Page 65 of The Confessions of a Lady
Then reality descended and the night exploded into flames. Not the delicious, tingling flames he inspired wherever he touched her naked skin. The singe-y, smoky, horrible ones that destroyed villages and burned women at the stake.
Now, she stood in the marchioness’ suite and stared at a dress. Because regardless of their fight, she still needed to attend the masque. She still needed to find evidence against him.
While much swirled in the miasma of uncertainty, several things were very clear to Penny.
One: Liam had spent far too much money on a gown of decadent crimson silk with real rubies sewn into the fabric so it would shimmer like a river of fire when she moved. Never in her life had she seen such a dress.
Two: he had an uncanny knack for knowing a woman’s measurements just by looking at her in a dowdy maid’s costume.
Three: the tailor had forgotten a serious amount of fabric at the neckline, perhaps due to the speed with which this dress must have been made. She ran the risk of exposing more than just her identity to the entire beau monde tonight.
Four (and most troubling): if she were ever going to get into the thing, she would need help.
Molly.
She hated to ask the girl. Keeping such a secret would weigh on Molly.
It will be impossible for her. She spills out information as soon as she has it, like pouring water in a sieve.
But Penny didn’t have any other choice. And if Molly exposed Penny after tonight, what would it matter as long as Penny had her evidence? She would need to leave Liam’s house regardless. An idea which brought her more pain than she wished to admit.
Slipping quietly out of the room, she scurried along the hall, down the stairs where a lively reel could be heard from the ballroom, and through the entryway right as Lord and Lady Drake entered. Lady Cavendale was with them, hovering near Millie’s side. They all wore masks, but it was impossible not to recognise them. Drake’s mask was cut on the diagonal and followed the line of his scar, highlighting the gruesome wound instead of hiding it. His icy eyes captured Penny as recognition sparked.
‘Miss Smith.’ His gravelled voice sent shivers up her spine. The man really was quite terrifying.
Millicent turned from her husband and followed his gaze. ‘Penny! What marvellous timing we have to run into you.’ Millicent swept forward in a velvet gown of forest green, contrasting beautifully against her copper hair. Emeralds had been woven into the braids and curls of her coiffure, winking in the candlelight. A few were also attached to the mask she wore that perfectly matched the hue of her dress. Ivy trailed behind her. Her pale-blue gown of gossamer silk was nearly plain, but the clean lines set off Ivy’s lithe frame beautifully. Her mask was simple white and her pale hair had been swept into a chignon at the base of her elegant neck. Penny would guess she didn’t have access to a lady’s maid and therefore simplicity was necessary. Luckily for Ivy, the lack of adornments also set off her unique features. A prominent nose, full mouth, eyes like a clear pool of arctic water.
Millicent pulled Penny into a warm embrace scented with citrus and sun-drenched cotton.
Perhaps the fates sent Millie to her. Or maybe it was just silly luck. Or destiny. Whatever the reason, Penny wasn’t about to let this chance slip by. Because unlike Molly, Lady Drake knew how to keep a secret.
‘Millie, I need your help.’
It was time for the lady’s maid to turn into a lady.
Liam stood on the edge of his glittering ballroom and silently cursed Lady Philippa Winterbourne. He should never have agreed to her plan. He hated balls. Masques most especially as normally demure members of the beau monde took the opportunity of anonymity to indulge in their worst temptations.
His simple black domino was itchy. The snowy cravat his valet chose to contrast his black suit was tied tight enough to choke him. The starch in his shirt was too stiff, and his boots pinched his heels. His thoughts drifted back to Penny, where they had been stubbornly stuck all day. Despite how disastrously their evening ended the previous night, he still held hope she might show. It would be the only good thing to happen at this masque.
His chest echoed like a hollow drum with each heartbeat. While every fibre of his being wanted her to materialise, the one benefit of her absence meant he could focus his full attention on the mission.
And it’s about bloody time I did just that.
Liam looked at the crush of glittering ladies flirting with their fans, young bucks strutting about, political powerhouses puffing cigars as they clustered around the buffet tables like fat partridges instead of dancing the cotillion with their wives. He was disgusted with the lot of them. Somewhere, among all of these most esteemed peers, lurked one of the leaders of the Devil’s Sons. Or perhaps all three were milling about. Watching Liam, just as he searched for them.
The rustle of silk and lace pulled Liam’s attention from the crowd. He turned as Philippa approached. She wore a maskmade almost entirely of black sapphires with tiny rubies used to create the impression of flames licking around her eyes. The rubies spilled throughout her intricate hair, coiled and curled atop her head like an elaborate ebony crown. Even with Liam’s limited understanding of women’s fashion, he could appreciate the skill of her lady’s maid. Philippa’s dress was primarily black silk and lace with crimson peeking throughout her skirts, mirroring the illusion of flames from her mask.
‘Are we emulating Persephone this evening?’ Liam kept his lips in a straight line.
Philippa raised a brow. ‘Hades isn’t really my type, Liam. And if we’re comparing me to Greek deities, I much prefer Artemis.’
‘Goddess of the hunt. Fitting.’ Artemis was also rumoured to be a sapphist, but Liam wasn’t about to point that out to Philippa. His guess was, she already knew. ‘And how is our hunt progressing this evening?’
Philippa joined his side and surveyed the playing field. ‘Well, let’s see who we have here. Commissioner Worthington has graced us with his esteemed presence. Refusing to wear a mask, of course. God forbid he let anyone else dictate the rules. He rarely attends social events. Probably because I’m at all of them and he’d rather avoid me.’
Liam followed Philippa’s gaze. The commissioner was close in age to Liam. His black hair was sprinkled with silver and the granite cut of his jaw was clenched tight. His father was the Duke of Landbourne before he died, and Worthington inherited the title. This was years after he’d taken his post as head of the Metropolitan Police. Under his leadership, corruption within the force was at an all-time low. He was also one of the prime minister’s closest confidantes. ‘Do you know him?’
Philippa laughed, a harsh sound from her delicate throat. ‘We know each other well enough to have reasons to hate one another. At least, I certainly do.’
