Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Already fully dressed for the evening, Emmy perched on the edge of her bed and waited for Mary, who’d insisted that Emmy,
as hostess, make a dramatic entrance. A steady hum of activity whispered underneath the door. Guests arriving? The Windsors
and Strattons, already beginning their showdown?
Jack, coming to speak to her after avoiding her all day?
With an exasperated huff, Emmy flopped onto her pillows. The dangers they were facing tonight were too numerous to be counted
on one hand, yet time and time again, Jack slipped into her mind, entirely unwelcome. That kiss. The way his eyes had darkened,
his mouth falling over hers as if he could not help himself.
The remorse on his face when he’d turned away. Which was maddening, really, because she should have come to her senses first, as he was the one with a mile-long list of flaws. He lied—often. He used people to suit his needs, including Emmy. He smirked.
Constantly. He was too good at keeping secrets, especially his own. He was terrible at apologizing. He was far too handsome,
which made it too easy for him to get away with things. He was entitled. And spoiled. He got a kick out of making her angry.
And he never knocked, instead burning holes in her walls. He courted death like a challenge to be bested. Even with the prophecy
averted, it would be a miracle if he lived past twenty—
“Ready?”
Emmy startled. She hadn’t even heard Mary knock. But, with a calming breath, she rose from her bed. It was time.
“Caleb’s not back yet,” Mary said in a low voice as Emmy gave herself a final glance in the vanity mirror.
Damnit. Caleb had gone with the chancellor to “communicate” with Oliver through the jail walls, but he should have returned
hours ago. “Any sign of the Strattons?”
“Not yet. But the Windsors’ carriage just arrived . . . and Grace isn’t with them.”
With a groan, Emmy buried her head in her hands. She’d known Grace would be upset about Oliver’s arrest, especially after
declaring that they’d be engaged within a week. But Grace was a survivor. She ought to have been here, batting her lashes
at her new marriage prospect.
Unless Grace wasn’t licking her wounds, but was out doing the chancellor’s bidding.
By the time Mary had fastened Emmy’s mask and hurried her into the hall, a few dozen guests had already arrived, gaping at
the black flames that crackled along every surface. Without Grace’s conjury, Emmy had worried the masquerade ball would be
bereft of the enchanted touches of the other Society events, but Jack had dug up the Fontaine decor of years past: flammable
ropes and table liners, an enormous flammable archway for the front doors, even special candles the staff had fastened to
the ballroom’s vast ceiling. Now Mistfield was as decorated with dark flames as Grace was with her cursed jewelry.
As Emmy descended the stairs, the guests turned to stare at her.
Red was a risky color, Grace had always said, but tonight was all about risks.
And Mary was right, the bold shade complimented Winnie Fairchild exceedingly well, making the mahogany strands of her hair shinier, her emerald eyes brighter.
Emmy kept her head high as the guests smiled serenely up at her, taking in the golden skin of her collarbone, the hint of cleavage from her dreadfully tight corset.
She descended each step slowly, peering out at the party through her black feathered mask, the perfect match to the slash of black feathers that wove its way from her chest to the bottom of her dramatic train.
And there were the Windsors, standing along the edge of the foyer. Their royal-blue masks hid the top halves of their faces,
but Mrs. Windsor’s smile was fragile. Tonight was already hard for her, given the rumors swirling about her daughter’s death.
If their plan worked, it was only going to get harder for the grieving mother.
Swallowing her sympathy, Emmy continued to scan the room. The Society in masks of any sort was too reminiscent of her debutante
ball, but at least now she knew their faces. The Villadoms. The Zermatts. And, waiting at the bottom of the stairs, Jack.
Of course he’d gone with a raven-black mask, with a simple silver embellishment looping around one eye. Everything else he
wore was also black, from his polished shoes to his tailcoats; even his dress shirt and ascot. He was watching her descend,
his lips parted—not that she was looking at his lips. No, tonight Emmy was focused on the only thing that mattered. Revenge.
He offered his arm. “Your brother’s late, so it’s up to us to greet the guests.”
It was vexing, having to be near him, but she nodded, slipping her arm through his.
Despite her better instincts, there was something exhilarating about cutting through the crowd with Jack. That single point
of contact—through her glove and the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket—was a drug in her veins. Still, she kept her face neutral,
greeting their guests with the enthusiasm of a benevolent hostess. If he expected her to pine after him, he’d be sorely disappointed.
Soon the cocktail hour was in full swing, and Jimmy had quite the crowd of admirers, extolling the quality of his work, and how they could hardly tell such a tragedy had occurred here.
Emmy, meanwhile, slipped away from Jack but was caught by a swarm of Mrs. Stratton’s friends, who gave their opinions on everything from Oliver (“I’ve always said he was a crook”) to the magnificent woods that sprawled beyond the ballroom windows (“Imagine how glorious this view would be without all those trees blocking the way”).
But Emmy endured it all with a polite smile.
Winnie Fairchild was no trueborn lady, but she played one well.
“May I present Mrs. Louis Arthur Stratton,” the butler announced.
A crackling silence fell over the guests, one that turned Mrs. Stratton’s smile to ice as she tiptoed into the reception.
Alone. The chancellor and Caleb were nowhere in sight.
As everyone stared at Mrs. Stratton, her eyes began to water.
Excusing herself, Emmy cut through the crowd. Mrs. Stratton had taken Winnie under her wing this summer, and although Oliver’s
current predicament was, technically speaking, Emmy’s doing, Winnie Fairchild would not snub his mother.
“Why Miss Fairchild, how lovely you look!” Mrs. Stratton embraced Emmy, kissing both of her cheeks. “How I wish Oliver could
see you in this gorgeous gown.”
Her voice caught on her son’s name, and Emmy squeezed her hands, confused by the genuine sympathy she felt. “How are you holding
up?”
“I’ll feel better when Louis gets here.” Adjusting her canary-yellow mask, she glanced around. “I’m assuming he and your brother
did not come straight from the city?”
So they had gone to the city. But Emmy’s relief was fleeting. If Caleb didn’t get the chancellor to the ball, they’d miss their chance.
“I’m sure they’ll be here soon.”
“Hopefully, he’ll have Oliver with him and this whole misunderstanding can be put behind us.” Mrs. Stratton waved to her friends, who quickly averted their eyes. Her proud smile morphed to steel. “And the rest of these turncoats will rue the day they snubbed me.”
Emmy was saved by the butler, who gave her a subtle nod. Time to bring the guests to the ballroom. Excusing herself, she made
the announcement, and the eager guests filed into the ballroom.
Underneath the dim light of one thousand black-flamed candles, the ballroom was a sight to beholden. Emmy could not help but
smile as she gazed at the glittering flames dripping from the ceiling, the chandelier, even the railing of the patio beyond
the vast windows. But Jack took her arm once again, his fingers brushing the bare skin above her glove. If he was trying to
rile her, to trigger that maddening awareness of his presence, she’d ensure he failed.
“Looks like it’s you and me for the first dance.”
Caleb was supposed to open the dance with her, while Jack was supposed to dance with Grace, so he could be ready to hide the
inhibition-lowering conjury on her at a moment’s notice. “I should wait for Paxton.” Her tone, mercifully, was as cool as
his.
“He’s late. We don’t have a choice.”
“Fine.” Accepting his arm, she let Jack lead her to the center of the dance floor and lay his right hand on her shoulder.
With her head high, Emmy laid her left hand on his shoulder and let him clasp her other one. It was only a dance. Of all the
obstacles they faced tonight, she could handle a dance.
The waltz began.
Jack, unfortunately, was an excellent dancer, leading her through the elegant box steps with a graceful ease. For once, her
body’s attunement to his worked in her favor, for they moved as one, seamlessly gliding over the dance floor. Emmy was aware
of the appreciative glances of the onlookers, of the other couples moving in perfect unison, but she kept her eyes locked
with Jack’s in a staring contest she was determined to win.
“So you’re not cross with me?” With his gray eyes lightning bright, it could have been his true face hiding underneath that masquerade mask. “About last night?”
Was he really choosing to discuss that kiss now, on a crowded dance floor surrounded by their enemies? “Not at all. We all
make poor choices.”
The dance floor was growing more crowded with couples by the second. Emmy searched the masked faces, looking for a hint of
Grace’s golden locks, or the chancellor’s scowl, but they were both woefully missing.
“They’ll be here,” Jack murmured. Then, after a pause, he added, “Is it a poor choice to tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”
She whipped toward him, expecting his usual smirk, but there was a note of sincerity in the way his gaze held hers. First,
that kiss. Now, a rare compliment.
But Winnie Fairchild was beautiful. Emmy had designed her to be flawless.
It hit her then: Last night, in the river, it wasn’t Emmy’s lips he had looked at with such longing. It wasn’t her face he’d