known as a “bloomer skirt”; admittedly, she could have gotten the sort of divided skirt some ladies wore to ride or play tennis in, but from what she understood, there was going to be a great deal of clambering over rocks, and she wanted her legs as free of encumbrance as she could manage. “I wish I could have gotten boy’s trousers or even knickers to fit me,” she said wistfully. “But on such short notice, it wasn’t possible.”

She was scarcely embarrassed, seeing as she had worn far, far less onstage for a very long time now. Jonathon’s lips quirked in a ghost of a smile.

“Allow me to congratulate you on your good sense, mademoiselle,” he said. “There are females who would have expected me to carry them to where we are going to go.”