Chapter Twenty-Four Hide Your Face

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Hide Your Face

"STOP FIDGETING. You look stunning!"

Pauline smooths down her skirts one more time, giving me a timid smile that screams of nerves. Her mask is sleek and elegant, covering the upper half of her face with strands of silver, her bright eyes glistening behind it.

"I'm sorry, my lady," she says. "I'm just . . . maybe I should wait for you in the carriage."

"Nonsense." I pull her by the hand as we walk up the wide staircase to the Lenoir manor's entrance. "And I told you to call me Cleodora for tonight," I add in a whisper.

A guard nods to greet us at the door; a footman awaits to collect our belongings—the number of decorated coats hanging in the room behind him yet another testament that the summer social season is at its very final breath. My fingers linger on my purse a moment longer than necessary before I hand it over. I don't like separating from it, but then again, the only real danger here is from Dahlia's associates.

I watch as another guard examines a guest's mask, his actions no more than another piece of the evening's choreography. From his fellow household comrades who follow the carriages outside to the ones standing at the door, these guards' very presence here is no more than a dance of decorum, their concerns containing petty matters like guests complying with the masquerade attire, rather than identifying any actual threats. The irony isn't lost on me. I am the one they should worry about. A threat they will never see coming.

Pauline takes my arm, pulling me back from my thoughts. "What if someone realizes who I am?" Fear echoes in her voice, the same familiar fright that lingered in my bones long after I first assumed my role as a lady.

"No one will ever know." I push a stray red curl behind her ear and smile. "That's what the mask is for. Just enjoy the evening."

The trembling notes of strings drift through the air, echoing between the marble columns of the foyer and mixing with the laughter of the attendees climbing the golden staircase. There's an air of mystery to the people in the crowd, their masks hiding their features with ornate jewels and feathers. I can't help but stare at the way the masks enhance the dramatic aspect of each dazzling gown and dashing suit that sparkles under the flickering candlelight.

I try to read the faces, to guess who's hiding behind each mask, but on a night such as this, no one can tell the difference between a maid and a lady.

Under a mask, there is a sense of freedom.

Could Anaella be among the crowd, as Dahlia promised?

Pauline squeezes my hand as we reach the top of the stairs. Before us a long corridor stretches in both directions, leading to the private living quarters. But just ahead massive double doors stand open, revealing a railed balcony that overlooks a giant hall draped in yellow light.

Even though we just went up, a pair of elaborate staircases flank the balcony, gracefully descending on both sides. It's an entrance fitting a fairytale ballroom, allowing for an elevated lookout over the magnificence that awaits below. A set of sparkling chandeliers hangs from the soaring ceiling, its warm candles reflected in the large arched windows. Outside, a darkened garden bathes in silver moonlight, a stark contrast to the gold that rules the ballroom. Masked dancers glide like swans across the wooden floor, circling the hall to the enchanting sound of an orchestra playing the valse.

I've never seen a home this grand; the hall alone feels bigger than my entire estate. I've known all along that the Lenoirs are a true noble family, their immense legacy Talents shining from days of old. But I didn't understand the full meaning of that until this moment. Calling this place a manor is not enough to describe these riches. This is a palace.

"It's magical." Pauline's voice is full of awe. "Am I dreaming? Tell me I'm not dreaming."

I pinch her arm and she squeaks. "Definitely not a dream," I say.

Her smile beams, warming my heart.

As we cascade toward the dance floor, the train of my dress flows behind me, a river of delicate seafoam silk topped with overlays of dark blue and gold net lace. I gather the open skirt in my hands, letting it drop only when we reach the last step. It is a gown meant to make heads turn as it sways in dance, the excess fabric coming alive in movement. But all I can think about is accidentally stepping over the long train and falling for everyone to see.

Perhaps it would be better to avoid dancing tonight.

A servant wearing a simple black mask approaches us, carrying a tray of tall champagne flutes. I take one with a grateful nod and hand another to Pauline. With her eyes still darting across the hall, she takes a sip, and a short burst of giggles escapes her.

"It's bubbly," she says.

I laugh and take a sip as well when a young man in a deep-purple tailcoat approaches us. His mask is dark gold, mimicking the rich embroidery running along his attire.

He gives us a curt bow before turning to Pauline and offering his hand. "Would the lady honor me with a dance?"

Pauline shoots a wide-eyed glance at me.

"Go," I mouth without a sound.

Ever the maid, Pauline drops to a curtsy, but in her radiant gown it is a far cry from the obedient gesture of reverence. It is the epitome of decorum any lady would envy. With a dazzling smile, she takes the gentleman's hand as he leads her to the center of the dance floor. A second later, they join the wave of masked couples swaying gracefully. With her air of innocence and her fiery red ringlets, dotted with pearls, I'm sure Pauline will capture the eye of many men this evening.

If my sister comes tonight, I'm certain she'll understand why I cannot turn my back on all this. Just like Pauline, she'll get to taste this life and see what I can provide us. I can imagine her, healthy and strong, her beauty and inner flame radiating as they used to back when Father was alive. I can see her taking over the dance floor, turning every head in her direction as she puts every woman in the ballroom to shame.

I take another sip of champagne. As much as I want to follow my own advice and enjoy the ball, I don't have that luxury. Not if I want to secure that future for Anaella and me.

I walk around the outskirts of the hall, adopting a leisurely pace as I scan the crowd. I haven't seen Vicomte Lenoir since the disastrous ending of our outing at the botanical gardens over a week ago—since I stole his blood. I am here to fulfill my mission—to perform the ultimate betrayal—yet I still cannot erase the part of me that twists at the image of the soaked cloth dripping red . . . at the memory of his defined muscles, and the tingling sensation that pricked my skin when I leaned into the touch of his fingers tracing my cheek, entrapped in his penetrating gaze.

He grew up in this glamour, in this house, under its sparkling chandeliers. This is his world, his domain. And it is only because of Dahlia that I even have the chance to set foot in it.

Dahlia has set me ablaze, her essence and closeness so powerful that nothing can compare to them. But she is a creature of the night, her claws leaving marks of pleasure and fear on my heart. Here in the realm of gold and light, her shadows are weaker, giving way to all the emotions I tried to bury inside. To how Nuriel's smirk made my heart flutter with rage or excitement. To how his unkempt hair made me want to run my hands through it and pull him closer. And to how his arrogant banter made me feel his equal, like a partner in a sparring match.

Light and darkness. Safety and danger. Integrity and deceit.

But under it all is desire.

And the realization that, deep inside, I'm torn.

Torn between Dahlia and Nuriel—the red and white roses. Roses full of passion and hunger, or roses of grace and wonder.

But no matter which I pick, both have thorns, and I am bound to bleed.

I shudder, shoving the thoughts away as goosebumps rise on my skin. I cannot let my emotions rule me. Not tonight. Not when my entire future, my sister's future, depends on keeping myself in check. I will not let anything distract me. Tonight, I am not Cleodora—I am a thief. Before morning, the vicomte's Talent will be mine. All I need to do is find his gem . . .

But how?

There could be hundreds of rooms in the manor. Even if I manage to sneak away and search all night, there's no guarantee I'll ever find it, especially with guards and servants around. Not that they would suspect the famous Dame de Adley, even if they caught her wandering about. After all, that is the real beauty of Dahlia's plan—integrate among the Elites and win the vicomte over, so not a single eye will glance my way once things implode. Still, getting caught would cut my attempts short.

For all I know, the Talent could be locked in some box, hidden in a forgotten cupboard. And yet . . . it is hard to imagine that, with all these riches, the Lenoir family wouldn't want to put their biggest asset on display. No. The Talent won't be stuffed somewhere out of sight, the way Lady Adley kept my ruby. It will have a place of honor inside these walls—a special room, perhaps, or a study meant to showcase it.

I veer around an approaching gentleman in a dashing all-white suit, clearly on his way to ask me for a dance. A group of giggling women behind me is the perfect cover. I join in their tittering, taking in their perfectly coordinated flowery masks. I push on, putting more distance between me and the dancers, until high-pitched laughter catches my attention, each note exact, like a staccato line.

I do not need to see who's behind the mask to recognize the woman leaning on a balcony rail overlooking the garden. Véronique's gown is exquisite, a display of deep navy and emerald green woven with speckles of shiny beading over an asymmetrical skirt. It's a dress meant to draw attention, a perfect match to the peacock-feathered mask covering only the upper half of her face.

Her delicate fingers brush over a gentleman's arm suggestively before she covers her mouth to hide another wave of flirtatious giggles. There is only one man who makes Véronique act like a delicate maiden. But, with his back turned to me, I cannot tell if the vicomte has finally given way to her advances. I clench my teeth with a flash of unexpected jealousy. Nuriel deserves better than her.

The man leans to whisper something in her ear, and I draw closer. If he'll just turn around a little . . . I step sideways just as a servant passes, colliding straight into him. The silver tray in his hand tumbles to the floor with a crash of shattering glasses.

"My lady, I'm so sorry!" he blurts in horror. "It's all my fault."

A small crowd has gathered to watch the commotion, but all I care about is Véronique and the man by her side, both now looking right at me.

Brown. Not green.

The man's eyes are brown.

I can't help but smile.

"Are you alright, my lady?" The man leaves Véronique's side, turning to me with concern.

I nod as I step away from the broken shards of glass; servants are already laboring to clear the mess. "Thank you, I'm fine."

"A drink, perhaps, to calm the nerves?"

"Don't badger the poor girl, Hugo." Véronique wraps herself around his arm.

"How very kind of you, Véronique," I say.

Her blue eyes narrow behind her mask before she stretches a smile. "I should have known it would be you who makes a mess, Cleodora."

"Cleodora?" The man looks between us. "You mean, you are Lady Adley? Your performance at the gala was divine! I've wanted to meet ‘Lutèce's Nightingale' ever since."

Véronique tightens her hold on his arm. "Hugo, I'm parched. Would you get me another drink?"

He blinks for a moment before bowing his head. "Certainly."

"And here I thought you and the vicomte were practically engaged?" I say as he leaves.

Véronique snorts. "Keep your filthy paws to yourself. Do you even know who that was? Hugo de Canrobert, son of the Marquis de Canrobert. He will inherit his father's Diplomatic Talent within the year. We met at the matinee concert, you know . . . where you choked." She smiles unpleasantly for a second as though pleased with her jab. "Not that I need to explain myself to you."

Of course Véronique would find herself a new man to pine over, one of an ever higher social standing. She is the epitome of the Elite, interested in status more than anything else.

"Don't worry, he's all yours." I exhale sharply through my nose and turn away from her.

"I'm surprised you even came tonight," she calls after me. "Or did you think that pathetic mask of yours would keep the scandal away?"

Scandal? What on earth is she talking about now? I turn back to her with my brow raised.

"But then again, it seems you simply have a way with servants." Véronique eyes the men still cleaning up the floor.

"What are you referring to?"

"You didn't know?" She lets out a delighted laugh, basking in my ignorance. "They identified the body that was found in the river earlier this week. A Monsieur Basset ."

My heart skips a beat .

"The same drunkard who recently lost his job as a coachman after accidentally running over a poor child. Did you not get enough satisfaction from firing him? You had to kill him off, too?"

Her voice is joking, teasing, yet each word is a stab to my gut. Basset didn't stumble into the river drunk. He was murdered by Dahlia's men. Because of me. That isn't how I wanted things to end. I was going to try to repent for my mistake and help him, help his family. And yet I didn't speak up when I could, didn't fight for him. And now it's too late. The need to break down or scream builds inside me, but Véronique is still talking. I must hold myself together.

"Such a shame," she says, and somehow her voice sounds genuine. "I'm certain he was a man of great knowledge."

My eyes snap to hers. There's something else buried under the veil of mockery. She cares about his death. But why? What possible reason would make a famous soprano, a proper lady, care about a drunkard who drowned in a river?

"Refreshments for the ladies." Hugo returns, armed with tall glasses and a smile. A small group of people follows behind him like a flock of vibrant birds.

A strong arm wraps around my shoulder as José's familiar tenor voice booms in my ear. "You didn't think you could hide from me for long, ma chérie?" He laughs. "What are you doing tucked away in the corner?"

"I'm certain our divas were having a civilized conversation." Maestro Mette's voice comes from under a full face mask, adorned with stripes that match the lines running across his yellow vest.

"Forgive me for not keeping your identity to myself." Hugo kisses the back of Véronique's hand. "When I ran into your colleagues, I couldn't resist bringing you all together. I hope we aren't interrupting?"

I force a smile, as if stitching the pieces of myself together with the gesture. After spending most of my time in the opera house over the last few weeks, I'm almost certain I can identify the faces under the masks without any mistakes—our stage director's frown gives him away, while the low timbre of Lady Arnould's laughter betrays her, and Madame's stiff posture and watchful gaze are unmistakable.

"How thoughtful of you." Véronique flutters her eyelashes at the marquis's son. "Your company is always welcome. I was just offering Lady Adley my sympathies on the death of her former coachman."

"What a horrible way to go, is it not?" Hugo says. "My condolences."

"Why should Lady Adley require sympathy?" Madame joins the conversation without a greeting. "It's not as though she had anything to do with the man after firing him—justifiably, if I might add."

An argument ensues quickly, but my mind drifts away from it, the memory of the coachman's last conscious moments replaying in my head. His wobbly steps, the reek of alcohol on his breath, the slurring of his words. "She was right about you," he said. I thought at the time that he was referring to Pauline, who had sent him to my room on an errand for her, but now I'm not so sure. There was something else he shouted at me, right before Dahlia's man hit him over the head. "She will get you."

It made no sense. He was drunk and out of his mind. And I was too rattled to pay any attention to it. But those aren't random, unintentional words. It seems so obvious now. After all, I was completely wrong about him—he was an innocent man who never suspected me to begin with. And yet, when he came back, he knew something about me that he hadn't known before. He knew my real name. Firing him drove him to drink, but he had no reason to look into my past.

Not unless someone else used his hatred and vulnerability for their own gain. And as I look into Véronique's cold eyes, I'm certain that person is staring right at me.

"It was you who sent him, wasn't it?" I stare straight at Véronique.

The group falls silent, all turning to me.

"Cleodora?" José pats my shoulder.

"She's clearly had too much to drink." Véronique laughs, but her fake amusement does little to alleviate the tension in the group.

"Do you know what she's talking about?" José asks her .

"Absolutely no idea," she says, but the smile on her lips is as good as a confession.

The taste of bile reaches my mouth. I force myself to swallow and push it down. All of Véronique's threats finally make sense. She wanted to get rid of me from the moment I stepped onto the stage and snatched Adley's dressing room and the leading role from her grasp. And that desire only grew as I made advances with Vicomte Lenoir—advances she promised I'd regret.

But if the coachman had been able to tell her the truth about me, surely she'd have used it against me by now, while there was still time to steal the lead role for herself. That's why she cares about his death. She was using him to bring me down, but without him, her schemes stop dead in their tracks. Did he come to confront me before he made a report to her? For a second, relief washes over me, knowing Dahlia's men have silenced Basset for good. But the guilt is quick to gnaw at me, even more harshly than before, mixed with a wave of shame. He was an innocent man. He didn't deserve his fate.

Everyone is still staring at me. Speaking up tonight was a mistake, a stupid impulse. I cannot accuse Véronique of spying on me without admitting there is something worth looking into, or without implicating myself in the coachman's death.

"I . . ." I struggle to find the words. "I'm afraid Véronique is right. I've had too much to drink. You should have seen the mess I made when I stumbled into a servant just a few moments ago."

"It was rather spectacular, with all those glasses broken," the marquis's son says.

The rest of the group relaxes as José takes the champagne out of my hand with a chuckle.

I force myself to laugh along, even though my stomach is twisting, and every second in Véronique's presence churns it further. My eyes dart around the hall, searching for the nearest escape behind the sea of dancers. I spot Pauline's forest-green dress swaying among them with ease. If only I could be as carefree and not weighed down by deception, thievery, and death.

"In any case, it's a grim subject to discuss on such a night," Maestro Mette says, pulling back my attention. "Best forgotten."

"Indeed," a tall woman with a mane of tight curls chimes in, brushing her hand over Madame's shoulder as she takes a place in the circle. Her light blue lace mask fits her moonstone brooch, featuring her now familiar Painting Talent. "I much prefer talking about your upcoming premiere."

"Renée, how wonderful to see you." The Maestro nods in greeting. "We see you so rarely, I sometimes think Madame is hiding you from us."

"I believe your suspicions are accurate, Maestro Mette," says a man by my side.

I didn't even notice he had joined the group, but Vicomte Lenoir's catlike eyes are unmistakable. His now familiar spicy cologne stirs something inside me, drawing out the memory of his wet shirt sticking to his taut muscles. Yet there is nothing disheveled about his look today—from his fitted silver waistcoat to the stiffness of his standing collar and the shine on each button on his long tailcoat. He is the very image of a perfect host. His mask is black and simple, adorned only by a narrow silver outline.

Was he standing there when I blurted my accusation at Véronique? If so, there's no indication of it on his face, only the regular teasing smirk resting on his lips.

"You have a wonderful sense of humor, my lord," Madame says, the muscles around her mouth tight.

The vicomte laughs, and the warm sound washes over me. "I just wanted to ensure you are all enjoying your evening."

"Certainly, my lord," the Maestro answers, grabbing the shoulder of our sulking stage director, who forces a nod. Without his usual shouting, Mr. Agard is like a loose thread in a fine tapestry.

The pleasantries are too much to bear. I need to stop wasting time. I must sneak away and find the vicomte's Talent, or all of this will have been for nothing. Everything I sacrificed, all the horrible things I did—lying to my sister, manipulating the vicomte, ruining the coachman's life, bringing about his death . . . At least none of that will have been in vain if I succeed tonight.

"If you'll excuse me." I bow my head to leave, just as Vicomte Lenoir offers me his hand.

"Lady Adley." His bright eyes glisten under the flickering candles. "May I have this dance?"