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S everal days later, no one was surprised by the costumed figures posturing in the halls: lofty characters and low samples of foolery, old women, shepherdesses, sultanas, gypsies, kings, queens, chimney sweeps, sailors, Spaniards and Turks, all eager to participate in a masquerade.

The highly anticipated event, a sort of blind-mans-bluff, had the entire household—both guests and servants alike—humming with excitement.

Stage oddities moved from one room to another, two-by-two.

Eclipsed faces protected secrets, and half masks and Harlequins were worn so close as to make it almost impossible to guess whether one was male or female.

In addition to the fictitious transport, fumes of port and palatable wines, and cheerful laughter made clear that pleasure was found, and the orders received from masque warehouses in Town met with approval.

Tonight, Mrs. Management—Aunt Meg, posing as Hestia, the goddess of hearth and home—led the young and dissolute with revelry, turning propriety and sobriety on their heads.

Meaner than bad theater, a hazard to virtue and innocence, a Venetian ridotto saved decency and behavioral license for the grand disclosure after supper.

For her part, Lora, garbed as a domino in a half-mask, took in the splendor with a heavy heart. Well-heeled Harlequins marched past, along with country parsons paired with unconventional nuns, and characters of Fortune who baited mythical gods.

An old crone leaning heavily on a cane got support from an Indian maiden.

After years of tending to her father’s infirmity, Lora recognized his unique gait.

Her father’s comical performance earned him a smile, while sympathy from said maiden—Mina—made him snicker.

She was growing quite fond of Mina and her reviving nature.

Though she had still to reveal what it was, in particular, that she was running from, it was plain that she was falling in love with Lora’s father as they bonded over books and ballads.

Ruth, her maid, was never far. Even now, she skulked about like a sentinel prepared to order one’s doom.

Lora sincerely hoped Fortune smiled upon her father and Mina. Marriage might produce the heir that Papa so desperately desired, ruining Samuel’s nefarious campaign.

Thinking of her cousin brought her up short.

She spotted him almost immediately, dressed appropriately like a red devil and prepared to wreak havoc on innocent lives.

His strange secrecy, outstanding gambling debts, and associations with moneylenders resulted in a disastrous combination.

As such, the profusion of jewels and elegant dress flamboyantly displayed about them were tempting morsels for nimble digits.

Take the bait.

“Come one, come all,” a gypsy cried as musicians struck up a waltz.

Would their quarry, Clyde, risk an appearance?

“Should we go over the plan one more time?” Myles asked, sweeping her into the Viennese waltz. In contrast, he wore muddied, tattered clothes like a peasant, the exact opposite of refinement and grace, and they shared a rare moment of emotion. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

She hardly knew where this nightmare had begun or how it would end. She owed it to herself, to Papa and her sick uncle, to Aunt Meg and Mina and Eliza to see this through. Whatever that end might be. “If Samuel doesn’t?—”

“He will not pass up the chance to pay off his debts. Mark my words.”

She smiled at her peasant, recalling the straw she’d picked out of his hair after their sensual interlude in the bothy. “I’d rather taste your lips again.”

“I can arrange that,” he said, spinning her around to avoid a jester attempting to identify them. “But not yet.”

“Do you think anyone knows that I am your domino?”

“You will never be my domino. You are my Artemis.” The red devil appeared, weaving through the crowded room. Lora caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. Myles must have seen him too, because he said, “It’s time.”

They parted, separating slowly like ships in the night, tacking starboard and portside, Myles going right and Lora taking the left.

“Remember. You will never be alone,” he’d told her in the wee hours of the morning. “My men are all over the estate and prepared to protect you and your family, regardless of the price to be paid. If we are to put a stop to this madness, we must get your cousin to confess.”

The plan was sound. She had to trust it.

She wove her way through the crush as the Viennese Waltz ended, brushing past a woman in Elizabethan dress who began to sing an ode to victory over the French, the novelty putting everyone in good humor.

Laughing gaily to fit in, she knew that foreign influence mattered little to their guests.

Masquerades were Venetian in nature. The appeal loosened the harness of ceremony and form, gambling and music, and rewarded pleasure over deprivation.

And happy voices signaled that the fête was off to a good start.

Indeed, Winterbourne had miraculously come to life.

Dancers waltzed over the parquet floor, their disguises illuminated beneath gleaming candelabras and wall sconces that heated up the space.

Beeswax and lemon hinted a tremendous amount of work had gone into preparing for the masque.

And Aunt Meg had arranged for footmen to open the veranda doors late into the evening, the idea being to draw the eye outward to lighted garden paths, an invitation to anyone with a taste for adventure and a desire for fresh air.

The open area also enabled guests to slip in unnoticed or easily escape—like her cousin.

Samuel, where are you?

There.

A pair of devil’s horns skirted the crowded room then paused before picking up the cadence once more.

Curious, Lora trailed him. Footmen poured spirits into glasses all around her.

The clink of crystal, the merriment, the avarice, the speed with which her cousin pillaged unsuspecting women of priceless gems made her dizzy.

The pattern continued for nigh on twenty minutes until everything became clear. Samuel had resorted to thievery to pay off his creditors. If she hadn’t witnessed the devilry for herself, she never would have imagined it possible.

A Hawkesbury driven to steal. The very idea!

The surname itself meant ‘deep water.’ How far into the abyss was Samuel willing to sink in order to become the next Marquess of Putney? Worse. Had he poisoned his own father to get him out of the line of succession, as Myles had suggested?

She crept closer, distrust blackening her mind, as Samuel seduced yet another oblivious woman.

He whispered something near the poor girl’s nape before plucking a necklace from her heavily endowed bosom and swiftly stowing the accoutrement under his double-breasted coat before anyone was the wiser.

Like a city pickpocket, the entire process took seconds, leaving the social butterfly purring with sublime ecstasy.

Samuel was skilled at this. He had done this before!

Feathers bobbed and turbans dipped as courtesies were exchanged, signaling the start of another waltz.

Several bars later, the floor undulated with expectancy, and in the excitement, she lost sight of Myles.

She chewed her bottom lip, unsure how to proceed.

If she did not follow Samuel through the veranda doors, he, too, would be out of reach if she waited for the duke.

Lowering the hood of her cloak over her forehead, she quickly decided to follow her cousin, but before she could pass the threshold, someone grabbed her arm. Myles? “He is leaving,” she said, thinking he’d come to fetch her.

“Who?” Not Myles. Eliza, dressed as a belle Parisienne . “Where are you going?”

Lora spun around at the sound of Eliza’s voice. “I don’t have time to explain. I must go quickly.”

“Where?” she asked as Lora searched the gardens. “Never mind, I shall go with you. It isn’t safe to be unchaperoned at night.”

“Thank you,” she said, desiring to keep her friend safe, “but I must do this on my own. There is one thing you can do for me, however.”

“What?” Eliza asked. “Are you in any kind of trouble? Has your cousin upset you? A masque is supposed to be a comedy of errors. People pretending to be someone else. Surely?—”

“It is Samuel,” Lora said, allowing the reference to sink in. “Yes, indeed. He’s gone into the gardens and I must follow him there.”

“I cannot allow you to chase after Hawkesbury alone.”

“You must.” She squeezed Eliza’s hand. “Find the duke. It is terribly important that you do. Tell him . . . tell him, ‘No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns.’ ”

“But where?”

She didn’t give Eliza time to argue. Dropping her hand, she slipped out onto the veranda and into the garden. The paths were well-lit, Meg’s way of lessening the promiscuity when beaux forgot their sporting wit and belles their studied repartees.

Samuel had a head start, forcing her to rely on instinct, which told her that whoever Samuel was hastening to meet would not want witnesses.

That increased the danger. Staying aware, she made her way through manicured hedges, taking an opening into another section of the garden, this one far removed from the main house.

There, for an instant, she caught sight of a retreating red cape.

Darting in that direction, she rounded the hedgerow only to have her arm grabbed from behind and a sharp knife put to her throat.

“Ye don’t give up, do ye?”

“Clyde, I presume,” she said, struggling to keep her throat as far away from the blade as possible.

“Don’t hurt her,” Samuel spat as he emerged from the bushes, waving his arms in the air and producing the pouch of stolen articles. “I brought what you demanded.” He tossed the bag at Clyde’s feet. It landed with a jingle on the thick grass.

“Take it and go. Inform the Jew King that I have settled my debts.”