Velvet Undercover by Teri Brown Page A

kimono-style sleeves are pleated up to the shoulder and a soft sash ties just above my waist. The gown is too big on me and has to be taken in with pins, but along with my new bob and the new crescent-shaped birthmark on my left cheek, I barely recognize myself.
    I won’t be returning to the apartment. A suite was rented under Sophia Thérèse’s name a week ago at the Hotel Luxembourg. The motorcar will take me there after the reception and I’ll receive my final preparations.
    After tonight there is no turning back.

TEN
WHQ
    Window Dressing: Materials used in a cover story to prove to others that what they are observing is real.
    A Luxembourgian guard opens the door of the motorcar and I stare, unmoving, at the entrance. The façade of the palace is from an ethereal fairy tale, an ode to the Renaissance, with its steeply pitched gables, lacy wrought iron, and graceful spires that seem to reach to the sky.
    â€œFräulein?” The guard reaches his hand out to me and I take it in spite of a rush of fear and dizziness that threatens to pitch me straight into his arms.
    â€œThank you,” I murmur.
    Other guests, women in lovely formal dresses and short capes and men in uniforms or suits, are entering the palace and I tag along, ignoring the German guards lined up in the entryway.
    â€œName?” a servant asks as he takes my invitation. I tilt my chin.
    â€œSophia Thérèse von Schönburg,” I say as another servant takes my evening coat.
    A man standing at a small reception desk inspects the invitation and then marks something in a book before nodding to the men guarding the arched doorway. The long hall is lined with stiff portraits of former grand dukes, and as I move through the corridor, I throw off my former self.
    I am not Samantha Donaldson, better at studying than socializing. I am Sophia Thérèse, a young woman who may not be used to such events, but who was raised to know very well how to behave at them. I send a quick blessing to the young woman who died so prematurely and hope that I’m not completely dishonoring her memory.
    I move at a slow, measured pace, mimicking the guests surrounding me. The sparkling jewels that encircle the throats and wrists of the women reflect the electric lights like rainbows dipped in dew. The scent of cigars mingling with French perfume hangs heavily in the hall, and if it weren’t for all the German uniforms, you’d hardly know there is a war on.
    Miss Tickford told me to introduce myself first to Prince Wilhelm, then mingle among the other guests, and take my leave. As a distant cousin who will basically be joining the royal staff, I won’t be expected to stay for the late supper.
    As each step takes me closer to the moment when I will fully assume my new identity, the glow from the chamber beyond grows more and more dazzling. When I walk into the reception room, I barely refrain from gasping at its brilliance. From the gleaming parquet floor to the domed ceiling painted with cherubim and angels, the entire spaceshimmers with grandeur.
    Taking a deep breath to relieve the tightness in my chest, I join the long line of Luxembourgian elite waiting to introduce themselves to the German crown prince. It’s difficult to believe in this opulent room that all these well-dressed guests are actually a conquered people. The grand duchess Marie-Adélaïde, the prime minister, and the congress are walking a fine line trying to maintain their own government while under German occupation.
    I spot the young grand duchess greeting guests and wonder if the strain of occupation has contributed to the dark circles under her pretty blue eyes. The line moves slowly and I try to be mindful of both my persona and my training.
    Prince Wilhelm stands stiffly in his commandant’s uniform, badges gleaming on his chest. In his early thirties, he’s a handsome man in the prime of life, and the arrogant tilt of his head shows that