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Inside, the press of the crowd was even more maddening, made all but intolerable as the musicians struck the first chord, signaling a beginning to the dancing.

At once, the colorfully-clad and busily chattering bodies that had filled the dancing area pushed outward toward the fringes of the room.

It made it nearly impossible to move or even see.

Rolfe took Cassia’s hand and started to lead her through.

“All right, Goddess of Justice,” he whispered after managing to secure them a spot off to the side of the orchestra that afforded them a decent overview of the vast ballroom. “Perhaps you might start our investigations by acquainting me with some of the more prominent members at court?”

Cassia narrowed her eyes beneath her mask, trying to discern the identities of the costumed crowd. Finally, she started to ferret some of the notables out.

“There, standing beneath the musicians balcony, dressed as the Roman war goddess, Bellona. That is Barbara Palmer, Lady Castlemaine.” And then she added, “But, I forgot, you have already met her.”

“We did not formally meet, but I am familiar with the lady all the same.”

Cassia looked on, narrowing her gaze. “The oversized man standing beside her dressed as, I believe, a rather stout rendition of Shakespeare’s King Lear is Lord Talbot, one of her more prominent underlings.”

“Could he be our man?”

Cassia thought for a moment, then shook her head. “It is a well-known fact that Lord Talbot cannot utter a coherent word unless he is three cups under. I shudder to think of how far into the bottle he’d need to be in order to accomplish something as serious as murder.”

Rolfe began surveying the crowd himself to see if he could pick anyone out. “I believe the golden suited Adonis near the entryway making a path straight for us would be your cousin, Geoffrey.”

Cassia spotted him easily. Faith, it was impossible not to, even among the other colorful costumes around them, what with the sparkling gold satin of his certainly costly attire. “Yes, it would seem so,” she said on a frown.

“Who is the tall blond man walking so closely beside him?”

“That would be the Marquess of Newbury.”

“You mean Malcolm, the eldest son and heir of the Duke of Manton, the one your father wished for you to marry?”

Before Cassia could confirm this obvious distinction, the pair of them drew forward to join them.

“Can it be?” Geoffrey posed, offering her a silk-encased leg. “Has our dear Cassia decided, now that she’d learned of the fortune her father left her, it time to come out of mourning?”

Cassia looked at her cousin with practiced indifference. “Good evening, Geoffrey.” She allowed Malcolm, the marquess, to take her hand and press a polite kiss to it. “Good evening to you, Lord Newbury.”

It was the first time she’d seen Malcolm since he’d proposed marriage to her at the ball the night her father had died.

On that night, Malcolm had preferred to remain on the outer fringes of the crowd.

Perhaps it was due to the conversation she’d had with Ravenscroft earlier when he’d brooked the question of her possibly having an enemy, but as Cassia regarded Malcolm now, she suddenly wondered if he could possibly be her father’s murderer.

Malcolm smiled broadly. “Cassia, must we stand on such formality? I mean, being that we were so nearly betrothed, I would think it proper and most acceptable for you to call me by my given name.”

She nodded. “As you wish, Malcolm. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse us?—”

“Malcolm,” came another voice suddenly from behind them. “I would like a word with you, please.”

Cassia nodded to Rolfe, somehow knowing his raised brow was meant to communicate that he questioned if the newcomer might be Malcolm’s father, the Duke of Manton.

“Oh, well, excuse me, Lady Cassia,” the duke said, suddenly recognizing the others standing nearby. “I certainly hadn’t meant to interrupt.”

He eyed Rolfe with such obvious attention, that propriety necessitated Cassia introduce them. “Your Grace, Malcolm, please allow me to introduce you to Rolfe Brodrigan, the Earl of Ravenscroft.”

Rolfe inclined his head toward first Malcolm, then his father, the duke. “Gentlemen, a pleasure.”

“Indeed,” replied Malcolm, surveying Rolfe openly.

“Quite,” muttered the duke, who stared at him as if he was some sort of thief.

Rolfe broke the tension of the moment. “If you gentlemen will kindly excuse us, I believe Lady Cassia has promised me her first dance.”

Rolfe took Cassia’s hand and set it on his arm, then started moving with her through the crowd. He stopped outside of the other dancers now preparing to take floor in a minuet, bowing gallantly before her as the orchestra began to play.

“Now it is my turn to direct your attentions to a few of the people of the court with whom I am already acquainted.”

He took her hand, lifting it upward in the motion of the dance, and gestured across the room. “Do you see the couple standing at the far end of the dancing area? Samson and Delilah?”

As Cassia came around him in a circle, she spotted a man of imposing stature holding the hand of a lovely, flame-haired woman. “Yes, I do.”

“Should you and I become separated for any reason tonight and you find you cannot easily locate me, you may go to them. They are Lord and Lady Kulhaven from Ireland and they are close friends of mine. I trust them implicitly. You will be safe with them.”

He turned and took Cassia’s hand, bowing forward with the steps of the dance. He pointed to another figure, this one a tall man dressed like himself entirely in black, who stood at the edge of the dancing area. He was a little difficult to see as he was surrounded by a small throng of ladies.

“Likewise with Dante, if you can get through his crowd of admirers. Whatever you do, be certain to be near one of us at all times.”

Cassia followed Rolfe’s lead as he continued through the steps of the dance, taking the opportunity to point out a few of the more prominent members of the court and her most recent suitors.

When the dance had ended, Rolfe began to lead Cassia off toward the far side of the ballroom.

“I must say,” suddenly came a familiar singsong voice from behind them then, “I do applaud your choice of costumes, oh, Goddess of the Frost.”

“Cordelia,” Cassia exclaimed, smiling, and quickly embraced her friend. She stepped back to survey her friend’s costume. “And what is it you are portraying this evening?”

The ensemble was a mixture of every possible color under the sun, complete with an array of different colored feathers sticking out in a sort of fan from her stylish and extravagant coiffure.

“Why, I am a rainbow, silly girl, what else? And I’ve already had three thoroughly lecherous men, one even confined to a wheeled chair, ask me if they could see whether the pot of gold truly exists beneath my skirts.”

“And did they find the answer to their question?” Rolfe asked with a grin.

Cordelia smiled broadly, slapping him playfully with the sticks of her fan. “I told them that was one mystery that would remain so, at least during their lifetimes.” She sighed then. “Or at least until the day my Percy returns—if he ever does.”

“I have not seen the king or the queen in attendance yet tonight,” Cassia said. Noting the melancholy direction of her friend’s thoughts, she quickly drew her attention elsewhere. “Will they be here?”

“The king is already hereabouts. You know he would never miss the opportunity for a masquerade. He loves to disguise himself and come in with the crowd so as to enable himself to study his courtiers unnoticed. It also allows him to chase after whatever skirt he wishes without La Castlemaine knowing and throwing a fit of hysteria.” She surveyed the crowd.

“I do not see him, but I have heard tell he will be dressed as a wolf. Fitting, no? Queen Catherine, I’m afraid, continues ill and is resting this evening in her chambers. ”

Cassia’s expression grew instantly concerned. “Her condition is growing worse? What of the child?”

“Remains intact, as far as the royal physicians can tell, but truthfully, Cassia, she seems to grow frailer each day. I’m afraid they are not holding very much hope for her chances of a successful delivery.”

Cassia turned to Rolfe. “I must go to her.”

He nodded and followed her as she started for the doors to leave.

It wasn’t seconds later that he lost sight of her in the crowd.

Rolfe searched for her among the many milling masked faces around him.

The thought occurred to him that somewhere, out there, likely was the real murderer, and most likely watching Cassia.

How could she have disappeared so quickly?

Why hadn’t he been watching her more closely?

They hadn’t been there a half of an hour and already he’d managed to lose her.

He was about to enlist the aid of his friends when finally he spotted her. She was back on the dance floor, partnered by a tall dark figure, a figure, he noticed immediately, that was dressed as a wolf.

The king.

Rolfe came to stand at the edge of the crowd, waiting for her, and watching the two as they moved together in time to the music.

The couple soon drew the attention of others in the crowd for the king’s costume seemed to be of no mystery to anyone.

The other couples dancing beside them began taking themselves off to stand back, turning their dance into more of a singular performance as they circled and bowed.

Soon some of the courtiers standing beside Rolfe had guessed the identity of the king’s dancing partner.

Murmurs of “Lady Winter” and “Murderess Montefort” wafted through the crowd like a whisper of icy wind.

When their dance was ended, beneath the very noses of the shocked courtiers, Rolfe watched as Charles took Cassia’s hand and led her away.

He took her off through a small side door, and out into the night with him.

Alone.

He felt a burning deep in the pit of his stomach.

Everyone in that ballroom surmised that the two were going off from the ball to be with one another.

With the queen convalescing in her bedchamber, it left the king at leisure to partake of another’s favors.

Charles did not hide, but preferred to advertise his infidelities.

Parading Cassia before the members of his court in the dance, before taking her off was like the proverbial wolf luring away the innocent lamb.

The idea that Cassia was but one of the many in his flock left Rolfe feeling cold.

Caught up by the sudden urge to go after them, Rolfe turned and started from the suddenly stifling ballroom.

What a fool he’d been! He could picture them now, Charles burying his face in Cassia’s neck, one royal hand running along the soft skin of her thigh.

He would lay her back, his dark wolf’s head dipping toward her, melting the Winter Queen’s icy reserve.

Would she cry out his name, the name of the man she did not rebuke, the one man she allowed behind those icy impenetrable walls—Charles, the King of England?