by Lee Bross
Never in her life had she wanted to keep a secret that was not her own this badly.
Arista sat down hard on the nearest bench. She glanced up in time to see the look of warning Marguerite directed at her son as she left the garden. She might not know the truth about why Arista was there, but something made her wary nonetheless.
Grae sat on the bench opposite her. This would not be a pleasant exchange. He leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankles. His shoulders were squared and rigid, a sign that his irritation had not yet dispersed. Everything about his body spoke of anger, and yet Arista wasn’t afraid for her safety. Before, blind fear had taken over, but she knew now that Grae would not harm her physically. She knew that as surely as she knew he would accept nothing less than the truth. Which she could never give him.
“Talk, Lady A.”
Arista looked around before narrowing her eyes at him. “Stop calling me that.”
“Ana, then? Is that really your name?” His eyes narrowed. When she could not look at him, he sighed. “Of course not.” He unfolded his arms and leaned closer. “I’ve gone to every damned party and ball since Lady Carstair’s, you know. Looking for you.”
Her pulse quickened, despite the precarious position she was in. There was a tone of vulnerability under the steely rage in his voice. It made her stomach twist in unexpected ways. It made her remember their brief time together. She, too, had wished they might meet again under the safety of a disguise. Heat surged to her cheeks. She had to be glowing like a lantern. Did he remember the kiss as well as she did?
His voice lowered, took on a dangerous undertone. “It was an acquaintance of mine, Lord Kalman, who finally informed me that the lady I sought was a notorious blackmailer.”
Lord Kalman. Arista wracked her brain but could not put the name to a face. There were so many faces she wished to forget. She closed her eyes to ward off the accusation in his stare.
“Were you marketing your skills for new clients that night, Ana?” he asked roughly. “Did you think I might be of some use to you?”
Her gaze dropped. She had been excited about the fact that he’d sailed to India. She’d only wished to know everything he’d seen and done. It had nothing to do with Lady A. He mistook her silence for guilt. “Do you provide such a hands-on service to all who employ you?” Hurt radiated from his eyes, and she knew that some of the anger wasn’t because she was there in his home; it was because he thought his feelings were one-sided. His entire body was tense. “Did you lose interest once you figured out that I didn’t need what you were offering?”
His cruel words dug under her skin. Arista shook her head. She wanted to tell him that he’d made her feel things she’d never felt in her life. That she had planned to seek him out again, but the fire changed everything. No one had ever affected her as he had. She knew from the first time they’d touched that he could be trusted—a feeling so rare that Arista was sure she’d been mistaken. Their second meeting proved she had not been wrong.
She could tell him that despite the pretense on both of those nights, what she’d said—how she’d acted—it had been real.
His accusation—that she’d faked everything between them, simply to gain a new client—hurt more than anything he could physically do to her.
“You have no idea who I am. You know nothing about me or my past, or what I’ve had to do just to stay alive.” Arista covered her mouth and stood. She hadn’t meant to say that much. The tears in her eyes were treacherously close to spilling over. “Just leave me alone.” She whirled around, running blindly for the door.
“Ana! Wait—” Grae’s words followed her through the door.
She stood with her back against the hard wood, taking deep, shuddering breaths. Why did she have the urge to tell him everything? To make him understand that none of this was her doing? She hated the look in his eyes when he’d called her by her name—Lady A—like it was an accusation. That look was familiar, and it made her feel ashamed of who she had to be. How many people had looked at her with the same disgust on their faces, every day of her life? How nice had it been that Grae only knew her as a girl at a party, and not a notorious extortionist?
A quick knock at her inner door sent her pulse racing. Had Grae come back? Would he demand the truth from her? The knock came again. She could not ignore it. He knew she was in her room. Steeling herself, she walked to the door and opened it.
It was not Grae. A strange disappointment settled inside her.
“This just came for you, miss,” Wilson said, handing her a card. “The messenger said to bring it to you straightaway.”
The address was written on the outside, along with her made-up name: Ana. The writing looked unfamiliar, but it could only be from one person—the only other person who knew she was here.
“A trunk was also delivered. It’s in the front hall. Should I bring it to you?”
“A trunk for me?”
“Yes, miss.”
It couldn’t be hers—she had nothing now, after the fire. Not that she’d had much before that. Certainly not enough to fill a trunk. Wilson stood there waiting. She could argue, but she had a feeling it would do no good.
“Yes, please—bring it in.”
Arista quickly closed the door and swung around to press her back against it. She clutched the card tightly in her fist. She had not expected Wild to call so soon. She slipped her finger under the seal and opened the card.
An invitation. Tonight?
Another soft knock came from the door and when she opened it, Wilson stood there with a rather large trunk behind him. “Your things, miss.”
Things? She owned nothing. “Are you sure that’s for me?”
“It came with the card, miss. And this tag has your name on it.” Wilson looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“Of course.” It had to be from Wild, but what on earth was in it?
Wilson pulled it inside the room and set it down. “Your maid is with Sara in the kitchen, if you need her.” He waited expectantly.
“No, that’s fine. Thank you.” She could not keep from staring at the trunk. It was about the size of a crate of vegetables at the market.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind Wilson, Arista pulled the straps free. She lifted the lid and gasped. Inside the chest were clothes. Clothes that were most definitely not hers—she had never owned that many nice things in her life.
She pulled the first dress free and shook it out. The fabric was simple cotton, a rich brown color that looked almost like chocolate. It had a modest neckline lined with delicate lace. Arista held it up to herself. Of course the length was perfect.
She carefully laid it on the bed and dove back in, pulling out several more dresses and undergarments. They were all dark colors, appropriate for a girl in mourning. Wild had thought of everything. At the bottom were shoes and stockings and a pile of dark clothes tied together with string. A note had been pinned to them.
For the esteemed Lady A.
Her fingers shook as she lifted the bundle; it was a reminder that there was a price to the luxuries bestowed upon her.
She set the package on the bed and untied the string, then folded back the paper, revealing more clothing. But this was different. There was a blouse, stark white with a low neckline, lined with ruffles. Next she found a brightly colored skirt, seemingly made from hundreds of different pieces of cloth, sewn together in patchwork fashion. A black corset lay under the skirt. A plain black mask sat on a pair of tall black boots at the very bottom of the pile.
This was all for Lady A? She’d expected a black dress. A raven-feather mask. Instead she’d gotten…the mismatched clothes of a beggar? Arista took the shirt and skirt and walked to the oval mirror in the corner, holding them up.
As soon as she saw her reflection, she knew. A cold dread seeped through her and sank down into her bones. She could almost hear Nic’s teasing whisper in her ear. Wild had not meant for her to go as a beggar at all. Somehow he’d known.
Arista stared wild-eyed at the gypsy looking back at her.
An unfamiliar thrill washed over Arista as she stood at the edge of the ballroom and watched the costumed dancers fly by. She was there as Lady A, but no one would recognize her this time. Behind the plain black mask, she was simply a guest. They were expecting a black dress and a raven-feather mask. Lady A’s signature costume.
But dressed as a gypsy tonight, no once glanced at her with disdain. No one whispered as she walked by. And without the threat of Bones over her head, she could not stop the smile that curled her lips. Freedom. This must be what it tasted like.
Dancers whirled around her as she stood watching. Laughter floated through the air, and more than one touch grazed her arm, both male and female. They were subtle invitations. Unspoken offers. How many times had she wished for this very thing?
Lady A’s identity was still anonymous behind the raven feathers, of course—no one knew the girl in the mask—but it was different this time. Not only did they not know the girl under the disguise, but they did not even know she was Lady A.
Spiked punch gave the confident guests reason to talk more. To boast and flirt and disclose secrets meant to be kept silent. Mouths shut tight when the black-cloaked Lady A approached, but a gypsy girl attracted no notice.
It gave Arista the chance to eavesdrop, and make note of bits of gossip that might come in handy at some other time. It also allowed her to move about the room freely, searching for the person she was to meet tonight. Wild had sent another note later that day. She must look for a red kerchief in the left breast pocket of a man dressed all in black.
Wild had supplied no name. Perhaps that was how he intended to conduct business, which was fine by her. She didn’t need a name. Usually she could pick out the guilty party simply by observing the telltale signs of stress. Fidgeting with a neck cloth. Trembling hands. Furtive glances around the room, followed by mopping the brow. All signs that the person was most uncomfortable in their current surroundings.
Given the anonymous nature of a masked ball, discomfort should be the last emotion in a guest. In fact, most times it was the opposite. Complete abandon and indiscretion led to gaiety and false comfort.
Each stride she took exposed a long length of leg, which did not go unnoticed. There were looks of interest in several gazes she met. They reminded her of Grae, and in a moment of self-indulgence, Arista allowed herself to think of him. To wish that he was here with her like before—just two guests, with nothing but time to explore the unfamiliar longing between them.
It was not an uncomfortable thought at all. On the contrary, she’d liked the quickening of her pulse when he had stepped too close. At Lady Carstair’s party, his kiss had rendered her senseless. It was something she wished to experience again—there was no doubt.
With a secret smile on her lips, she made her way around the room, leisurely taking in each person that she passed. Though in disguise, Arista knew there were several of Lady A’s clients in the room tonight. What would they do if they knew she stood so close, brushing against their arms as she walked by?
It was a heady feeling, this power of complete anonymity.
It took her two turns around the perimeter of the room, and two refusals for a dance, before Arista spotted the person she was to meet with. A flash of red caught her eye. A second glance proved the man was dressed entirely in black from head to toe, except for the bright handkerchief in his pocket.
He stood to her right, and in the dim light she could not get a clear look at his face. A jewel-encrusted cane rested on the floor by his side: a grotesque overstatement of wealth, for anyone to see. She curled her lip and moved closer. Tonight there was no threat of physical retribution over her head. Bones was gone. She did this for herself and Becky alone. She walked taller, knowing that she would reap the benefits of this encounter.
She had relied on Nic to protect her before, but tonight she didn’t need a bodyguard. She would control the meeting from this point forward.
Arista moved toward him, the swirling colors of her skirt dancing above her knee. The hem on the right side of her skirt had been fashioned in such a way that when she walked, most of her thigh was exposed. She had strapped her knife to the covered thigh, the opposite side that she was used to.
The practical white blouse had become much less demure when Becky fastened the black corset around it. The top of her chest was pushed out, exposed by the low neckline. Knee-high black boots completed her outfit. Becky had tied the plain black mask in place and wound Arista’s brightly colored silk scarf around her head, letting the loose ends trail down her back.
She stepped in front of the man and met his gaze brazenly.
He wore no mask and once he might have even been handsome, but his vices were written clearly in the lines on his face. He looked haggard and desperate. A slight, constant sniffle made her wonder if he had an opiate problem as well. His gaze roamed over her, and interest sparked in his eyes.
“Are you looking for someone special, my lord?” Arista kept her voice low and friendly. She didn’t want to give herself away just yet. Meeting out in the open like this afforded a small measure of safety, since she had no idea who this man was and what he was capable of.
“Aren’t we all?” His gaze slipped over her shoulder, then it came back to rest below her chin. “Maybe you could be that one tonight?” A sly grin curled his lips up.
“I am here to arrange an exchange of information only, my lord.” She lifted one eyebrow above her scarf and watched the realization dawn in his eyes.
“You?”
Her smile grew bigger and she gave him a mock curtsy. “The one and only.” Arista laid her hand on his chest and reveled at the way his heart pounded furiously under her fingers. If she were not mistaken, she could detect a trembling in his body as well. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead.
“How does this work?” His gaze darted around them. People crowded the room, but none paid any mind to them. They were just another couple, standing intimately in a shadowy corner.
“You have something for me?” she asked.
The procedure before had always been to give the client the desired information first, and take their payment—the first installment of money and one of their own secrets—because Bones did not trust anyone. Wild had told her in the note that she would be collecting only a payment tonight.
If the man could pay what Wild demanded, then she would later deliver what he wanted in return.
Perspiration dotted his forehead, and he patted it away with a square of white cloth. He stroked the end of his cane with his thumb and shifted his weight onto his good leg. Then he squared his shoulders, giving the appearance of height, and let his eyes roam back to her face.
“How do I know you’ll honor your part of this exchange?”
Arista smiled slowly. “You really don’t, my lord. But I guess it depends on if the information you seek is worth a small bit of trust.”
He snorted. “You’re a glorified extortionist. Why would I trust you?”
“Then I guess we’re done here. Good evening, sir.” Arista turned away and counted to three under her breath. There was no way this man would let her walk away. Not after he’d gone to the trouble of setting up a meeting with her.
“Wait.”
When she turned, she kept her face a mask of cool indifference. “Yes?”
“Take it.” He thrust a pouch at her, and she took it from him just as quickly. The small reticule at her wrist was the perfect size, and she slipped it inside. “And if you think to double-cross me, I will make you pay,” he threatened.
How many times had she heard the exact same thing? “That’s the chance you take for your own greed, my lord. Provided that what you’ve given me is worth the information you seek, I will be in touch soon.”
“You had better.” With that, he turned and stormed away.
“Thank you, my lord. It was a pleasure,” Arista called out at his retreating back. A few curiou
s heads swiveled her way and she smiled. Tonight had been a success, and if Wild held his end of the bargain, she would have a nice-sized reward.
The first time she’d be compensated for the risk she took. The idea made her insides feel fizzy, like the punch at the Carstairs’ party.
One bold gentleman moved in front of her.
“Would you care to dance?”
He was tall and had broad shoulders, and smelled of sweet cigars. The exhilaration of the exchange filled her with tense energy. Perhaps one dance would help to ease the pressure.
“Yes, thank you.” The man swept her into his arms and onto the dance floor. They twirled around to an upbeat tune and laughter broke free from her throat.
She had not danced like this ever before; not this wild and carefree. With Grae it had been all about the contact, the slow swaying that set her body on fire. Tonight she felt as if she could fly away.
Before, at the end of each exchange, Nic had led her away from the party, more for her own safety than anything else. Tonight she had no worries. Lady A had appeared, and she did what had to be done; and now Arista was free to enjoy herself for a little while.
No one knew who she was.
The man spun her around, her feet barely touching the floor. The tension in her body faded and a new excitement took its place. Never in her life had she embraced such freedom.
By the time the last strains of the orchestra fell silent, Arista could not catch her breath. Her face hurt from smiling so much. The man had been a gentleman, and his hands fell away as soon as the music stopped.
“I won’t ask for your name, but would you care to stroll in the garden?” His low-timbred voice caused pleasant vibrations along her skin. Nothing like when she was with Grae, but she didn’t feel her usual distaste at having a man so close to her. Still, leaving the party with him might be one risk too many.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said with a smile, and left before he could protest. A breath of cool night air did sound nice, so she headed toward the door herself.
A figure stepped out of the shadows. Grae? Arista blinked. He wore no disguise tonight, so it was definitely him. He didn’t look happy to see her, and truth be told, she was not happy to see him. Not here, not when she was conducting business he had no right to know about.
