Cinderella Six Feet Under by Maia Chance

her, frowning and fanning herself, and the Smythe ladies. Mrs. Smythe read a book. Light bounced off Seraphina’s spectacles. No Malbert, though.
    Austorga had opera glasses glued to her eyes. She wasn’t viewing the stage; she was viewing the opposite balcony. Ophelia trained her own opera glasses on the spot where she fancied Austorga was looking.
    Aha.
    Ophelia passed Penrose the opera glasses. “Up there, first balcony on the right, second tier. That towheaded gentleman in the white jacket was at the party in the mansion that night, and so was that lion-looking fellow next to him, with the hair down to his shoulders.”
    Penrose looked.
    â€œI fancy one of those gentlemen might be a fellow by the name of Prince Rupprecht,” Ophelia said. “The stepsisters were raising a ruckus over him just this afternoon. He’s giving a ball on Saturday, and seeing as he’s the apple of every Parisian debutante’s eye, it sounds as if it’s to be the biggest to-do of the year. What’s more, it seems he’s making an important announcement at his ball.”
    â€œOf a matrimonial nature?”
    â€œI reckon so.”
    â€œWell, if he and that other chap were in attendance at the Roque-Fabliau mansion the night Miss Pinet was killed, I must go and speak with them. One of them is, quite possibly, a murderer.”
    â€œ
We
will go speak with them.”
    At the first interval, Penrose sent along his card with one of the ushers. The usher returned with an invitation for Lord Harrington to join Prince Rupprecht in his box for the remainder of the ballet.
    â€œYou do wring every last drop from that title of yours,” Ophelia said.
    â€œI try.”
    As soon as they had pushed through the curtains at the back of Prince Rupprecht’s box, Ophelia wrinkled her nose. The box reeked of cigar smoke, brandy fumes, and some other scent that called to mind dark dens and musky fur.
    Four gentlemen occupied the box.
    â€œLord Harrington!” the towheaded gentleman said. “Come in, come in!” He had some sort of exotic accent. Ophelia couldn’t put her finger on which one, but it smacked of the far frontiers of Europe. He lounged in a chair near the front railing, where he’d propped up both of his glossy-booted feet in order, presumably, to better enjoy his brandy and cigar. Epaulets, gold braid, and colorful medals bedecked his white evening jacket, and a scarlet sash cut diagonally across his chest. His pale hair contrasted with his flushed complexion. “I made the acquaintance of your brother—Edgar is it?—in Wiesbaden last year. Is he still preoccupied with horses? But how rude of me—
gauche
, these frogs like to say. I am Prince Rupprecht of Slavonia.”
    Penrose drew Ophelia forward. “Monsieur le Prince, may I present to you Miss—ah—Miss Stonewall. My cousin, visiting from America. Her first time in Paris.”
    â€œAny
mademoiselle
is welcome here,” Prince Rupprecht said with a leer, “but sometimes we take issue with the
madames
. May I introduce Monsieur Garon, Count de Griffe?”
    The Count de Griffe was the galoot with shaggy, dark gold hair. His barrel body strained the seams of his black evening suit, his collar appeared to be stained, and his jaw hadn’t met with a razor in a few days. When he spied Ophelia, his tawny eyes lit up.
    Oh, golly.
    â€œAnd this,” Prince Rupprecht said, gesturing to a third gentleman, “is Monsieur Apollo-Aristede Colifichet, the toast of Paris.”
    Colifichet was a narrow, praying mantis sort of fellow in a mauve waistcoat and gray evening jacket. He perched on the edge of his chair, legs crossed, spine straight as a broomstick. His hair was scraped back with Macassar oil.
    Colifichet barely glanced at Ophelia as they were introduced.
    â€œThat little scamp over there at the end,” Prince Rupprecht said, “is Pierre, Colifichet’s little delivery