Twenty-Two

"Holy moly, Viv, don't you look smashing," Mags said, giving Vivian's borrowed gown a look up and down. Vivian, feeling self-conscious, resisted the urge to touch the rhinestones at her ears or the feathered headband that was pinned across her forehead. Mags gave Leo an equally approving glance, smiling sideways at him as she slid into the cab's back seat. "I've seen you around, I think, from time to time? Making puppy eyes at Viv and wowing on the dance floor. I always thought you looked like a swell time."

Leo, dressed to the nines in what Vivian was sure was a custom-made suit and matching hat, gave her a wink. "I am, sweetheart."

Mags laughed. "Lordy lord, I'm guessing you have your hands full with this one, don't you?" she said, rolling her eyes at Vivian. Vivian couldn't tell what she was wearing, but it couldn't be a gown—it was short enough to be hidden under an elegant little coat. Mags leaned forward to give the cabdriver the address for their destination.

Vivian frowned as Mags flopped back against the seat with a happy sigh. "I thought the place was in Harlem?"

"It is," Mags said, practically bouncing in her seat with excitement. "But we're heading somewhere else, first, to change and meet up with our ride for the evening."

Vivian stared at her in confusion. "Change?"

Mags strode up to the front of the pretty brownstone and leaned on the buzzer. The houses were only three stories tall in this part of the city, and slender rather than hulking, but the glimpse of elegant furnishings and soaring ceilings that Vivian could see through the bow window still shouted the wealth of whoever lived there. She tugged nervously at the shoulders of her borrowed gown—she'd had time for a few alterations, so at least it fit well—wondering who exactly Mags was taking them to meet. She only relaxed a little when Leo took her hand and squeezed it.

But when the door swung open, Vivian found herself staring at a familiar, sandy-haired face. "Jimmy?" she demanded, too stunned to be polite.

Pretty Jimmy Allen beamed at them. "God almighty, doll, you look smashing," he said, echoing Mags's compliment without knowing it. He gestured broadly to welcome them inside. "Come on in. I take it Mags didn't tell you who got your tickets, then?"

"No, she didn't," Vivian said, hovering awkwardly in the hall as Jimmy closed the door behind them.

"Didn't want you to cut out the middleman," Mags laughed, pausing only to plant a quick kiss in the air next to Jimmy's cheek before she snatched up a black bag that was waiting in the hall for her and clattered up the stairs.

Vivian had found out months ago that Jimmy and Mags both belonged to the part of New York that had houses on the Upper East Side, mansions on Long Island, and old family businesses funded by even older money. But she'd never seen him outside the Nightingale, where distinctions like that didn't matter so much. Even once she had become part of the staff instead of a customer, Jimmy had still always treated her like a pal, dragging her onto the floor when she was available to kick up her heels for the Charleston, or treating her to a cocktail on her nights off. Unlike most of his friends, though, Jimmy never tried to get frisky with her or any of the girls he danced with. Vivian knew why—he had once described himself to her, only a little coyly, as not the marrying type. But even in the underground world of the Nightingale, he always seemed to prefer to keep his private life private, away from the eyes of any friends or neighbors who might cross his path.

Even the trust of a shared secret, though, was not quite enough to set her at ease as he ushered her into his small but opulent sitting room, where light danced off a crystal chandelier. Vivian was almost afraid to sit down, but Leo, always at ease no matter where he found himself, was already happily accepting the offer of a drink and a seat.

"And what's your name, tall-dark-and-handsome?" Jimmy asked as he poured their cocktails. He wore a beautiful brocade robe—was it silk?—over loose trousers, and Vivian couldn't say for certain whether he had a shirt on under it. Was he not coming with them? "Or are we skipping those kinds of formalities tonight?"

"Leo," he replied easily, lifting his glass in a small toast. "Thanks for arranging things."

"My pleasure," Jimmy said, handing a drink to Vivian as well, as she perched uneasily on the edge of a wingback chair. "I'm just glad Mags found someone to keep an eye on her tonight. She got plenty pouty when I first said I wouldn't take her along."

"Why wouldn't you?" Vivian asked, taking a sip. The liquor was top-shelf, but she didn't want to get tipsy. Not when she was going to need to keep her eyes and ears open all night.

Jimmy gave a secretive smile, shrugging one shoulder. "I don't think there's any harm in her getting out to enjoy herself. But a girl like her in a place like that could find trouble just as easy as she might find fun. And I can't spend my whole night keeping an eye on her."

"Well, we'll be able to do that," Leo said, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee and leaning back in his chair. "Or, more likely, I will. Viv's got her own business to take care of."

"So I heard. Corny Rokesby, is it?" Jimmy said, giving Vivian an assessing glance. "Never tell me you've got a sweet spot for an odd duck like him?"

"Not likely," Vivian said. Even though she wasn't going to drink it, she was glad the glass of liquor gave her something to do with her hands. "Do double exes mean anything to you?"

"Exes like the letter?" Jimmy frowned, then shook his head. "Should they?"

"No reason they should. But they mean something to Rokesby, and I'm hoping to find out what."

"Viv…" Jimmy hesitated, glancing down at his own glass. When he looked up, his normal, easygoing expression was gone. "What do you know about the lodge balls?"

"You mean the masquerade portion of it?" Vivian asked, as carefully as he had.

Jimmy nodded. "That. And…" He glanced hesitantly at Leo, as though not sure how to phrase what he wanted to say.

Vivian could guess, though. "And from what I've heard, seems like there's plenty of men and women taking the opportunity for what you might call personal business, right? Business of the romantic kind that maybe they can't pursue in other places?"

Jimmy nodded again, still looking wary. "And I know that you, Viv… well, I've seen the way certain dance hall owners look at you. Or looked at you, in the past," he added quickly, nodding politely at Leo. "So I know you're not… we've got a few things in common, yeah? You get it."

She did. And she knew why Jimmy didn't want to just say that he was a fella who liked other fellas, and that Corny Rokesby might be too. People like him—like her—had to be careful what they said, and who they said it to. And Jimmy didn't know Leo.

"He gets it too," Vivian said quietly, nodding toward Leo. "We're not looking to spoil anyone's fun, Jimmy. Or tell anyone who might care what that fun is. We just want to know…" She paused, considering how much to share. "You heard his stepdad died?"

A different sort of wariness crept over Jimmy's face. "I heard. I heard it wasn't exactly what you'd call natural causes. But what has that got to do with you?"

"I wish it had nothing to do with me," Vivian said, the words coming out brittle. "It does, but it's a whole mess to explain. Rokesby had something going on the day Buchanan died, and he has that same something going on tonight. I need to know what it is."

"Okay." Jimmy let out a huff of air. "That sounds… I can live with that, if that's all it is. Otherwise the night ends here and now, pal. I'm not on board with prying into that part of anyone's personal life."

"Me neither," Vivian said, her face feeling hot. Preferences like theirs weren't the sort of thing people discussed openly—it was too uncertain, too much potential for danger if the wrong person overheard. The fact that Jimmy had brought it up, even if they were both still mostly talking around it, showed how serious he was.

"And I'm not saying that's what Rokesby's there for," Jimmy said quickly. "I've got no idea what the fella gets up to, or what those, what did you call 'ems? Double exes might be. But I had to lay out some ground rules."

"Sure thing," Vivian said, taking a large gulp of her cocktail before she remembered that she hadn't meant to drink more of it. Clearing her throat, she asked, to change the subject, "Why did Mags run off when we got here?"

"Oh that." Jimmy stood, smiling once more. "She wanted to change for the party. Which I need to do, too. So. Make yourselves at home." He gestured broadly around the room. "We'll be back down soon."

Vivian watched the door close behind him, then took a deep breath. Setting her glass down, she moved to the sofa where Leo was sitting, sliding across it until she could bump her shoulder up against his. "You okay, tall-dark-and-handsome?" she asked playfully. He had started looking serious before Jimmy left the room, and it worried her.

It took a moment for him to answer. "She still looks at you that way, you know."

Vivian didn't have to ask who he meant. But when she pictured Honor looking at her, she didn't see the heat or the yearning that used to spark between them. She saw the almost guilty look that Honor had tried to hide from her. "No, she doesn't."

"Viv, I'm not an idiot," Leo said, standing so he could turn and look at her. Vivian felt cold without the warmth of him pressed against her, and she wrapped her arms around herself protectively. "I know—I know the two of you were close. I asked you about it almost the first day we met, remember?"

Vivian wanted to argue that they had never been close. Honor had always put up walls between them, and Vivian hadn't been much better herself. But she had a feeling that saying as much to Leo wouldn't help just then. "You did," she said cautiously. "But you're the one I'm here with, right?"

"Right, sure, but…" Leo let out a frustrated sigh. "But do you want to be?"

Vivian stared at him. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I saw you two last night, Viv," he growled. "When I finished handing off that letter to Bruiser George. You two were looking pretty cozy. Like you were in a world of your own."

"We weren't… what?" Vivian stared at him. There had been nothing cozy about her chat with Honor last night. "Why are you starting a fight now?"

"I'm just telling you what I saw."

"No, you're not," Vivian snapped. "You couldn't have because that wasn't what was happening at all. You want to start a fight, just like you wanted to start a fight with George two nights ago."

"That's not—"

"And you know what I think?" Vivian interrupted him, just barely remembering to keep her voice low. "I think it's because the person you want to fight with is your uncle, and you can't do that."

"You don't know a damn thing about my uncle," Leo snapped.

"You think I don't?" Vivian felt hot and cold all over, and she wasn't sure whether it was anger or something else. "You think I've got no idea what it's like to have a family that doesn't want you? You could walk out that door right now, and I wouldn't be surprised one bit. It would just be business as usual because everyone—"

She clamped her mouth shut so tightly that it hurt, horrified by what she had been about to say. Everyone leaves. Whether it was true or not, it sure felt like it some days. She stared at Leo, her hands balled into fists by her sides. She was shaking, and she didn't care if he saw it. "He's a bastard, Leo. You've always known he's a bastard. So don't go taking it out on me. I've got plenty else to worry about right now."

A muscle jumped in Leo's temple. "I'm not going to walk out," he said at last.

"Good." Vivian eyed the glass that she had set down and, before she could think better of it, downed the rest of it in one gulp.

"Nothing's going to happen to you, Viv," he added, his voice growing gentler at last, the Leo that was always there when she needed it. He reached for her hand, and she let him take it, let him pull her to her feet. But even the warmth of his palm, the rough feel of the calluses on his fingers, couldn't soothe her this time. She felt like she was going to jump out of her skin. "I won't let it, no matter what he says."

"I've only got two days left after tonight, Leo," she said, her voice coming out hoarse. "If we don't turn up anything on Rokesby, I don't know what to do next."

"We'll find something," Leo said, pulling her close enough that he could wrap his arms around her and rest his chin on the top of her head. Vivian let him. It wasn't an apology, but as raw as they were both feeling, it was probably as good as she could hope for. "I promise. We're going to find out who did it."

She wanted to tell him not to make promises. She wanted to tell him that she was getting scared. She wanted him to admit they might run out of time, so she wouldn't feel so alone in her growing fear.

Instead, she wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face against his shirtfront, filling her mind with the smell of starch and wintergreen and the spice of his cologne, pretending that she believed him.

"Yeah," she whispered. They were headed somewhere known for the hundreds of secrets that were kept behind its walls. All they had to do was find out what Cornelius Rokesby's were. "We will."

Mags returned first, strutting down the staircase to join them in the hall. Vivian stared, not bothering to hide her surprise. Mags wore a tailored men's evening suit, jacket left open over a three-button vest so she could stick one hand casually in her pocket. A slim black tie circled under the collar of a white shirt so crisply ironed that Vivian could smell the starch, and her brown curls were stuffed underneath a top hat. Just above her upper lip, she had drawn a thin curl of a mustache.

"Well?" she asked, leaning one hand against the banister and grinning at them. "What do you think?"

"Don't you look handsome," Vivian said, finding her voice at last. Handsome wasn't quite the right word—it was impossible for bubbly Mags to look anything but cute, no matter what she wore. But she smiled broadly, clearly pleased with the compliment.

"I thought so too!" she said eagerly, bounding down the last few steps. "I figured, when in Rome, right? Or when heading to Rome." She laughed. "Golly, I had no idea men's clothes were so comfortable. Though it's a bit odd to be so buttoned up," she added, sliding one finger inside the collar and tugging a little. "But I'm sure I'll get used to it."

Before Vivian could respond further, a throat cleared with a delicate hmm from the top of the stairs. They all glanced up, including Mags, to see the elegant woman smiling coyly at them as she glided down the stairs.

Her gown—pure silk, Vivian could tell even from a distance, by the way it slid around her hips and legs—was so fashionable it had probably been made just that month. Pearls draped around her neck and down her stylish, boyish figure. Her bobbed hair was wavy and blond, held back by a netted cap that sparkled in the electric light of the hall's chandelier as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and a white-and-black fur stole was tossed almost carelessly over one shoulder.

The glamorous woman smiled Jimmy's smile. "Am I all in order?" she asked, giving her hair a delicate fluff.

"You look sensational," Mags said, grinning as she held out her arm. "Shall we?"

Vivian tried not to stare as they all climbed into the car that waited for them outside. In the face of all that glamour, she felt awkward in her borrowed dress and dancing shoes with worn heels. She fingered the edge of her coat as they settled into their seats, touching the hem that she had mended just last week and hoping no one had noticed the repair. She'd leave her coat in the car, she decided, when they got to the lodge. Better to be cold than look ragged.

"I'm guessing you won't be going by Jimmy tonight?" Leo asked.

"You may call me Annabel Lee tonight," Jimmy—Annabel—said. Her voice had changed along with the rest of her appearance, into something softer and richer, but still with the husky edge of a man's deepness.

"Bit of a risky name," Leo pointed out as the car jolted into motion. Vivian glanced out the window, watching the city streets slide by like a dream. "That poem doesn't end too happily."

"You're a fan of Poe, then?" Annabel sounded delighted. "My, you are full of surprises, tall-dark-and-handsome."

"Blegh," Mags said, making a face with her tongue pointing out. "Too stuffy. Don't you two read anything modern?"

Vivian, feeling more awkward than ever, shrank back into her seat, wishing she knew what they were talking about. Maybe she should ask to borrow some of Bea's books of poems. But who had time to read that stuff?

Before she could feel too left out, though, Annabel turned to her, leaning forward even though there was clearly no one around to hear them. "Now that you can't get away, Vivian, I'm going to need some gossip. What is going on with your Danny-boy recently? He's mellowed in a way I can't quite put my finger on…"

Vivian laughed, suddenly feeling less out of place. This she could handle. "You haven't heard? He got married."

"What?" Mags, who had been enjoying slouching in her seat, trouser-clad legs stuck out in front of her and knees propped wide, bolted upright. She looked horrified. "No! Why is everyone always getting married? That's when you stop having fun!"

The other three laughed. "Not everyone is fresh out of school, sweetheart," Leo said with a grin. "There are people, you know, who think settling down with someone special is fun."

He didn't look at Vivian as he said it; she didn't know whether she was relieved or hurt.

Mags made another face. "But that sounds so boring…"

As the gossip carried them north to Harlem, Vivian pushed Leo and their fight and thoughts of the future out of her head. She had plenty to worry about in the present before she needed to think about what came next.

At last, they joined a stream of cars all converging on a single building, nearly a full block long and built of cream-colored stone, its windows blazing with light and music pouring from the door every time it opened to admit someone. As their progress slowed to a crawl, Mags pressed her face against the window, taking in the spectacle of hundreds—were there already thousands?—of glamorous men and women. Vivian, after a moment of hesitation, slid across the seat to peer out too. Her heart was hammering against her chest as she scanned the people, wondering if Corny Rokesby would, in fact, be there tonight.

At last, their car reached the front of the line. As a uniformed attendant reached for the door, Annabel smiled. "Welcome, friends, to the famous Rockland Palace and the Hamilton Lodge Ball." She turned toward the door, then paused, glancing back at them all, her brows raised. "Try not to get in too much trouble. Or if you do, don't tell anyone you came with me."

"Wait, it just occurred to me," Mags piped up as the door swung open. "Do I need a new name for the night?"

Vivian had thought, after years of dancing and working at the Nightingale, that there wasn't much in New York's nightlife that could surprise or overwhelm her.

The Hamilton Lodge Ball proved her wrong. After presenting their tickets at the door, they were surrounded by a sea of people, the sound of the crowd filling the high ceilings and wide halls, competing with the music that flowed from the ballroom. Overhead, spectators peered down from dozens of boxes, watching the dancers and the mingling crowds alike.

"Too bad we don't have a box," Mags said, sounding breathless as Leo spotted a bar and led them toward it. "Maybe next time we can get a reservation for one?" she added hopefully. "It's murderously hot down here."

Annabel raised her brows. "Next time?" Mags just grinned in response and accepted the cocktail that Leo handed her.

"Cheers, friends," he said after he finished handing their drinks around, and they all raised their glasses, though their eyes were almost immediately drawn back to the crowd. It was well worth watching, ball gowns and frock coats as much on display as slinky evening dresses and sharply tailored jackets. There were people dressed as biblical virgins, Greek gods and goddesses, and more than one shepherdess with dozens of flounces on their skirts. Some women were dressed as if they were about to perform a burlesque striptease on the vaudeville stage. Vivian stared at all of them, drinking in the beautiful, scandalous clothes.

The band played a smooth rendition of "Yes, Sir, That's My Baby." But the dancers weren't as good as the ones at the Nightingale. The dancing, clearly, was there to give partygoers something to do, but it wasn't the point of the evening.

The point was to see and be seen. To be part of the crowd. And—for more than half the people there—to take the anything-goes opportunity to be whoever they wanted.

"Golly, those folks have slow feet," Mags said, eyeing the dancers as critically as Vivian had done a moment before. She gave Leo a look from the corner of her eye. "What do you say we go for a spin?"

He glanced at Vivian. "I don't know how much attention we want to be drawing tonight," he said slowly.

"Oh, come on, be a sport," Mags begged. "Look, there's lots of fellas dancing with other fellas out there, it won't draw any attention at all."

That made him laugh. "I meant the dancing, kid, not your outfit," he said, shaking his head. "I think Viv wanted to keep a lower profile tonight."

"Well, that works out just fine then, doesn't it?" Mags pointed out. "We'll go make a scene on the dance floor, and Viv can do…" She shrugged. "Whatever she's going to do. Let's shake a leg. Please?"

"Go ahead," Vivian said, taking Leo's drink from him and nudging him with her shoulder. Someone needed to keep an eye on Mags—that had been the deal. And Vivian couldn't look for Rokesby if she was babysitting all night. "I'll meet you back here in… maybe an hour?" She didn't have a watch, but there was a hulking, sonorous grandfather clock in the hall that she'd heard booming a few minutes before.

Leo still looked uncomfortable, but at last he nodded. "You'll be okay without me?"

"Just peachy," Vivian said. "You get out there and show 'em how it's done."

Mags laughed with delight, handing over her glass as well and grabbing Leo's arm.

Vivian took a sip of her drink as she watched them go. Everywhere she looked was packed with people. And even though the Grand United Order of Odd Fellows, the Hamilton Lodge fraternity, was a Black organization, the ballroom was awash in faces of every color. Everyone flirted openly with whoever they wanted to, whether men, women, or those who couldn't quite be pinned down as either. No one batted an eye at even the most outrageous outfits. Absolutely no one was hiding their liquor.

And why would they bother? If the police raided a place like this, they were as likely to arrest attendees for indecency as imbibing, so the partygoers might as well enjoy themselves.

Besides, there were too many people to round up. Vivian downed the rest of her drink recklessly. She was probably safer here than she'd ever been at the Nightingale. The thought made her heartbeat speed up with excitement before it stuttered back to reality.

She wasn't safe anywhere. Not really. And she needed to keep her eyes open and her mind sharp if she was going to find out what she needed to know.

She pulled her thoughts back to earth as Annabel beckoned for her to follow. They approached a group of women, some dressed with modern flair like Annabel, a few in old-fashioned ball gowns. As Annabel exchanged air kisses and pleasantries, Vivian's eyes went to the beadwork on the women's gowns. She had spent too many hours making dresses not to think about how long each panel would have taken to complete. It wasn't until she lifted her eyes that she realized several of the women wore wigs and, in spite of perfectly rouged cheekbones and long, smoky eyelashes, likely lived their everyday lives as men.

"Corny Rokesby?" one of them was just repeating. Vivian's attention snapped back to the conversation. "He's here. I do believe I saw him about half an hour ago over there"—she gestured vaguely toward one of the back halls—"talking with some scowly little man in a checked suit that I didn't know at all. Terrible suit. Terrible hair," she added with a throaty laugh. "All gone on the top, though he'd combed quite a lot over from the sides in an attempt to hide it."

"Absolutely appalling for Corny to be here tonight, you know," another added, her silk fan moving briskly in a losing battle against the heat. "Did you know his stepfather died just a few days ago?"

"No, I hadn't heard!" another exclaimed. "What happened?"

"Oh darling, it's even worse than that," the first woman said, clearly relishing every word. "He didn't die. He was murdered."

"I thought that was just a rumor…"

As they traded gossip, Annabel introduced her as simply "My friend Miss Vivian," and the others accepted that with no questions. That wasn't surprising—Vivian was used to the Nightingale, where most folks shared little about themselves beyond a name and an occasional hint of what their daytime lives might look like. She smiled at them but kept her mouth shut as she sipped her drink and listened.

Someone mentioned Buchanan's bastard daughter, speculating about who she might be and what she would do with his money. The others were less interested in the daughter than in how Mrs. Buchanan had reacted.

"She hasn't been seen since it happened," one woman said with obvious relish. "Can you imagine being the man who turned his wife out into the street after his death?"

"Oh, but didn't she just marry him for his money anyway?" another said dismissively. "She wanted her useless son to join his firm, because the good Lord knows Corny Rokesby wouldn't make anything of himself unless he was forced to. Would you reward that with any kind of real inheritance?"

"Mm, and we're all models for making something of ourselves, dear," Annabel said with a roll of her eyes while the others laughed.

"Are you including yourself in that statement?" one of them asked.

"Oh, absolutely," Annabel said, smiling playfully. "I'm useless as they come, except on the dance floor."

The conversation drifted away from Buchanan's death, and Vivian started to feel lightheaded from the heat and the smoky air. After a minute, Annabel caught her eye and gestured delicately toward the bar, making graceful excuses as she ushered Vivian away.

"Thank you for that," Vivian said quietly once their conversation would be lost in the noise of the crowd around the bar.

"I hope you can find him, sweetheart," Annabel said, setting her glass aside. "And now, I'm off to enjoy my evening, which means you and your handsome fella need to keep an eye on Mags, as we discussed. She's exactly the sort of bright young thing who could get herself in a heap of trouble without even realizing it."

"But you're not worried about me?" Vivian asked, one corner of her mouth kicking up self-deprecatingly. "Is that because I'm not young enough or not bright enough?"

"It's because you know how the world works, doll. And Mags is still figuring it out." Annabel gave her hair a fluff and blew Vivian a kiss. "See you around?"

"See you around."

Vivian took a deep breath once she was on her own, resisting the urge to sink back into the woodwork. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and the scent of perfume. From where she stood, she could just see the grandfather clock, though its noise was lost, and she thought it was just after eleven o'clock. Early in the night by some standards, but time was ticking away, and she didn't want to waste any of it.

She headed in the direction of the hallway where Corny Rokesby had been spotted. Vivian wished she had thought to ask if he had been wearing a costume. But she was glad for the crowd as she wove her way through on quickstep-light feet. No one noticed her. No one would remember her.

She left the front doors behind; whatever XX was, she didn't think it would be happening in the entrance hall. Instead, she found the stairs and wandered up, trying to stay near groups of people so she didn't stand out. The second floor was crowded, especially near the boxes that overlooked the ballroom. The third floor, though, was nearly empty; there was no view of the downstairs from there, and the halls were narrower, with smaller rooms and few open spaces for guests to mingle. Vivian could guess that, as the night wore on, they would be the preferred spot for partygoers to sneak off for a bit of necking or petting—or whatever else they wanted to get up to. But the evening hadn't grown quite that naughty yet.

She moved carefully and quickly, listening for the sound of voices. But the few people she did run into up there didn't seem to be looking for anything except a bit of quiet or privacy.

She hurried back downstairs, tagging along with a group of costumed partygoers as they made their way toward the ballroom. She hadn't seen him on any of the floors… could Rokesby be meeting with someone in one of the boxes?

The band had just struck up a brassy Charleston when she arrived. On the other side of the room, she saw Mags abandoning her drink to drag Leo back onto the floor. Vivian craned her neck to see into the boxes, wondering if she would be able to recognize Rokesby from that distance if he was in one of them.

"Ready to dust off your shoes, gorgeous?"

Vivian turned to find a stranger, his brown hair turning handsomely gray around the temples, eyeing her with heavy-lidded appreciation. When she looked at him, he gave her a slow smile that she could guess was an invitation to more than a dance. "You look like someone who loves to move fast."

"I like it just fine on the dance floor," she said, her voice light but firm. If Corny Rokesby was in one of the boxes, the best way to spot him would be from the dance floor, though the song might be too fast to get more than a quick look at each of them. But she had no intention of spending the rest of her night escaping a fella who thought a dance entitled him to something more. "But I'm not interested in anything else, and I've got a mean right hook when I need it."

To her relief, the man laughed instead of getting offended. "I believe it, pretty girl. Dancing it is." He smiled as he offered his hand. "I'm awful fun at that too."

His grip on her hand was light but firm, the hold of a confident lead. Vivian couldn't help smiling back. "I believe it," she said, echoing him. He laughed and pulled her hip to hip. A moment later they were off.

He hadn't been lying; he was a fun dancer. He swung her across the floor with confidence, leaving plenty of space for her to add her own flair to their movement. They wove their way through the other dancers with wild kicks and stomps, splitting apart, mirroring each other, meeting up again only for him to spin her in the opposite direction with a light touch to her hip, her elbow, her back. With each movement, Vivian tossed her head back, eyeing the people in the boxes.

If Annabel's friend had spotted Rokesby so easily in the hallway, she suspected he wasn't wearing a costume. So she let her eyes sweep past the elaborately dressed royals and sailors. She spotted a few men in suits, but one of them had a beard. Another was busy necking with someone in an elaborate white wig at least half a foot high.

But that didn't mean it wasn't Rokesby. XX was as likely to be an affair he was having as it was anything else. Vivian tried to spot the couple again as her partner caught her around the waist to spin them in a tight circle, their steps slowing gradually as the music wound its way through the final bars of the song. If it was, that would mean he had been with someone the day Buchanan died, and if she could figure out who—

Vivian forgot what she was thinking as her partner slowed them to a stop. She ended facing the far side of the ballroom and a short gentleman in a loudly patterned checked suit, the sides of his hair combed over the bald spot on top. He had just extracted himself from a conversation, and she could see the scowl on his face from across the room.

"I was right about those fast feet of yours, pretty girl," her partner was just murmuring as the applause died down and the band launched into a foxtrot. "What do you say we go for another—"

"Wish I could," Vivian said quickly. "But I'm meeting some friends. Maybe another time?" She flashed him a smile as she slipped out of his encircling arm. It had been a fun dance, but she had other things to think about.

The little man in the checked suit was hurrying around the edge of the ballroom; Vivian expected him to head toward the main doors. But instead, he went toward one of the alcoves that were tucked along the walls. Most of them held chairs where dancers could rest their feet, watch the crowd, and steal a private moment or two. The one that the scowling man was heading toward was empty except for a silk screen, beautifully painted with birds and blossoming tree branches. Vivian, still trailing yards behind him, frowned in surprise as the man ducked around the edge of the screen and disappeared.

She stopped at the edge of the alcove, waiting for him to come out. When he didn't, Vivian glanced around the room, wondering if anyone else had noticed his disappearance. But no one was watching; they were all too busy with their own business for the night.

Vivian waited a moment, wondering if she dared. But if he was the man who had been talking with Rokesby earlier, that was something to go on when currently she had nothing else. Gritting her teeth, she walked into the alcove and ducked around the screen.

The space behind it was deeper than she had expected, and there was a door at the end of it. When Vivian inched it open a crack, there was light coming up, and a staircase leading down. The building had a damn basement, she realized. Why hadn't she thought of that before?

She could hear faint voices from the bottom of the stairs, almost drowned out by the music from behind her. There was more than one person down there.

Vivian hesitated only a moment. Should she find Leo and tell him where she was going? If she got into trouble, it would be good for someone to know where she had gone.

But that might take too long. What if someone locked the door? What if the people down there left before she got back? What if Mags got too interested and decided to crash whatever private party was happening?

She didn't want to just stand there, waiting for someone to find her. If she went down there and needed an excuse for appearing, she could always pretend to be a drunk partygoer who had found her way into the basement by accident. It wasn't an unlikely story. She had gotten herself out of difficult jams before.

Vivian started down the steps, closing the door behind her.

There were electric lights in the stairwell—not too bright, but enough that she could see where she was going, even with the door closed. The noise of the ballroom grew more distant as she went down, the murmur of voices becoming louder. They weren't angry voices, she was relieved to hear. And there were men and women both, which meant she hopefully wouldn't be too out of place.

There was another door at the bottom of the staircase. Before she could talk herself out of it or think through all the things that could go wrong, Vivian turned the knob.

The voices were louder here, but the room was almost completely empty. It was also smaller than she expected, a passageway more than anything else. Opposite her was a doorway with a red velvet curtain pulled across it. The voices came from the other side, a polite murmur. Between her and whoever was on the other side stood a man in a black suit.

He watched her as she let the door fall closed behind her, his face impassive, not moving or saying anything. Just waiting. Vivian's eyes darted from one end of the room to the other before settling back on him. Beside him stood a table shaped like a very short column with a black lacquered box on top.

Vivian swallowed, then decided that there was nothing to be lost by being friendly. "Hi," she said, giving the man a big smile.

Was she imagining the little flicker of a smile around the corners of his mouth in response? God, she hoped not. "Good evening, madam," the man replied gravely, giving her a slow, deliberate nod.

Another beat of silence. Vivian resisted the urge to bounce up and down on her heels. "Well?" she said at last, gesturing toward the curtain behind him. "Are you going to let me in?"

This time there was no smile. Instead, a frown appeared between his brows. "I believe madam has forgotten to give her passphrase," he said, speaking with a deliberate pace that Vivian recognized. She had used it often enough herself with customers who'd had one drink too many and were having trouble following directions from the people trying to stop them from barging into the wrong washroom.

Passphrase. "Of course," Vivian said, while her stomach churned with panic. "My passphrase. Golly, they're hard to remember after a few glasses of champagne, aren't they?"

"I can imagine they would be," the man said. He was still firmly planted between her and whatever was happening behind that curtain.

She gave him another bright smile. "Don't you think that, just this once, you could—"

"As always, madam, rules are rules," he said, shaking his head. He gestured toward the door behind her. "Perhaps tonight you should—"

"Wait," Vivian said quickly, cutting him off. If this was Corny Rokesby's XX, there was no way she was giving up now. "I remember it, I promise."

XX. Each XX entry in his appointment book had something written next to it.

"It was…"

Are those poems next to them?Mags had asked. Not poems, but…

Vivian cleared her throat. "Violet," she said slowly, watching the man as she spoke. His shoulders, which had been stiff and pulled up, as though he were preparing for something unpleasant, were relaxing once more. She wanted to shout with triumph, but she kept a disarming smile pasted across her face while she tried to picture the words Rokesby had written. "Charmer. Snakebite…"

Damn it, what was the last one?

"Gin."

This time, she was sure she hadn't imagined the smile as he stepped over to the column-shaped table. Flicking open the top of the box with a single finger, he pulled out a white half-mask, black ribbons dangling from its sides, the whole thing sparkling with glass beads. He held it out to her with a little bow.

Vivian took it, trying to hold back the urge to laugh. What was this baloney? But hiding her face from whoever was on the other side of that curtain probably wasn't the worst idea in the world. As she tied it across her face, the man stepped aside and gestured toward the velvet curtain. "Enjoy your evening, madam."

"Thanks so much!" she said brightly, giving him a little wave, which he returned with a bemused nod. She pulled the velvet curtain back just enough that she could step past it.

The first room had been smaller than she expected. This one was larger, though half of it was still left in shadow. There were three small, round tables set up in the middle of the room, though only a few people sat at them. A handful of other men and women hovered near the chairs or around the edges of the room, some chatting, others silent. Though they were all dressed for the party upstairs, none of them were wearing costumes, other than half-masks like the one she had been given.

Vivian had the feeling that this gathering, whatever it was, was the real reason each of them had found their way to the lodge ball that night.

Two women in skimpy, spangled outfits with feathers in their hair were moving through the room with trays, offering the guests glasses of champagne. Everyone she saw accepted, some of them toasting each other with the familiarity of old acquaintances. Or maybe rivals—their smiles weren't exactly friendly. Others tossed back their drinks with grim determination or sipped them slowly, leaning back in their chairs as they surveyed their surroundings.

Vivian didn't much want another drink herself; she'd had plenty upstairs already and getting fuzzy-headed didn't sound like such a good idea when she still didn't know what was going on.

But she didn't want to stand out either. When the waitress came to her, Vivian accepted a glass, lifting it to her lips and taking the smallest sip possible as she tried to look around without being too obvious.

The people were well worth looking at, even with their masks on. Every tie and handkerchief there was silk; every gown was beaded or fringed, and to her eye, clearly hand-sewn. The weight of money was thick in the air. As her gaze moved around the room, Vivian suddenly realized why.

Each table had a clear glass box set in its center. All the boxes were locked with small, heavy padlocks. And clearly visible inside each were three unopened packs of cards and two trays of ivory dice.

Gambling. XX was code for gambling—exclusive and, she could guess from the wealth on display, very high-stakes gambling. Vivian didn't know whether to laugh or run for the door. She had no experience with cards or craps and knew she couldn't bluff her way through a single game. But she didn't want to leave before…

Vivian turned slowly, still hiding behind her champagne, to eye the rest of the guests. There. He was slouching in one corner, his masked face turned away from the room as he talked with one of the other gamblers. But she recognized those bright red curls and the way he tapped his fingers against his thigh in a fidgety, anxious rhythm. She hoped, for his sake, that he didn't do that while he was gambling.

If he was here tonight, that probably meant that the day his stepfather was murdered, he was busy losing money at the craps table. Or maybe winning it at poker. Either way, he couldn't have been doing that and killing Buchanan at the same time.

But maybe he had lost early and headed home. Someone had been sticking arsenic in Buchanan's drinks, after all, and who better than the stepson who lived with him? Maybe Rokesby had been content to wait for his inheritance until he had stumbled home that day, broke and desperate, and wanted to hurry things up. Or maybe Buchanan had found out about the gambling, and they had gotten into a fight—

Vivian was so busy thinking through all the ways that Rokesby might still be guilty that it took her a moment to notice the scowly man in the checked suit. He was stationed at the opposite wall, the only one there not wearing a mask, watching the room with a greasy, narrow-eyed gaze. And as that gaze found her, he frowned.

Vivian's stomach clenched. He had been talking to Rokesby upstairs, which meant the masks were to protect their identities from each other. The scowling man must know who everyone was.

He would know that she didn't belong.

Vivian kept her gaze moving around the room, turning slowly away from the man in the checked suit, not wanting him to realize that she had seen him watching her. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. She wasn't that far from the door. It would be easy enough to slip out, and—

"Hello again, pretty girl."

Vivian started, spilling champagne over her fingers, as the suave voice spoke right near her ear. Spinning around, she found herself facing her partner from the Charleston upstairs, the wings of gray hair at his temples looking like an elegant extension of his own mask. He grinned at her and took the hand holding the champagne in his own.

"Dear, dear," he murmured. "Let's not have that go to waste." Before she could protest, he had lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed away the drops of champagne.

Vivian, hot all over, pulled it away as soon as she could without spilling more. "I told you I was only interested in a dance," she said coldly, though she kept her voice low enough that no one else in the room would hear.

He only laughed, releasing her without complaint. "Well, pretty girl, clearly you're interested in more than that," he said, gesturing around the room. "If I had known we were heading to the same place, I would have offered to escort you down. But…" He looked her over once more. "I don't think I've seen you at one of these before?" There was a curious lilt to his voice, and she saw his brows rise behind his mask as he waited for a response.

He was a regular, then. Which meant he'd know whether Rokesby had been at the last one or not. Vivian gave him a flirting smile while she tried to remember what she had read in Rokesby's appointment book. "My pal would have gotten me into the one on the fifteenth, but it's harder to slip away in the daytime, isn't it? At least, for a girl like me." She gave him an unsubtle look up and down while she took another sip of champagne. "I imagine a fella like you has a lot more say in how you spend your days."

He laughed again. "True enough, I suppose. Though now I'm curious who among our fellow players got to know you before I did."

It was the opening she was waiting for. Vivian tilted her head toward Corny Rokesby. "My fire-haired friend over there."

"Mr. Red?" The man glanced at Corny, looking surprised. "I bet he's glad you weren't there after all. No man likes to have a pretty girl see him lose that badly."

Vivian's heart thumped painfully against her ribs. If Corny had lost money… "He never could get his fidgets under control," she guessed, trying to sound as if she already knew what she was talking about.

"Gives the game away every time," the man agreed, winking as he raised his glass. "Here's to a better night, for you at least, your first time joining us."

Vivian clinked her glass against his and, since it would have been rude not to, took a gulp, dismayed to see that there wasn't much left. She hadn't meant to drink so much. But she'd be slipping away soon—no good could come of being there when the actual gambling started. "I bet he couldn't wait to get out of there," she said, wondering how much time Corny would have needed to get back to the house. "I know I would have."

"Maybe, but they're dead serious when they say that no one can leave until the gameplay is done. He had to stay until the end, just like the rest of us." He laughed. "Don't want anyone ratting us out to get their money back, after all."

Vivian froze. "Oh. Yes. I mean no, we don't want that," she said, not sure what she was saying but hoping her surprise wasn't written all over her face. If they didn't allow anyone to leave… did that mean once the game started? Or once they walked into the room?

"And that game went on for half the damn day. I probably could have bought a new company with what I lost on that last hand," the man was saying, apparently happy to take the chance to brag and not noticing that she was barely paying attention anymore. He winked at her. "If you get out early, don't feel too bad. Come sit on my lap and I'll keep you entertained."

"Golly, what an offer, mister," Vivian said, hoping he thought her breathlessness was meant to be flirtatious. But her eyes were fixed on the door.

A new man had just walked into the room, and this one didn't wear a mask either. His suit fit so perfectly it looked like it might have grown on him, and he was flanked by two men whose smart jackets did little to soften their menacing posture.

Vivian swallowed. Judging by the confident way the new man looked around the room, the muscle flanking him, and the quick, nervous way that the man in the checked suit hurried to his side, this was the man in charge. It took all her willpower not to bolt for the door that instant. Would she still be able to slip away?

"Ah, it looks like our host is coming to greet his newest victim," the man said, giving her a friendly nudge with his shoulder. "I'll give you your privacy, of course, but come find me after." He winked again. "Like I said, I'm a good time, on and off the dance floor."

"Sure thing," Vivian said faintly, forcing herself to smile as she watched him walk away. She wanted to grab his hand and make him stay with her. But just because a fella could hold his own in a Charleston didn't mean he was trustworthy. She remembered the feel of his mouth on her fingers as he licked away the drops of champagne and shivered. She could handle herself without that just fine.

"Good evening, madam."

The host had reached her. To her relief, only the man in the checked suit was with him; his bruisers still stood a few paces back, though they were watching her as well. The host smiled, but it was clear to her that it was a show, put on for the benefit of the other players. Up close, his smile was cold, and it didn't reach his eyes.

"Evening," Vivian said, hoping her smile was more convincing than his. "Hell of a shindig you throw down here."

His nod could hardly be called that, a bare dip of his chin. His eyes didn't leave hers. "I'm glad you approve. But my associate tells me—" He gestured toward the man in the checked suit—"that perhaps we were not expecting you to join us this evening. I'm certain we have not yet received your deposit." Behind his back, she saw two of his fingers move. At the gesture, one of his muscled escorts peeled away from the wall he was propping up and began ambling in their direction. The host smiled at her once more, and it was even colder this time. "May I ask who invited you to our little soiree?"

Vivian shifted so that her weight was forward on her toes. "Do you want his real name?" she asked, her voice as light as if he were an old friend asking her for a dance. She kept her eyes away from where the waitress was making her rounds with the champagne again, getting closer and closer to them.

The host raised his brows, looking bemused, as though her apparent lack of discomfort puzzled him. He gestured at her with one hand. "If you please."

"Sure thing, mister. I know you know the fella," she added, glancing at the man in the checked suit, who looked surprised at being addressed directly. Vivian leaned forward conspiratorially. "My friend Corny Rokesby."

The host frowned. "Mr. Rokesby?"

"Of course," Vivian said, smiling brightly. "He's sitting right over there."

They all turned to look in the direction she was pointing. The moment they did, Vivian stepped back, sticking one foot into the path of the waitress. The woman stumbled, and Vivian helped her along, sending the tray of glasses and a half-full bottle of champagne flying toward the men. There was the sound of glass shattering, shrieking from the waitress and several guests, bellows from the men—but Vivian hadn't waited for any of it. She was already plunging through the velvet curtain and dashing toward the steps, ignoring the shout of the man who had handed her the mask.

It didn't occur to her, until the moment her hand was on the knob, that they might have locked the door behind them. She would have sobbed in relief when the door swung open, but she didn't have time. She yanked it shut behind her, already taking the steps toward the ballroom two at a time. The door at the top was unlocked too. She could hear shouts and pounding feet from below before they were drowned out by the clamor of five hundred conversations, all happening at once to the sound of a jazzy, brassy quickstep.

Vivian slammed the door behind her, tearing off her mask and tossing it on the ground before she dashed around the silk screen and plunged back into the crowd.