Chapter 23
“Do not press a desperate foe too hard.”
As children, Sybella and I once competed to see who could stare at the sun the longest. Naturally, I won—and nearly went blind.
On that day, I learned two vital lessons: first, that Sybella’s fortitude was no match for mine; and second, that nothing rivals the brilliance of the sun, not even diamonds.
Which is precisely why I had chosen it as the inspiration for my masquerade costume.
I had spent every last shilling from my wardrobe allowance on tonight’s outfit.
The only money I had left was what Edmond had given me for my painting, and I had followed Mrs. Sweete’s advice and hid it in a box under my bed just in case I’d need it.
Hopefully, after tonight’s success, I never would.
My gown was an exquisite gold silk, adorned with sparkling metallic spangles and a golden, gossamer cape that cascaded behind me.
But the masterpiece of the outfit was my mask.
It was crafted to resemble a blazing sun, embedded with amber glass and crowned with sharp rays bursting from the top.
The completed look was celestial—hopefully enough to secure a second proposal.
Something had transpired between me and Edmond in the music room yesterday, something real.
It was different from what happened in the opera’s storage room.
Back then, there were still secrets between us.
But those secrets had been stripped bare—all except one.
Edmond had promised he’d tell it to me tonight.
Whatever it was, I was willing to bet my entire future on it.
Father’s deadline ended tonight, which meant this was my last chance to discover whether or not Edmond felt the same way I did.
We entered the ballroom, and Father frowned at the garish room.
People wore an eclectic array of costumes—nymphs, peacocks, bandits, harlequins, and more.
In the middle of the room rose an enormous centerpiece of fruits and wine, piled high like a gaudy offering to Bacchus.
Colored glass lanterns of every color dangled from the ceiling.
They spun slowly on their strings, casting dizzying hues over the dancers.
But most overwhelming of all were the mirrors—dozens of them—hanging along the walls.
They reflected the revelry, making the ballroom seem twice as crowded and three times as loud.
Father grabbed a glass of wine off a servant’s tray and gulped it down. “I expect you to keep your word, Helena. Accept the baron’s offer tonight, or I will.”
“I offer you my congratulations. You and the baron make a handsome couple,” I said with unusual boldness. Perhaps it was the intoxicating gleam of the colored lanterns.
Father’s eyes narrowed beneath his black mask. “Remember, one wrong move, and it’s auf wiedersehen.”
I glanced at Mrs. Sweete, who stood a few paces behind me. She wore a chocolate-colored dress with a mask of owl feathers. Simple, but apt—Mrs. Sweete was ever watchful. She gave me an encouraging nod.
I drew a breath. “I will give Lord Cranford my answer tonight. I promise.”
“Good.” Father made to leave for the game parlor, then paused and added, “Mrs. Sweete, see to it that my daughter does not step out of line. Not even a—.”
“Wrinkle. We know.” I sighed. “I assure you, Father, I’ve been thoroughly starched tonight.”
He glowered at me, then walked away, his ultimatum lingering in the air like a foul stench. By the end of the night, I’d be engaged. To whom—Lord Cranford or Edmond—remained uncertain.
“Mrs. Sweete,” I said, “I require your supernatural powers of observation.”
“Supernatural?” Her owl-feathered mask covered her face, but I could practically hear her raised eyebrow in her tone.
“I need to find Edmond. Immediately.” I looked out at the churning mass of silks and tailcoats.
Masquerades always had a different energy from other balls, as if the anonymity of the masks made people forget how to behave.
Even the music was frantic, the rapid tempo quickening my heartbeat in an unpleasant way.
“There.” Mrs. Sweete pointed at a knot of women draped in Grecian peplos with white, theatrical masks.
I counted nine of them. The muses, I supposed.
Their laughter rang out as they circled a lone figure.
The poor man, clad in a dashing black suit and silver mask, stood trapped at the center of their adoration, his broad shoulders tight with discomfort.
It was unmistakably Edmond.
“Impressive,” I said.
Mrs. Sweete shrugged. “He stands out.”
“Let’s go before the muses claim him for Mount Olympus.”
We began our perilous journey through the throngs of revelry, bumping and spinning past couples in rich greens, reds, and golds. As I sidestepped to avoid getting splashed on with wine, I made eye contact with Sybella from across the room, and my stomach clenched.
She stood with a small man—Mr. Bradford, I’d guess from his poor posture—looking bored as he spoke.
Sybella was dressed as a siren, with a turquoise gown and a scaled mask lined with seashells.
Only the lower half of her face was visible, so I knew she saw me when she grinned at me in that wicked way of hers, completely ignoring Mr. Bradford in the process.
“She’s up to something,” I whispered to Mrs. Sweete.
“I’ll keep my eye on her.”
We kept moving, but before we could reach Edmond, a honeyed voice called out, “Ah, ma chère. You’re shining as brilliantly as ever.”
I stilled. Mrs. Sweete immediately grabbed my hand, offering her strength.
I looked over my shoulder. Sure enough, Mr. Marceaux stood behind me, dressed in a dark-red mask that covered his bruised eye. The mask’s corners were pointed upward, like the horns of an incubus.
“You will excuse us,” Mrs. Sweete told him firmly.
But Mr. Marceaux stepped in front of us. “You know, Miss Weston, you and I are more alike than I thought.”
“I am nothing like you,” I spat.
“Oh?” The corner of his lips curled in a mocking smirk. “You’re juggling multiple interests at once, aren’t you? That’s a pastime we share in common.”
My eyes narrowed. “Step aside, Mr. Marceaux, before I stop asking nicely.”
“Tell me, will Hawke throw a punch at the old baron too?” He licked his lips and looked me up and down. “Or will you have them duel over you like real men?”
A hot anger flared inside me, and I jutted my chin up. “Do not speak to me again, not unless you wish me to share what I saw happen between you and Sybella in the orangery.”
I had hoped to unbalance the horrible rake, but he just threw back his head and laughed. “A good attempt, ma chère, but your plan is flawed. See, my reputation will recover from such a scandal. I’d give it a month at most, and then the mamas will be throwing their daughters at me again.”
“Don’t you care what happens to Sybella?”
He leaned in, and it took all my will not to recoil. “I don’t care about Sybella at all. She begged me to marry her after our little escapade among the oranges, you know.” He sneered, revealing his too-white teeth. “As if I’d want spoiled goods.”
I pulled back, staring at Mr. Marceaux with utter disgust. “You are a villain.”
He tipped his horned mask to me. “We can always spot one of our own, Miss Weston.”
“Marceaux, you are not welcome here,” a voice said.
I turned to find Lord Cranford holding his cane with a tight fist as he glared at the Frenchman. The baron had forgone wearing a mask. That didn’t surprise me; he wasn’t the type to revel.
Mr. Marceaux held up his hands. “No need to point a cannon at me, Cranford. I was already leaving. This party is a bore.” Mr. Marceaux took a few steps backward, then gave me a wicked smile. “Good luck with your juggling, ma chère. If you drop a ball, you know where to find me.”
He sauntered off, and the air returned to my lungs. I let go of Mrs. Sweete’s hand, then turned to Lord Cranford. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “Miss Weston, would you give me the next dance? We ought to talk.”
“Um—” I glanced over my shoulder at Edmond, whose back was now pressed against the wall as the muses surrounded him. “I’m afraid my next dance is with Mr. Hawke,” I lied. “But you may have the one after, which I believe is a waltz.”
He nodded and held out his hand for my dance card. “Very well.”
I almost handed him my card but quickly realized Edmond’s name was not written on it, and the baron would discover my lie immediately.
“I’ll write your name down for you,” I said. Then I curtsied and grabbed Mrs. Sweete’s wrist before hurrying away.
“Use caution, Miss Weston,” she urged as we walked. “I worry that you’re dragging the baron along, riding on a hope that may not play out the way you want it to. If you pull a thread too tightly in different directions, it will break.”
I hated to admit it, but Mrs. Sweete was right.
I was stringing the baron along on the chance that Edmond would propose tonight.
It was not something I was proud of. But I couldn’t reject his offer without some assurance from Edmond.
My own feelings aside, I had a duty to my family and those who depended on us.
If this were a gothic romance, I’d fling rationality aside and pursue the man of my heart.
But this was not a novel, and I couldn’t take any risks.
“I know,” I said. “I’ll give him my answer. After I speak to Edmond.”
We reached the muses, and I pushed through their front line. As soon as Edmond saw me, he held up his hands and said, “Excuse me ladies, I believe I saw a man dressed as Hesiod over there. He needs your inspiration more than I do.”