Meanwhile, Le Crous had left me behind.

When he reached the door, he turned and saw what I was looking at and chuckled. “Come along, copycat,” he said.

CHAPTER NINE The Duchess’s Announcement

I FOLLOWED LE CROUS OUT into the gallery, and then to the ballroom, which was packed with guests. The Duchess’s staff bobbed and weaved in their red jackets, silver trays balanced high above the many heads. I couldn’t spot Diana’s sharp haircut anywhere, and there was no sign of Bess or George among the assembled guests.

The chandelier twinkled above me, trembling slightly from the movement of the people gathered below. I watched it sway, hypnotized by the way the crystals caught the light. The fixture had electric lightbulbs, but it also still had its original sconces, meant to protect flickering gaslight flames. In the center of the chandelier, I thought I saw a flash of pink material. I squinted. It looked like a big pink bow, tied as though it were a present. Why would someone go to the trouble of decorating something already so beautiful? I shook my head. Artsy people being extra artsy. Or maybe I was just dazzled by the lights.

Finally I saw Hannah in a knot of admirers, all gesturing at her fascinator. I giggled, struck by how perfect a name that was for the funny hat. Hannah caught my eye and waved me over.

“It’s genius,” said Mr. Covarrubias, stroking Hannah’s arm. “The way you clustered the cherries … the visual sweep … you’re a radical, a visionary!”

“I don’t know about ‘radical,’ ” Hannah said, beaming at the compliment.

“How did you make that fantastic shape?” asked a woman in a shimmering green sari. “It reminds me of an Elsa Schiaparelli design.”

“Oh, Elsa!” Hannah exclaimed. “She’s one of my idols. I love her work with Salvador Dalí.”

“The infamous shoe hat!” crowed the woman in the sari, and the two of them burst into laughter like old friends.

“I always hated that hat,” interrupted a male voice, followed by a prolonged bout of particularly disgusting throat clearing. Lesley Gatewood had appeared among us. He went on, “A woman’s head is sacred. To cover it with a dirty old shoe! The nerve. Dalí was nothing but a fraud. But your hat is lovely. Like Philip Treacy, if he had an ounce of restraint.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Gatewood. I think,” said Hannah graciously.

But Gatewood wasn’t finished. “The Duchess is on her way down to the ballroom now. Let us gather around the throne and make ready for her appearance.”

“He thinks she’s a real duchess,” said the woman in the sari, her voice a stage whisper. “Should we all bow down?”

Gatewood sniffed but ignored the comment. He began herding our group like a sheepdog, practically nipping at everyone’s heels. I slipped away while he was distracted with Mr. Covarrubias, who had wandered back to the dessert table.