Chapter Sixteen
“I CAN’T BELIEVE I’Mwearing this.”
LJ grouses and tugs at the collar of his tuxedo. It’s midnight blue, with dark lapels, and he fills it out pretty damn nicely, if I do say so myself. But I’d have to agree that it’s...a bit incongruous on him.
“C’mon, LJ, can’t you tap into your inner James Bond?” Will says, clapping him on the shoulder. Will, for his part, looks entirely at ease in a tuxedo, right down to the deep red cummerbund and matching cufflinks. LJ grunts.
“Not my style. Literally.”
“Let me guess,” Rob says, striding in from the front hallway. “You’d prefer stirred, not shaken?” We’re sitting around in the sitting room—or is it the drawing room? The one with the sleek leather furniture right by the front door—as dusk gathers outside. Will checks his hair in the mirror—not a single silver strand out of place—and Rob straightens his cuffs in his sleeves. His tux is a deep, dark forest green, so dark it almost looks black, but not quite.
“Or just straight up,” LJ says. He smooths his own hair with his massive palms. Surprisingly, he’s cleaned up well, too, with his usual untamed mane freshly buzzed on the sides and styled sleekly on top, his beard thick as ever, but tidy. With the tattoos covered, he almost looks like someone who’d blend in at the Fox Hunt Club.
Almost. “Can you make that a round there, Scarlet?” he adds to Will, who’s now pouring two fingers of whiskey from the polished wood bar cart by the picture window.
“Say pretty please,” Will says, but obliges, handing LJ a glass. “Prost.”
“I haven’t worn one of these since Senior Prom,” Tuck says, shrugging his shoulders inside his jacket. He’s gone for the two-tone look, a round-lapeled off-white jacket with narrow dark trousers—but it works for him.
“And that was what, three weeks ago?” Will says, sipping whiskey. Tuck gives him a shove.
“C’mon, man.” He steps back and spreads his arms. “How do I look?”
Will and Rob pause, taking him in.
“Fine,” Rob says.
“Passable,” Will says.
LJ just laughs.
Tuck folds his arms. “I was asking Maren.”
“Me?” My voice is almost a squeak from where I’m sitting huddled in the corner.
“Yeah, you.” Tuck grins. “Whaddya think?”
“You look great,” I say truthfully. “You all do.”
“We look ridiculous,” LJ says. “We’re going to stand out like sore fuckin’ thumbs.”
“Ah ah ah,” Rob says. “Masquerade, though. No one will be any the wiser. Speaking of which...” He turns to me, eyebrow raised. “Didn’t you say you had something for us?”
Sheepishly, I unfold myself from my armchair and grab the paper gift bags I’d stashed under the piano.
“I...made you guys some masks.”
My face is burning as I say it, embarrassed as all hell because I’m much more at ease fixing a car than handcrafting something beautiful, and my art skills haven’t improved since the days of glitter glue and macaroni portraits. But I’d wanted to help with this...mission, or whatever, and this was what I came up with.
“They’re not that great,” I preface, handing out the tissue-paper-wrapped packets—blue for LJ, green for Rob, gold for Tuck, and red for Will. “I just wanted to, you know, contribute.”
A look of realization dawns on Tuck’s face. “Is this why you were asking us about animals?”
I grin. “You got me.”
LJ darts a glance in my direction. “Didn’t ask me.”
“Would you have answered if I did?” I shoot back, maybe a little aggressively. I retreat. “I asked Rob what to make you. And he said—”
“A bear,” Rob finishes for me. “Obviously.” He unwraps his, and holds up my handiwork: a Venetian-style half-mask, gilded with sculpted curlicues I painstakingly painted in the garage, shaped like a fox. “Damn. It’s perfect, Maren.” He holds it up to his face and looks at Will, who laughs brightly.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, waving a hand at me. “It’s not you, Maren. It’s a damn good mask, actually. Just...funny to see him in it.” Will unwraps his: a dragon, complete with painted-on scale details. His eyes widen, and his lips part a little in surprise. “Wow.”
I smile a bit in spite of my self-consciousness. “You don’t have to humor me. I’m better at patching up rust than I am painting.”
“I don’t give compliments if I don’t mean them,” Will says, peering through the eyeholes. “And this is stellar.”
“I love it.” Tuck unwraps his—a silver wolf. “Perfect.”
And LJ flips his bear mask over and back again, inspecting it like he’s expecting to find a crack or a blob of rogue paint. But a tiny curve is tugging at the edge of his lips.
“Well, anyway,” I say. All the attention is making me feel weird. “I hope they’ll work.”
“More than work,” Rob says. “They’ll get the job done and then some. I hope you made one for yourself, though.”
“Nothing special,” I say. It’s the truth: I ran out of time. Mine is just a plain white affair, a few rhinestones and feathers I fashioned out of modeling clay at the edges. “But it’ll work. I’m not going to socialize much anyway.”
“Are you...” Will lowers his mask, scopes me up and down pointedly. “...changing?” He glances at his watch, looks at Rob. “We have to get going.”
I fold my arms. I have on the same baggy zip-up sweatshirt I borrowed my first day here. “No, I’m dressed. I just have to...”
With a deep breath, I yank on the zipper and peel off the sweatshirt like I’m ripping off a bandaid.
“I’m ready,” I say, shucking the sleeves from my arms and putting my hands on my hips.
None of them moves.
“Jesus Christ,” Tuck whispers.
“I’ll fuckin’ say,” Will quips, putting a hand to his chin to study me. “God damn, but Jack does good work.”
“That’s why we pay him the big bucks,” Rob says, grinning.
LJ adds nothing, but I see him lick his lips.
The dress that arrived for me came in a box big enough to hold an engine block, stuffed with more tissue paper than a Kleenex factory. And when I’d tried it on in my room, the first words out of my mouth were “absolutely fucking not.”
But then I saw the handwritten card fluttering from the packaging.
Maren—trust me, okay? Even Katharine Hepburn wore a gown now and again. And don’t let anyone tell you that redheads can’t wear red. Knock ‘em dead. —J
And I have to admit, he was right.
The gown is floor-length, blood-red, and sleeveless, with a scooping sweetheart neckline that cuts just a fingertip or two lower than I’d pick for myself. The material is thick but not stiff, hugging the curves of my body and moving easily with me, and the bodice must have some kind of internal armature supporting me, because my boobs look amazing.
Not a body part I’m used to emphasizing on the daily, but...I fluff my hair off of my neck and let the loose curls tumble to the center of my back.
Not so bad, once you get used to it.
“All right, all right,” I say, swiping at the air. “Can we just get a move on?”
Will rolls his eyes. “Maren, can you not with the false modesty? It’s unbecoming.”
I return my hands to my hips and cock my head to the side. “False modesty? You think I’m fishing for compliments or something?” I toss my hair, enjoying the moment. “Nah. I know I look hot. I just don’t like being stared at.”
I wink at Will, surprised by my own boldness. Tuck cracks up. Even LJ—maybe—smiles.
“Damn shame,” Rob says. “Because I think we could stare at you all night.”
My skin flames from my collarbone to my temples.
“But you’re right,” he goes on. “We’ve gotta go.”
AHEAD OF US, THE FOXHunt Club glows like a prettied-up wedding cake.
It’s exactly what you’d expect for a good ol’ boys’ club in Virginia: antebellum brick with grand white columns, floor-to-ceiling windows on the ballrooms, presidential driveway scooting around box hedges, and footmen in red jackets and black ties ready to welcome us.
It makes me want to throw up.
“Easy, Princess.” LJ glances at where my fist is balling up the fabric of my dress.
“Yes, try to relax,” Will says, leaning in from his seat next to me, the spice of whiskey on his breath. “You don’t want to wrinkle that pretty gown, do you?”
Rob drove us, a SUV from his fleet I hadn’t seen yet, which only makes me wonder where the hell he’s stashing all these cars. As we pull up to the front doors, I take a steadying inhale and slip my mask onto my face. The guys follow suit, with Rob going last.
“Ready, boys? And lady,” he adds, smiling.
I flip him the bird. He laughs.
“Ready,” Tuck says.
“Ready to hit the bar,” Will remarks.
“Let’s just get it over with,” LJ grunts.
“Agreed,” I add.
And we’re in.
Walking through the front doors sends a wave of nostalgia cascading over me, and it’s not even entirely unpleasant. The imposing steps of the grand staircase, the dark maroon of the wallpaper, the sparkles of the chandeliers, the cigar-and-brandy smell of the inside with the notes of bougainvillea potpourri skating over top...
It’s like I’m six years old again, here for a very special dinner with my parents.
My heart seizes, and I try not to stumble on my heels as we slip in.
“Where are we—” Will asks, but I cut him off.
“The grand ballroom’s to the right,” I say, nodding. “That way.”
Fortunately, it’s packed. The ballroom is a massive atrium, windowed on every side with a distant ivory dome of a ceiling above us and candelabras dangling every few feet above our heads, but right now there’s barely any breathing room. Almost immediately, we’re shoulder-to-shoulder with men in tuxes, women in furs (ew), and waiters bearing precarious platters of champagne coupes and canapes.
And everyone in a mask. From carnivale-inspired with bright colors and feathers to pale white Phantom of the Opera.
If I know anyone here, I won’t recognize them at a glance.
And, hopefully, vice versa.
“Damn,” LJ mutters. “They go all out.”
“You have no idea,” I murmur back.
“Be normal, you two,” Rob whispers, putting a hand on my bare shoulder and leaning in to my ear. “We’re just blending in.”
“Blending in and scoping the joint,” Will adds. He jerks his head subtly to the left. “Over there.”
I follow his lead over the heads of the crowd and spot a long table off to the side, draped with a white tablecloth and stacked with various auction items: the usual gift baskets, fancy bottles of wine, and bad oil paintings done by some society matron who thinks she’s Rembrandt, but also more than a few display cases with shiny valuables winking out at us: necklaces, earrings, coins.
Rob nods, eyes gleaming behind his mask. “Let’s drift that way, shall we? Fan out around the table and we’ll observe.”
As we slip through the crowd, I keep my head on a swivel, looking out for any kind of danger, but no one seems to be paying any attention to me. Advantages of a mask, I guess. Everyone looks equally out of place.
Someone taps my elbow, and I jump.
“Champagne?” It’s Tuck, offering me a coupe.
I press a hand to my heart. “Jesus Christ. You scared me.”
He smiles, lips curving under the wolf face. “Deep breaths.” He takes my hand, gently, and places the stem of the glass into it. “Just blend in. Browse some of these auction items, you know?” He puts a hand to the small of my back and guides me forward. “First rule of shapeshifting: act like you fit in, and you fit in.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Shapeshifting?”
He laughs. “You know what I mean. Just play the part.”
I nod, and let him lead me the rest of the way to the table. The other three are circling it, too—Will seems to have obtained a few fingers of whiskey in the meantime—and so I follow suit, holding my glass artfully, tipping my head as if I’m actually considering putting down a bid on a pair of ruby earrings or a sapphire tennis bracelet or—
My breath catches in my throat when I see it.
It’s a simple piece, just a single diamond pendant with a delicate white gold chain, gently resting on the black velvet stand. But I’d know it anywhere.
My eyes dart to the description, and my stomach turns.
Ladies’ necklace. Single princess-cut diamond, 1 carat, G grade with VS1 clarity. Starting bid $5,000. Donated by John Lackland.
That means two things.
One, Uncle John is here somewhere.
And two...
That bastard. That absolute ratfucking bastard.
Giving away my mother’s necklace like it’s just another knickknack. The necklace she was supposed to be buried in, for Christ’s sake. And donating this instead of something he cares about because heaven forbid he ever make a sacrifice.
“Such a lovely piece, isn’t it?”
The voice is smooth, male, and directed at me. I glance up, heart pounding, expecting to see Tuck, but he’s slipped away. Instead, I’m staring into the face of someone tall, dark, and...unfamiliar.
I don’t recognize him, I don’t think—although the black silk mask around his eyes doesn’t help in that department—and I’m not sure he knows who I am either.
“You have to love the understatement,” he goes on, gesturing with his wineglass. “Let the jewelry compliment the woman’s beauty, not the other way around, if you ask me.” He smiles. He must be late twenties, early thirties at most. Dark hair, handsome, at least if the bottom half of his face is anything to go by—square jaw, light stubble—and he knows it.
I need to not be talking to him. Or to anyone. But I’m crowded by the press of people around the table, no easy way to step aside.
“I’m not much for jewelry,” I say.
“That’s a shame.” He purses his lips. “This would suit you, I think.”
My cheeks flame.
“You look...familiar.” He cocks his head at me. “You weren’t at the alumni mixer in Charlottesville last weekend, were you?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say hurriedly, “I—”
“My mistake, then.” He smiles. “Guy. Guy Gisbourne. Pleasure to meet you...?”
“Ma—” I catch myself right before I say my literal, actual name out loud. Idiot. “Matilda,” I finish, hopefully smoothly. “And we’ll see about that.”
“Oh, will we?” The guy—well, Guy—flashes a dentist-whitened smile, bends over the table, and scribbles something on the bid card. When he straightens up, I see what he’s written down.
Guy Gisbourne—$10,000
“Wish me luck,” he says. “If I win, it’s all yours”—he pauses—“Matilda. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Before I can say anything, he slips off into the crowd to meet whoever was calling for him, and I turn around and smack right into—
“Who the fuck was that?”
LJ, of all people. I’m eye-level with his bow tie, close enough to smell the woodsy scent of his cologne, to feel the warmth of his body.
I have the weird impulse to throw my arms around him. Like I need protection all of a sudden, after that creepy encounter with Mr. Guy.
But I don’t. Obviously.
“No one,” I say quickly. “And keep your voice down,” I add, darting a look around the ballroom. Everyone seems pretty pickled, but I’m fairly sure none of them would use the phrase who the fuck was that in polite company.
“Bullshit,” LJ says. And he does, to his credit, lower his voice. “He was talking to you.”
“I’m not bullshitting,” I fire back, looking up at him through my mask. God, he’s tall. From this angle I can barely see anything around him. “I truly never met the guy before. He was just some...rando trying to pick me up.”
LJ ignores me, or maybe doesn’t believe me. “You’re upset.”
I don’t respond to that. Just clutch my champagne a little harder.
“Come here.” He takes me by the elbow, surprisingly gently, and leads me towards a side wall where there are a few Louis XIV armchairs positioned strategically for people to take a breather.
“I’m fine,” I say, a little more forcefully, once we’re out of the thick of the crowd. “I’m not going to pass out again, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
At least, I hope I’m not.
LJ doesn’t answer, just pushes me toward the chair a little less than gracefully.
“Hey!”
He ignores my protest and lifts his mask off his face. “You were looking at that necklace,” he says gruffly. “And then you looked...off.”
I press my lips together. Hard.
But LJ doesn’t wait for me to reply. He just paces a few feet away where he looks out over the crowd like a bodyguard, arms folded, eyes skating over everyone, ever-vigilant.
“Tell me.” He speaks without moving an inch in my direction, but his voice couldn’t be aimed at anyone but me. “Tell me why it upset you.”
I stare at the fizzing champagne in my glass, watching the pinprick bubbles roil and pop into nothing through the eyes of my own mask.
“It was donated by my uncle,” I say at last. “Which means he’s here. And I really, really don’t want to see him. Let alone have him see me.”
LJ hmphs. Like he doesn’t believe me.
“He’ll take me back,” I say. “Maybe not hurt me—not here, not make a scene. But he’s...he’s angry. He’ll drag me out by my hair as soon as no one’s looking.” My voice feels ragged. I’m suddenly dying of thirst.
So—what the hell. I down the glass of champagne.
“That’s not all, though.”
I snap my gaze up from the tiled floor. “What?”
LJ slices a glance my way for barely half a second. “You want that necklace, don’t you?” He smirks. “Champagne tastes.”
The way he says it makes it sound like I’m some spoiled trophy wife, pouting so that her husband will buy her some stupid new bauble.
And how fucking dare he? Pretend to be the big protector only so he can get me alone to mock me?
I get to my feet, get up in his face.
“For your information,” I hiss, “that necklace belonged to my mother. My dead mother. And so yeah, I want it. Or I want it not to go to some...” I gesture out at the milling mass of tuxedoes and ballgowns. “Some douchebag rich boy with slicked-back hair and his daddy’s mon—”
“Stop.”
LJ’s grabbed my wrists. Both of them, in one hand. I can feel my pulse working against the rough skin of his palms.
“What are you—”
He drops me, pulls his mask back into place.
“Stay there,” he orders.
“What are you—”
“Stay there!”
It’s all but a roar, a complete command. I freeze, too stunned to disobey, and watch.
LJ slips back into the crush of people, somehow unobtrusive despite how tall and broad he is.
I watch in silence as he sidles over to the auction table, nodding a polite hello to a few matronly women as he passes. He pauses, one hand in a pocket, easily glancing left and right, acting for all the world as if he’s just surveying the room like an ordinary party-goer, perhaps looking for a friend.
And then, quick as a flash of lightning, he flips open the top of the display case, slips a hand inside, and takes the necklace.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. Holy shit. Holy shit.
I don’t know what I’m expecting: a security alarm or the sudden footsteps of sheriff’s deputies, but nothing happens. The chatter of the party continues above our heads. Waiters nudge past me with a polite “excuse me, miss” and distant music plays somewhere.
No one noticed. No one except me.
Two seconds later, LJ’s massive form is by my side again. “Here,” he says tersely.
“How did you...how could you—” I can barely finish a sentence.
“Stop staring. Stop asking questions.” He slips it into the front of my dress, into the small hollow between my breasts, with the barest brush of his rough fingertips, so that the pendant tucks against my skin and the chain nestles itself out of sight.
“Now get out of here,” he says, his voice simmering low in my ear. “Walk into the next room and blend in. Don’t look my way. Don’t acknowledge me at all. Now.”
Chastened, I obey. I feel like I’m out of my own body, watching myself from afar, teetering on these heels as I leave, feeling the slight scrape of the necklace chain against my skin.
I walk the perimeter of the ballroom, across the hall and into the lounge on the other side of the building. My heart’s absolutely hammering, not only because I have the necklace—I have the necklace—but because LJ was the one who stole it for me.
He didn’t seem happy about it. But he still did it.
I don’t have long to dwell, though. The lounge is less crowded, but only barely, with a few tables of more substantive food positioned strategically and various tuxedoed and ballgowned figures sitting on chairs, laughing to each other, nodding gray heads and smiling with wrinkled cheeks. The armchairs and couches are plush as I remember, the plants as perfectly verdant as always, the oil portraits on the wall stately—likely some Confederate generals who massacred thousands and now they’re held up as war heroes.
But that’s not what I really notice.
I see him, my uncle John, right here, right in front of me, for the first time in days.