Page 22 of My Lord Rogue (Wicked Widows’ League #34)
T he first invitation came in envelope, as if she wasn’t already at Verity’s house.
“You are cordially summoned to a Night of Masques and Misrule,” was penned in Verity’s spidery, delirious hand.
She wrote that she had costumes at the ready, the most extravagant disguises, so no one could claim to be unprepared.
By the appointed hour, the St. Ervan ballroom had been transformed into a fever dream, the walls draped in tapestries of indigo and carmine, the floor polished to a mirror finish, and the very air spiked with the narcotic sweetness of night-blooming jasmine.
Here, shadows pooled in the corners, waiting for confidences and betrayals, while the center of the room burned with lantern-light and the laughter of the ungoverned.
Somewhere, a string quartet wrestled at the edge of audibility, bowing their instruments as if each note were a secret worth dying for.
Theo lingered inside the doorway, half-shrouded by a velvet curtain, her heart in open revolt.
She was dressed, as Verity had provided, in the guise of a Greek goddess.
The gown was a confection of ivory chiffon, its folds cascading from shoulder to floor in a series of deliberate accidents.
The bodice clung indecently close, a single gilded rope cinching it at the waist and giving way to the suggestion of scandal with every movement.
On her face, a delicate gold laurel mask hid her from the world, or so she told herself, in truth, it only seemed to heighten her every flaw, her every tremor.
Annie had arranged her hair in braids and ringlets that glimmered under the lanterns, and the pale column of her throat—so recently flushed with tears—now looked cold and smooth as marble. She had not worn jewelry, save for a pair of earrings that caught the light like droplets of frozen honey.
She would rather have died than walk into that room, but death was not on offer, only spectacle.
The first faces she recognized belonged to Lord and Lady Jennington, disguised as Antony and Cleopatra, their postures imperial and their voices thick with too much punch.
A handful of men had gone as devils, their horns gilded, their eyes rimmed with kohl, the women were mostly queens and enchantresses, each competing for maximum drama in the minimum of fabric.
Here and there, a mask of plain white, the traditional symbol of the untouched, but the blank faces only made the revelers beneath more desperate for attention.
Theo skirted the edge of the floor, careful not to brush too close to the clusters of laughter and rumor.
She caught a flash of Verity at the far end—dressed as some pagan priestess, her arms painted with winding snakes and her hair crowned with a garland of narcissus.
Verity’s eyes met Theo’s, and for a moment she saw not a hostess but a child plotting some spectacular mischief.
Theo pressed onward, keeping to the shadows, feeling the pulse of the music through the soles of her slippers.
She did not look for Teddy. She told herself she did not care if he came, if he stayed locked in his rooms, if he drowned himself in the lake.
But she knew—by the charged quiver in her chest, by the way every burst of laughter sounded like a dare—that he was here somewhere, watching.
She would feel him before she saw him, that was his way.
The first hour passed in a haze. She sipped a cordial from a glass shaped like a flower, and let the taste linger on her tongue, sharp and bitter.
She allowed herself to be drawn into conversation with Lady Amelia, disguised as a peacock, the train of her feathers so prodigious it required a footman to steer it.
They exchanged the usual barbed compliments and feigned surprise at each other’s daring, but every phrase was a move in a game they had played too often.
“You have outdone yourself, Lady Pattishall,” Lady Amelia purred, her voice muffled by a mask of indigo silk. “Verity tells me you designed your costume yourself.”
“It was nothing,” Theo replied. “I only followed instructions.”
“Some instructions,” Lady Amelia said, eyes glinting through the cutouts. “You look like vengeance made flesh. Or a bride for the underworld. Tell me, does the mask make you feel invincible, or does it only embolden the men to guess what you’re hiding?”
Theo smiled, sharp and glassy. “It depends on the man, I suppose.”
Amelia leaned in, her feathers rustling. “You know the baron is here.”
“I had assumed he would be,” Theo said, careful to keep her voice steady.
“He’s come as a highwayman,” Amelia confided. “Isn’t that deliciously apt? I suppose some men cannot resist the easy symbolism.”
Theo scanned the crowd, pretending not to care, but her blood surged at the information.
Amelia tilted her head, as if studying a painting. “Is it true what they say? That you and he are?—”
“No,” Theo said, too quickly. She drew herself up, feeling the bones of her spine snap into place. “It isn’t.”
Amelia smiled with all her teeth, then drifted off to savage someone else.
Theo’s hands shook. She pressed her fingers to the stem of her glass, then to the edge of her mask, willing herself to calm. She refused to search the room for him, but her body betrayed her—her eyes roved over every cluster, every motion in the corner of her vision.
She found him at last near the back, flanked by two officers and a merchant’s son.
He wore a battered leather riding coat over a waistcoat of impossible black velvet, the shirt beneath cut open at the throat in a parody of fashion.
His mask was a simple half-shade, black and edged with bronze, but it made his eyes burn brighter, hungrier.
He lounged with the easy arrogance of someone who had already planned the rest of the night, who had weighed every risk and chosen the one most likely to cause ruin.
He saw her the moment she saw him. His gaze flicked over her, once, slow and deliberate, then returned to his glass as if nothing mattered less. But the game had begun, and she knew it.
The music shifted, the tempo accelerating.
A reel began, and the floor filled with couples spinning and weaving through the patterns.
Theo allowed herself to be drawn into the current, but never strayed close to the center.
She kept to the perimeter, her movements precise and reserved, the perfect model of composure.
She traced the edge of her mask, feeling the faint burr where the gold leaf met her skin. The mask was beautiful, but it cut into the flesh just enough to remind her that beauty was always purchased at a cost.
A flutter of laughter erupted behind her, and she turned to see Verity sweeping across the floor, arm-in-arm with a young lieutenant whose face was already damp with drink. Verity shot her a look, sly and sharp, then veered away, leaving Theo alone at the margin.
She stood there, back to the wall, scanning the room for a sign of danger. Every brush of silk, every whiff of perfume, every glance cast her way felt like a test. She was both the object and the observer, her own body a site of constant surveillance.
She found herself thinking of Charles, her husband—the weight of his hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his body at her back.
It had been so long since she’d let herself remember the comfort of him, the certainty.
The ache in her chest was old, but it pulsed freshly now, raw and insistent.
She wished he could see her tonight, see her surviving, see her making it through a night she would have sworn would end her.
But she was not surviving, not really, she was only deferring the inevitable. Sooner or later, Teddy would reach her, and when he did, the mask would become irrelevant, and everything she had built would be exposed for the flimsy contrivance it was.
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of jasmine and sweat and candle wax. She let the breath out slowly, watching her reflection exhale in tandem. For a moment, she let herself believe that she could choose the ending, that she could slip out before the game turned deadly.
But the ballroom was a trap, and every guest in it another snare.
She smoothed the skirts of her gown, lifted her chin, and resolved to hold the line for as long as it would hold her. She was Theodosia, Lady Pattishall—a woman who had survived worse than heartbreak, and would survive this, too.
At the other end of the room, Teddy watched, and waited.
The real predators in the ballroom were not the devils or wolves or masked conquistadors, but the ladies in feathers and silk, the ones who circled in little flocks and watched the world through the slits in their masks, searching for weakness.
Theo was not unaccustomed to gossip, but the intensity of it tonight was a new and special torture, every glance held a story, every whisper a promise of blood.
Theo found herself at the margin of a group of matrons, their sleeves awash with lace and their cheeks painted to the edge of decency, when Amelia slid in among them, trailing the scent of crushed violets and something sharper.
“My dear Mrs. Frobisher,” Amelia began, her tone a study in concern. “Do be careful, or you’ll spill your champagne. I know how easily a night like this can make one’s head spin.” She turned, the feathers in her hair quivering with the movement, and regarded Theo with a cool, lingering appraisal.
“I was just telling the ladies,” Amelia continued, “how difficult it must be for you, adjusting to life without poor Lord Pattishall. I suppose the company of old friends makes it easier to bear. And perhaps the company of new friends, as well?” Her voice dropped, but not enough to escape the ears of those nearby.
“It must be such a comfort to have the baron here.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the group, polite and poisonous.