A Masquerade for the Baron (Barrington’s Brigade #6)

Chapter One

The scent of roses, beeswax, and far too much perfume lingered in the parlor at Lady Wilmot’s country home in Sommer-by-the-Sea.

Heat pressed at the back of Leticia’s neck.

Her fan was a poor defense against the prickle of rising impatience.

The weather had begun its slow shift into autumn, and with it came the first of the indoor entertainments, a musicale.

Lady Leticia Salisbury stood near the refreshment table, fanning her cousin Felicity’s dance card with thinning patience.

Across the room, the girl had vanished into a cluster of young ladies fluttering around the footmen who’d just brought in a fresh tray of ratafia cakes.

The musicale had been her aunt’s idea, respectable enough, with just over sixty guests, a competent quartet, and more conversation than music.

Leticia had agreed to attend. A favor, nothing more.

Her only duty was to chaperone, guide, and ensure her cousin didn’t flirt too freely, overindulge in sugared almonds, or commit the unforgivable sin of dancing with the same young man twice.

It had taken less than an hour for Leticia to regret every syllable of her promise.

She looked down at the card. “Three blank spaces,” she muttered, and turned toward the edge of the room just as the orchestra launched into a country reel. Laughter erupted from the far corner.

“Lady Leticia?” someone called, far too brightly.

She turned. Mr. Denby, freckled, flushed, and already waving, headed straight toward her, something white clutched in his hand.

A misplaced glove, perhaps, or a crumpled handkerchief.

Or, heaven help her, another poorly composed poem about her cousin’s smile.

Her stomach sank. Poor Felicity would never survive another verse about her dimples.

Leticia took a decisive step forward, intent on intercepting him before he reached the punch bowl and said goodbye to his dignity.

Unfortunately, someone else moved at the exact moment, and they collided at the corner of the table. Her slipper grazed the heel of a well-polished boot, and she let out a soft oof as a firm hand caught her elbow.

“Terribly sorry,” she murmured, regaining her balance.

“I believe that’s yours,” said the gentleman.

Leticia looked down. Her cousin’s dance card had fallen to the floor. She bent to retrieve it just as he did. Their fingers brushed.

“A dance card,” he said, glancing at the names. “And I see I’m on it. Twice.”

She arched a brow. “Are you?”

He studied the card for a moment and gave a quiet huff of amusement. “That explains it. This isn’t yours.”

She reached for it. “No. It’s my cousin’s.”

“I owe her an apology,” he said, handing it over, “and my friend a warning. Too much time and far too little supervision.”

Before she could respond, two gentlemen approached, untitled, judging by the look of them, their gait, and their complete disregard for the sanctity of conversation gave them away.

“There he is,” said the taller of the two, clapping the stranger’s shoulder. “Ash, romancing young ladies already?”

“He’s fulfilling the obligations,” said the other with a grin. “It’s in the patent, you know, romance, charm, and a fondness for dreadful poetry, just beneath property rights and moral deportment.”

Leticia’s gaze sharpened. Ash. Short for Ashcombe. Baron Ashcombe. The name suited him. Crisp. Precise. Quietly inconvenient.

Ash sighed, as though he’d been suffering fools all evening. His shoulders stayed square, feet planted with a soldier’s steadiness. This was no idle society man.

“Gentlemen, your timing is as impeccable as your taste in fiction.”

“We aim to please,” said the taller one with mock solemnity. “Carry on,” he said with a careless wave of his hand.

The pair drifted off, and Leticia tucked the card into her reticule, amusement flickering at the corners of her mouth.

Once again, the music began.

Ash turned back to her. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

She hesitated. “I’m afraid you’re not on my card.”

“Perhaps I can remedy that, at least unofficially,” he said. “One dance. No mischief. No poetry.”

She studied him for a moment. He stood with unhurried confidence, no smile, no posturing. Just waiting.

The orchestra struck up another country reel. Across the room, Mr. Denby had reached her aunt and was bowing toward her cousin, clearly congratulating himself on delivering whatever he’d been holding. Her cousin looked horrified.

Leticia turned back to him. “Very well. But only one. A second dance, and someone will draw the wrong conclusion.”

“And we mustn’t have that,” he replied evenly, offering his arm.

They stepped onto the floor together, matched only by height and timing.

Leticia had danced with a dozen partners in a dozen ballrooms, but this felt different.

It was as if she’d stepped into a perfectly rehearsed play she’d never auditioned for.

His touch was assured, his silence deliberate, and her pulse had the audacity to skip, just once.

The warmth of his palm steadied hers, and against her will, her chest tightened, a treacherous thrill chasing through her ribs.

Ash didn’t fill the silence with compliments or charm. He simply danced, precisely, and well.

“Are you always so serious?” she asked during a turn.

“Only when I’m expected to be entertaining,” he said.

She nearly laughed.

When the reel ended, Ash bowed. “Thank you, my lady. I shall endeavor to limit my appearances to a single line on future dance cards.”

“That would be safest,” she said lightly.

They parted with a nod. Ash disappeared into the crowd, and Leticia turned to find her cousin threading her way toward her, cheeks flushed and eyes wide.

“Who was that?” Felicity whispered, tugging her aside in a swirl of silk and whispered scandal.

“A baron, apparently,” Leticia murmured. “New to town. Dances well. Understands sarcasm.”

Felicity’s eyes sparkled. “He looked at you like he knew something the rest of us didn’t.”

Leticia handed over the slightly crumpled dance card. “He looked at me like I’d rewritten it. Honestly, three blank spaces? You mustn’t be so choosy.”

“I was saving one for Mr. Denby,” Felicity said shyly. “Though he tried to hand me Aunt Margaret’s lace cap, thinking it was mine. I didn’t have the heart to correct him.”

Leticia smiled despite herself. “Perhaps you’ll marry for mercy, and I’ll marry for silence. That would suit us both.”

They turned toward their aunt, who was waving her fan with quiet authority at the card table.

And somewhere across the room, Ash’s gaze found Leticia again, just once, with something unreadable behind it, cool and intent, as if testing her mettle rather than admiring her gown.

*

That evening, when Leticia returned to Eastbury Manor, her aunt’s home, she sat at her dressing table, pins in her lap and her hair half undone, while her cousin perched cross-legged on the edge of the bed, still in her evening gown and clearly unwilling to surrender the night.

“I’m only saying,” Felicity insisted, “he looked at you like he meant something by it.”

Leticia met her gaze in the mirror. “He looked at me like he was trying to decide whether I was the problem or the solution.”

“That’s worse,” Felicity said, appalled. “He’s a baron. He’s supposed to be charming.”

“He was polite,” Leticia replied, tugging another pin loose. “And he danced with precision, which is more than can be said for Mr. Denby, who nearly turned a country reel into an act of war.”

“That’s unfair,” Felicity protested. “He means well.”

“Most missteps in life begin with good intentions and poor rhythm.”

Felicity laughed, flopping backward across the coverlet, skirts and ribbons spilling around her like an overturned bouquet. “Do you think he’ll call on you?”

Leticia lifted a brow. “We haven’t even been introduced.”

“Doesn’t seem to have stopped him.”

“That,” Leticia said dryly, “is what makes it remarkable. And slightly improper.”

“Improperly intriguing,” Felicity countered.

Leticia stood and turned from the mirror, her gaze lingering on her reflection a heartbeat longer than necessary. A baron, a dance, and a smile she hadn’t meant to give, unsettling. She drew a breath, steadying herself before facing her cousin. “You’re still in your gown.”

“I was waiting to see if you’d admit you liked him.”

“Get up,” Leticia said, gesturing toward the screen. “If you crush that hem, I shall never hear the end of it from your maid or mine.”

Felicity giggled and scrambled upright, half-skipping toward the screen with her slippers in hand. “You’re terribly serious for someone who smiled at a baron.”

Leticia paused, letting the smirk form before turning away. “I smile at all manner of men. It keeps them from asking questions.”

Behind the screen came the rustle of fabric and a low, satisfied sigh. “Do you think he’ll call anyway?”

Leticia, now in her nightdress, returned to the dressing table and resumed the slow work of braiding her hair.

“He struck me as the sort of man who doesn’t call unless there’s a purpose. And one dance at a middling assembly may not qualify.”

“You remember it.”

“I remember the conversation.”

A pause.

“You liked him.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You didn’t dislike him.”

Leticia secured the end of her braid with a ribbon and met Felicity’s eyes in the mirror.

“He was… not uninteresting.”

Felicity grinned. “Which, coming from you, is the same as declaring undying affection.”

“If I ever declare undying affection,” Leticia said calmly, “you have my permission to faint with style and summon the physician.”

Felicity laughed again and slipped under the coverlet just as Leticia dimmed the lamp. The room fell quiet, still enough for her own thoughts to sound louder than the night.

Leticia slid into bed and lay still, staring at the ceiling.

Her cousin would return to London in the morning. She, on the other hand, had no desire to go back. Her aunt had taken her in after her parents’ passing, and Eastbury Manor had been her home ever since.

The baron’s expression came back to her, cool, assessing, almost distant. And yet he’d offered his arm, asked her to dance, and thanked her as though it mattered.

Not uninteresting, she thought again, and closed her eyes.

*

The next morning brought fog, a lingering haze of perfume, and secrets. Before breakfast, Captain Gabriel Ashcombe had received a gold token, his summons.

Now he stood in front of Lord Barrington’s townhouse.

It was square, respectable, and entirely unimpressed with itself.

He resisted the urge to adjust his cravat.

He hadn’t worn his uniform in months, but something about Barrington always called the soldier in him to the surface, even in a civilian’s coat and polished town boots.

The ballroom’s laughter clung faintly to him still, a reminder that he belonged more to campaigns than assemblies.

He rapped once, brisk and efficient, and was immediately admitted by Barrington’s butler. “Good morning, Mr. Sanderson.”

“Good morning, my lord. Upstairs, sir. First door on the left.”

Barrington’s study looked more like a campaign room than a gentleman’s retreat.

Papers lay in meticulous stacks across the desk.

Maps flanked the wall beside a half-filled brandy decanter.

At the far end of the mantel, a lone vase of wilting roses spoke of a recent feminine touch.

Likely his longtime friend Mrs. Bainbridge’s attempt at softness.

Barrington stood at the hearth, sleeves rolled, spectacles perched low. He glanced up briefly.

“You’re late.”

“I’m titled now,” Ash replied. “Baronial grace takes time.”

“You move like a man trying to avoid an assignment,” Barrington said as he poured two glasses. He handed one over. “Don’t bother. You’ll take it.”

“Will I?”

Barrington didn’t answer. He crossed to the desk and laid a page flat.

“Three thefts,” he said. “All local. One during the Wycliffe Assembly, another at the Fairchilds’ garden supper, and the third after a card party at the Harringtons’. Each theft was quiet and precise. No alarm was raised.”

Ash took the paper and scanned it. “Jewels?”

“Mostly. Valuables, but none were unique. What matters is the aftermath. Each victim received a letter, unsigned and explicit. Pay, or private affairs will be exposed.”

Ash frowned, examining the paper in more detail. “Blackmail?”

Barrington nodded once. “All couched in language meant to suggest ties to the Order.”

Ash looked up. “The Order’s finished, isn’t it?”

“Their known leadership has been captured or scattered. Edward’s final report is still forthcoming, but from what we’ve discovered, the structure is gone. The Order, as it operated, no longer exists.”

Ash narrowed his eyes. “But…”

Barrington met his gaze. “We never identified the true leader. Not conclusively. Every name we traced led to another shadow. And now, someone is picking through the wreckage, rebuilding, or repurposing. They’re using stolen funds and the threat of scandal to piece together something new.”

Ash’s jaw tightened, half reflex, half memory. “So this thief.”

“We’ve taken to calling them the Raven,” Barrington said.

Ash’s chin lifted. “The Raven. That was the Order’s mark.”

“Yes. Clever. Silent. This is no common criminal. This is a threat to study, not chase. Like a raven, this is someone who is at home in the dark and drawn to glittering things.”

“Poetic.”

“Unavoidable.”

Ash took a slow sip of brandy. “And you believe they’ll strike again?”

“I do. These thefts weren’t random. They were deliberate. Targeted. Someone is testing our reach while they build influence, one gem, one secret, one whispered threat at a time.”

Ash set the glass down. “You want me to stop them.”

“I want you to observe,” Barrington corrected. “The Marchmont Masquerade is in two nights. Nearly every person of consequence will be there. I expect the Raven will be among them.”

“And you’re sending me?”

“You’re newly titled, unmarried. More importantly, you’re on the guest list. You’ll draw no attention. You’re the perfect man for it.”

“Splendid,” Ash said. “I’ve always dreamed of serving His Majesty in lace and a mask.”

Barrington reached for a sealed envelope. “This one actually opens doors. Try not to misplace it.”

Ash accepted the invitation, slipping it into his coat. “And if I don’t dazzle with my wit and charm?”

“Observe, report, and try not to insult anyone titled.”

Ash smirked. “A challenge.”

“A worthy one,” Barrington replied, lifting his glass. “For a man who’s mastered cannon fire but not conversation.”

They shared a glance, wry, familiar, edged in mutual trust.

Ash finished his brandy and put the glass down as he stood.

Barrington gave a nod. “Godspeed, Ashcombe.”

Ash lifted two fingers in a half-salute and stepped out into the sharp morning air. A masquerade. God help him. He would rather face gunfire than a ballroom full of marriage-minded mothers. But orders were orders, and a baron, it seemed, was still a soldier.