Chapter 5 - The Masquerade Trap
The silk gown Julian provided was the color of midnight water—deep navy, cascading in heavy folds that shimmered under candlelight, paired with a delicate filigree mask of blackened silver that concealed the upper half of my face.
When Julian stepped into the manor foyer to meet me, he stopped dead in his tracks. He wore a sharply tailored black evening coat and a matching silver mask, looking every inch the lethal, captivating nobleman he was. For a long, breathless moment, neither of us spoke.
""You Promised You'd Behave Tonight,"" I warned him, adjusting the lace cuffs at my wrists to conceal my nervous tremble. ""No duels, no reckless grandstanding, and no drawing attention to us.""
Julian stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over me with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly devoid of air. He offered his arm, his lips curving into a wicked, reckless smirk.
""I Promised Nothing of the Kind,"" he said softly.
The Duke of Devonshire’s ballroom was a glittering den of gilded mirrors, towering crystal chandeliers, and three hundred masked aristocrats drowning in champagne and perfumed deceit. The orchestra played a sweeping waltz, the violins soaring over the gentle clinking of crystal glasses.
I spotted Lord Silas Wathbone almost immediately near the marble terrace. Stripped of his charity title, he looked older, his face lined with bitter fury, flanked by two burly guards masquerading as footmen.
""He's nervous,"" Julian whispered into my hair as we stepped onto the dance floor, blending into the swirling sea of waltzing couples. ""His creditors are closing in. The naval syndicate is meeting in the library at midnight to draft an escape plan.""
Julian’s hand on the small of my back was firm and confident, guiding me through the turns with an effortless grace that forced me to look directly into his eyes.
""You're very good at this,"" I murmured, my breath mingling with his.
""A lifetime of useless aristocratic training,"" he replied, spinning me lightly beneath an archway. ""Though I never found a partner who kept pace with me until now.""
Before I could answer, a commotion rippled across the entrance hall.
Three officers of the Metropolitan Police, accompanied by an imposing man in high-collared civilian dress, marched into the ballroom. Silas Wathbone stepped forward to meet them, pointing an urgent finger across the crowded floor.
""Julian,"" I whispered, stiffening in his arms. ""Look.""
Julian glanced over his shoulder. His jaw hardened instantly. ""That's Inspector Vance. Scotland Yard’s most ruthless hound. And Wathbone isn't greeting him as a suspect—he called him here.""
""How could they know?""
""They didn't know about me,"" Julian said, his voice dropping into cold, lethal focus. ""They found the coal chute behind your ruined townhouse. They tracked the wheel ruts of my carriage to the Kensington turnpike. They know the Midnight Mirror is in this room.""
Wathbone’s voice boomed above the music, cutting through the violins like a butcher’s cleaver.
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""Lock the doors!"" Wathbone ordered, brandishing a signed warrant from the Home Secretary. ""No one leaves this ballroom without unmasking! The treasonous viper who calls themselves the Midnight Mirror is among us tonight, and they will hang from Newgate before sunrise!""
The iron bolt on the main ballroom doors slammed shut with a deafening, echoing thud.
