Three days after the meeting with Caine, London decided to be frivolous.
The occasion was Lady Holt’s masquerade.
“Well?” Mrs. Willoughby said, standing in Mira’s bedchamber with her arms folded. “Will you go?”
“No,” Mira said.
“Yes,” Mrs. Willoughby said at the same time.
They glared at each other.
“Masks,” Mira said. “Feathers. Men in costumes. It sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “But it is also useful. People say things at masquerades they would never say with their own faces on. They hide behind dominoes and forget that their voices give them away.”
“I do not need to hear men’s fantasies about shepherdesses,” Mira said.
“You may need to hear Harcourt’s fantasies about profit,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “And Pell’s excuses. And perhaps even a tidbit about Caine from a man who does not realize he is talking about him.”
Mira hesitated.
Masks.
Anonymity.
The chance to slip closer to certain conversations without the immediate weight of *widow* pressing on her.
“What would I wear?” she asked, half-stalling, half-curious.
Mrs. Willoughby’s eyes lit. “Ah. At last, a sensible question.”
The dress, when it came, made Mira’s breath catch.
It was deep wine-red, the color of spilled claret. The silk was heavier than her blue gown, with a sheen that seemed to drink the light.
The neckline scooped lower—much lower—than anything she had worn since Thomas’s death. The sleeves were short, puffed, leaving most of her arms bare. The bodice hugged her curves more ruthlessly than Mrs. Trent’s altered castoffs ever had.
“You cannot expect me to wear this,” she said faintly, clutching it to her.
“I can and I do,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Lady Holt’s invitation specified ‘indecent elegance.’ This barely qualifies.”
“It exposes—” Mira flapped a hand in front of her chest, for once echoing Sally.
“Your collarbones,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “And a perfectly respectable portion of bosom. Half the room will have theirs positively tumbling out. You will look almost demure by comparison.”
“I will look…” Mira struggled for a word.
“Alive,” Mrs. Willoughby supplied.
Color rushed to Mira’s cheeks. “I am alive.”
“Then dress like it,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “You have been burying yourself in grey. It is time to remember that you have blood.”
“Blood is dangerous,” Mira said. “Men smell it.”
“Good,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Let them. They will be too distracted by thinking about getting you out of the gown to notice how sharply you listen.”
Mira pressed her lips together, torn between horror and a wild, giddy little thrill.
“What about a mask?” she asked.
Mrs. Willoughby opened a box with a flourish. Nestled inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay a half-mask of gold and burgundy, edged with tiny beads. It would cover her eyes and the bridge of her nose, leaving her mouth free.
“For you,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “It will make your eyes look enormous.”
“And my nose?” Mira asked.
“Will be beneath it,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Stop fretting. You are a handsome woman. Own it.”
Mira swallowed. “Thomas liked me plump,” she said. “He said it made him feel rich.”
“Thomas had excellent taste,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Now, are you going to let his ghost dictate your wardrobe forever, or are you going to remind yourself that you have desires of your own now?”
Mira’s fingers tightened on the mask.
Desires.
The word tasted strange. Sharp.
Once, her desires had been simple. Thomas’s laugh. Bread still warm from the oven. A sunny day. A quiet evening with a book.
Now, they were more complex. A ledger balanced. A man brought low. A name cleared.
A hand on her skin not because it claimed her, but because it wanted to.
She stared at the dress.
“The mask will help,” she said.
“Yes,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “You may blame any sins you commit on the fact that no one will know it is you.”
“They will know,” Mira said. “Everyone always knows. Masks are a flimsy illusion.”
“Of course they are,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “That is half the fun.”
***
The masquerade glittered.
Lady Holt’s ballroom had been transformed into a fever dream of color and light. Candles burned in every sconce, reflected back a hundredfold by mirrors draped in gauze. Musicians in motley played sprightly tunes from a gallery hung with paper lanterns.
Men came as satyrs and kings, in dominoes and absurdly plumed hats. Women swanned in as goddesses, shepherdesses, nymphs, queens. Feathers bobbed. Jewels flashed. Laughter flowed like champagne.
Mira paused in the doorway, suddenly, uncharacteristically uncertain.
The red silk clung. The mask framed her eyes. The air felt thick.
Mrs. Willoughby, in a gown of emerald velvet with a mask like a dragonfly’s wings, squeezed her arm.
“Breathe,” she murmured. “You look magnificent.”
“I look…conspicuous,” Mira said.
“Good,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “That is the point. If you wish to hear secrets, you must first become one.”
Sally, peeking from behind the door with undisguised awe, whispered, “You look like a duchess, ma’am. Or a—” She hesitated, then blurted, “Or a *temptress.*”
Mira nearly tripped.
“I have raised a viper,” she muttered.
Sally giggled, then retreated, content to leave her mistress to the wolves.
They descended the stairs into the swirl.
Masks turned. Fans fluttered. A murmur ran through the crowd: a low, appreciative sound. Mira felt it like heat against her bare shoulders.
“This is a mistake,” she hissed.
“It is a delight,” Mrs. Willoughby corrected. “Smile vaguely. Men will think it is for them. Women will wonder. That is the sweet spot.”
Mira did as instructed.
It felt unnatural at first, but then—
The air of the room shifted around her.
Conversations adjusted. Paths bent. She found herself at the center of a small eddy of interest without quite knowing how.
A duke dressed as a Roman general bowed and asked for a dance. She declined. A young man in a fox mask attempted a compliment; she deflected it with a nod and a question about tariffs that sent him scurrying.
Mrs. Willoughby, at her side, murmured names. “That peacock there is Lord Renshaw. Avoid him; he bites. That sober fellow in black is Sir Miles Perrin. He invests in warehouses. He will bore you, but he knows where Harcourt drinks.”
“And Pell?” Mira asked, scanning.
She spotted him near the far wall, masked but unmistakable. His posture gave him away; the particular set of his shoulders, the way his head tilted when listening. His mask was a simple black domino, perhaps meant to suggest mystery. His mouth smiled too much.
He saw her.
Even with the mask, his recognition was obvious. His gaze flicked over the red silk, the curve of her shoulders, the line of her throat.
He began to move toward her.
A hand brushed her arm.
She turned.
A man in a plain black mask, dressed as simply as one could be at such an affair—dark coat, no feathers, no affected cape—stood at her elbow.
His hair, beneath the mask’s edge, shone reddish in the candlelight.
“May I have this dance?” Daniel Ferris asked quietly.
Relief punched the air from her lungs.
“You are early,’ she said, because her tongue seemed to default to contrary when her heart hammered.
“You are stunning,” he said, because his did not.
Heat flooded her cheeks beneath the mask.
“That is not an answer,” she managed.
“It is the only one my brain produced when you walked in,” he said. “I am still waiting for better.”
Her lips twitched.
“Dance with him,” Mrs. Willoughby murmured. “It will annoy Pell.”
That decided her.
“Yes,” she said to Ferris. “You may.”
He led her onto the floor as the musicians struck a waltz.
“Bold choice,” he murmured. “Masquerade and waltz. Lady Holt is determined to send every matron in London to bed with indigestion.”
“I thought you liked a scandal,” she said.
“I object when it involves other men’s hands on your waist,” he said.
His gloved palm settled lightly at the small of her back.
Her breath hitched.
“Possessive, Mr. Ferris?” she asked.
“Practical,” he said. “If they’re going to talk regardless, I would prefer to know what I’m being blamed for.”
She huffed a laugh that trembled.
They moved.
It was smoother than their previous brief quadrille. The music wrapped around them. Her skirts whispered against his legs. His hand was a warm, steadying presence.
“You look…” he shook his head slightly. “Dangerous.”
“Like fire?” she asked, remembering Caine’s word.
“Fire in silk,” Ferris said. “A very bad idea in a room full of dry reputations.”
“Yours included?” she asked.
“Oh, mine has been soaked so many times it may not catch,” he said. “But I am willing to test the theory.”
She snorted. “Mrs. Willoughby says I am to use my…appearance…to distract men into talking.”
“You won’t need to talk,” he said under his breath. “Half this room will volunteer their sins unprompted if you look at them for more than a heartbeat.”
“You exaggerate,” she said.
“Do I?” he asked. “Lord Renshaw nearly walked into a pillar when you passed. Pell is currently glaring daggers into my spine. Harcourt is sweating through his very respectable cravat.”
She flicked a glance to the side.
Harcourt stood near a column, a mask pushed up on his forehead in a careless fashion that fooled no one. His gaze tracked her, its calculation poorly hidden.
“He knows about the pages,” she said.
“He suspects,” Ferris corrected. “Scared men suspect everything.”
“Caine will go to him,” she murmured.
“Yes,” Ferris said. “And we will see whether he grovels or snarls.”
Music swelled, shifting them closer. His hand tightened at her back when she wobbled on an unexpected step.
“Careful,” he murmured. “We do not want you falling in a heap of red at Pell’s feet. He’d enjoy it too much.”
“Are you jealous?” she teased, because it felt safer than admitting the little dart of fear Pell’s gaze still inspired.
“Yes,” he said, without flippancy.
The word landed between them like a stone in water.
“Of…what?” she asked, voice thin.
“Of any man who has held you like this,” he said. “Unmasked. Unobserved. Without numbers clattering in your head.”
Her chest tightened. “Thomas,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“He is dead,” she said quietly. “He will not be jealous of you.”
“I will do enough jealousy for both of us,” he said.
The music turned.
They moved with it.
“This is foolish,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But so is living. We may as well enjoy bits of it.”
She swallowed. “You enjoy this.”
“Waltzing with you in a red dress while your enemies stew at the edges of the room?” he said. “Immensely.”
“I meant…this,” she said. “This…flirting.”
He smiled, small. “Yes.”
“You should not,” she said. “I am in mourning. For another few months at least. Society would be scandalized if they knew.”
“They will assume you are dancing with me to secure a second husband,” he said. “They will be appalled when you do not.”
“I do not intend to marry again,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “That is half the appeal.”
She stumbled.
He steadied her, his palm pressing more firmly into the small of her back.
“Explain,” she demanded, breathless.
“It means,” he said, voice low, “that if I think about kissing you, I do not immediately have to imagine a vicar and a license and eight children.”
Heat surged.
“And do you think about kissing me?” she asked, because some reckless part of her could not resist.
He exhaled.
“All the time,” he said. “Unfortunately.”
Her heart lurched.
“Mr. Ferris,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said.
“This is…unwise,” she said.
“Yes,” he said again. “Do you want me to stop?”
She opened her mouth.
Pell’s masked face loomed over his shoulder, watching.
Harcourt’s stare burned from the column.
Lady Bennett, in a mask like an owl’s, eyed her from across the room, as if daring her to choose safety.
Caine, somewhere in the city, moved invisible pieces.
Her life was a tangle of risk.
Did one more thread truly matter?
“Yes,” she said, throat tight. “We…should stop. Talking like this. It complicates things.”
Ferris’s jaw flexed.
“Very well,” he said, after a beat. “We will be proper.”
Relief and a faint ache mingled.
“For now,” he added, so softly she almost did not hear it.
The waltz ended.
He released her, bowing with exaggerated formality.
“Mrs. Godwin,” he said, voice clear and polite. “Thank you for the dance.”
“Mr. Ferris,” she said, equally composed. “It was…pleasant.”
He smiled, eyes glinting behind the mask. “Liar.”
He melted back into the crowd before she could retort.
Pell appeared at her side almost immediately, as if he had been waiting for Ferris to vacate.
“Mrs. Godwin,” he said, bowing. “You are…radiant.”
She inclined her head. “Mr. Pell.”
“You have been busy,” he said, the words light, the edge beneath them not. “The docks. Taverns. Now masquerades. One might think you did not care what people say.”
“They will say it regardless,” she said. “At least this way, I have something interesting to remember when I am an old woman.”
He laughed. “You will never be old.”
“I intend to be,” she said. “I have much I wish to outlive.”
His smile tightened. “Such as my career?”
“Such as my ignorance,” she said.
He exhaled. “I was hoping we might speak…privately.”
“That seems unwise,” she said. “For both of us.”
“I worry about you,” he murmured. “You tread in dangerous waters. Men like Harcourt…like…” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “Like certain others…are not kind to those who tug at their nets.”
“And you are?” she asked.
“I have always liked you,” he said. “From a distance. Thomas spoke of you often. With…great fondness.”
“Did he?” she asked. “How touching, considering how little fondness you have shown for his accounts.”
He winced. “I did what I could,” he said. “You must believe that.”
“I must do nothing of the sort,” she said. “Belief is earned, not demanded.”
His eyes flashed. “If you continue to cast suspicion on me publicly, you will drive me into a corner,” he said tightly. “Men do not behave well in corners.”
“Then do not back yourself into one,” she said. “Tell me the truth. Now. Before someone less inclined to mercy than I am forces it from you.”
“Less inclined to mercy,” he repeated hoarsely. “You mean…Caine.”
She held his gaze.
His throat worked. “You have no idea what he is capable of.”
“I am learning,” she said.
“Mira—” he began, then cut himself off, glancing around as if realizing his mistake. “Mrs. Godwin. Please. For your own sake. Stop digging.”
“No,” she said.
“You will bring ruin,” he said.
“It has already arrived,” she said.
He stared at her, then shook his head, a little laugh escaping, brittle. “You are extraordinary.”
“You do not know me,” she said.
“I know enough,” he said. “To admire you. To fear you. To…want to keep you from walking into the same hell I find myself in.”
“You will have to find a different angel to save,” she said. “I do not fit the role.”
He stepped closer. Not indecently so, but near enough that his words ghosted across the edge of her mask.
“If you ever find yourself in true danger,” he said, low and urgent, “come to the Albany. Ask for me. I will help. I swear it.”
She searched his face.
“I do not trust you,” she said quietly.
“You should not,” he said. “But there may come a moment when you need me regardless. Remember.”
He bowed and moved away, his shoulders stiff despite the attempt at nonchalance.
Mira exhaled.
Lady Bennett appeared at her elbow like a particularly judgmental ghost.
“Well,” she said. “That looked…intense.”
“He is…intense,” Mira said.
“He is a rat caught between two cats,” Lady Bennett said. “He will bite whomever is closest.”
“I will keep my ankles away,” Mira said.
“Do,” Lady Bennett said. “And your throat.”
Mrs. Willoughby swooped in. “What did he say?” she demanded. “Should I have Sally poison his soup?”
“He offered help,” Mira said.
“Of course he did,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Men *love* to be useful when they are frightened. Refuse him.”
“I did,” Mira said.
“Good,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Now, are you ready for your next lesson?”
“I shudder to ask,” Mira said.
“Seduction,” Mrs. Willoughby said cheerfully.
Mira nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Of information,” Mrs. Willoughby amended, exasperated. “Honestly, your mind is filthier than mine. Lord Renshaw is drunk enough to be loose-tongued. Sir Miles is bored enough to brag. Go stand near them and look thoughtful. They will throw facts at you like confetti.”
“And if they throw something else?” Mira asked.
“Hit them with your fan,” Lady Bennett advised.
“Hit them with your *words,*” Mrs. Willoughby said. “It leaves fewer stains.”
Mira drew a breath.
She could do this.
She had walked into Caine’s den.
She could walk into a circle of gossip and coax it to say something useful.
She spent the next hour doing just that.
She let Lord Renshaw corner her and brag about his investments. She listened as Sir Miles complained, under his breath, about dock fees and “certain men” who took their tithe. She laughed at a marquis’s joke about barrels while storing away the name of a warehouse he mentioned.
Again and again, she felt eyes on her.
Ferris’s, from the edge of the room, watching over his mask.
Pell’s, sharp with resentment and something like reluctant respect.
Harcourt’s, beady with calculation.
Under her mask, sweat gathered at her temples.
Her feet ached.
Her cheeks hurt from polite smiles.
But her reticule, tucked under her arm, had gained a slip of paper—a hastily scribbled reminder of a name Harcourt had hissed at a subordinate when he thought no one was listening.
*Turner – warehouse south wharf – ask Cobb?*
Near midnight, as the party began to blur, Ferris found her again.
“You look like you could use air,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
He escorted her onto a small balcony that overlooked Lady Holt’s gardens. The night was chilly; the tips of her ears went numb.
“You danced with Pell,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she said. “It seemed…prudent to remind him I am not easily frightened.”
“I was,” he said. “Frightened.”
She glanced at him. “Of him?”
“Of you,” he said. “You wield that dress like a weapon.”
She looked down at herself. The red silk gleamed in the moonlight, the neckline a scandalous swoop. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, threatening to spill.
Heat prickled along her sternum.
“Is it…too much?” she asked, unexpectedly uncertain.
“Too much for whom?” he asked.
She swallowed. “For you.”
His jaw clenched. “I am not the man you need to worry about,” he said. “I am very invested in you keeping your bodice on. It makes it easier to think.”
“And do you not prefer not thinking?” she asked lightly.
“Not around you,” he said. “Around you, thinking is…dangerous. If I start, I might not stop.”
Her pulse jumped.
“What do you think about?” she asked, because she had clearly lost any sense of self-preservation.
“Right now?” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
He exhaled.
“I think about the fact that if I lean in and lower your mask and put my mouth on yours, half a dozen people inside that ballroom will guess, and the rest will spend the next month inventing better versions,” he said. “I think about the fact that you are still in mourning. I think about your husband, who I liked more than I admitted. I think about Caine, and Pell, and Harcourt, and the delicate little game you are playing, and how easy it would be to knock all the pieces over for the sake of one—very—ill-advised—kiss.”
She was breathing faster now.
“And?” she whispered.
“And so I do not,” he said.
Her shoulders sagged.
“With that said,” he added, stepping closer, his eyes intent, “if you were not wearing that black ribbon, and if you were not currently living in Mrs. Willoughby’s spare room, and if there were not at least three smugglers and two merchants watching your every move, I would make very different choices.”
Her heart pounded.
“How different?” she asked.
He reached up, very slowly, and touched the edge of her mask.
“Different enough,” he said softly, “that you would not be asking. You would be telling me when to stop.”
Silence hummed.
Her lips parted.
She could say *now.*
She could say *never.*
She could say *don’t.*
Instead, she said nothing.
After a moment that stretched, he let his hand fall.
“See?” he said, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Proper. For now.”
She let out a laugh that was half sob. “You are infuriating.”
“Yes,” he said. “And alive. I intend to keep you the same way.”
“You assume,” she said, “that staying alive is my highest priority.”
“It is *mine,*” he said.
The door to the balcony opened abruptly.
Mrs. Willoughby’s voice floated out. “There you two are. Honestly, if you are going to cause a scandal, at least do it where I can enjoy it.”
Mira stepped back, grateful and resentful all at once.
“We were enjoying the breeze,” she said.
“Mm,” Mrs. Willoughby said, eyes flicking between them. “The breeze out here smells very much like restraint. Come in. Lady Holt is letting down her hair. Literally. You must see it before it devours her guests.”
Ferris bowed. “Duty calls.”
“To hair,” Mira said.
“To distraction,” he said.
He offered her his arm.
She took it.
As they reentered the ballroom, masks and music swirling around them, a thought lodged in Mira’s mind like a splinter.
She was playing a game with men who had no qualms about blood.
She was flirting with a man who had too many.
She was wearing a dress that made saints sweat.
And somewhere, in the dark places of the city, Caine was moving.
She had lit several sparks tonight.
Sooner or later, one of them would catch.
She only hoped she would be the one holding the bucket when it did.
*To be continued…*