Chapter One

 

 

“Conscience doth make cowards of us all.”

Hamlet

 

The Wakeford Townhouse, London

 

“You ought to take less whiskey, you know.”

“And you ought to knock before you enter my study,” Henry shot back.

He stood with his back to the door and therefore could not observe his friend’s expression, though he suspected that James was smiling faintly.

The afternoon had long since given way to a greasy sort of night, the sky swollen with clouds and the last of the pallid sunlight extinguished. When Henry lifted his glass, it was not daylight that glinted through the amber liquid, but the restless flicker of candlelight behind him. Reluctantly, he dragged his gaze from the darkened windowpane and turned to face his friend.

James was dressed for dinner, as neat and gentlemanly as ever. Henry could not resist the cruel comparison. In his mind’s eye he summoned his own reflection, then James’. He wished, almost instantly, that he had not. The familiar sting of inadequacy tightened his throat, and he swallowed hard, the whiskey burning as it went down.

Tall, fair-haired, and possessed of an easy, confident handsomeness, James was much admired among the ladies of Society. Not excessively so—being only a plain ‘Mr’ with modest means—but his personal charms had carried him far and would, no doubt, carry him further still.

“I thought I might take dinner here in my study,” Henry remarked.

James’ expression darkened. “It is too late for that. Your mother and sister are already expecting you. Come, Henry—you must join us for dinner. The Dowager wished to discuss—”

He broke off abruptly, his gaze falling to a broken vial half-hidden amongst Henry’s papers. “What is this?”

He crossed the room in three strides, retrieved the vial, and held it beneath his nose.

“Laudanum?” His voice sharpened. “You already keep a bottle beside your bed. And now you are breaking vials of it in here as well?”

“I require it for the pain,” Henry replied, gesturing vaguely toward himself. “You know that.”

“No doubt. But you must not take it with whiskey. Here.”

James moved swiftly, plucking the glass from Henry’s hand before he could object. After a brief survey of the room, he upended it into an unsuspecting potted plant.

Henry considered protesting—remarking upon the cost of good whiskey and the fact that he had already taken a full glass earlier—but thought better of it. He had no appetite for a protracted argument.

When one’s friends were as few as Henry’s, one learned not to quarrel lightly.

“You must exercise greater caution,” James muttered, setting the emptied glass down with a decisive clack. “You have obligations, Henry. The Duke of Akendale cannot simply absent himself from his responsibilities. He cannot retreat into oblivion—however tempting that oblivion may be.”

“You speak as though you have been conferring with my mother,” Henry observed. The mingling of whiskey and laudanum thrummed unpleasantly through his veins. He was well aware of the folly of combining the two. The physician who prescribed the opiates had warned him often enough—and had even ventured to suggest that it was not merely physical pain Henry sought to escape.

Perhaps the man was correct. All the more reason to find a new physician—again.

“I have spoken with her,” James admitted. “And before you accuse me of interference, let me assure you that she sought me out. She is troubled by your refusal to attend Lady Spencer’s masquerade. Will you not reconsider? For Rosemary’s sake? If she is to secure a suitable match, you must show your face in Society at least occasionally.”

“Ha!” Henry pushed himself to his feet. “An unfortunate choice of phrase, James. It is my face that occasioned my exile.”

“Henry—”

“No, do not ‘Henry’ me.” His voice sharpened. “And may I remind you that Lady Spencer is among those who delighted in spreading the tale that I am a monster in human shape? Do you imagine I have forgotten the scandal sheets—the whispers, the caricatures, the cruel little sketches passed about for amusement? I have seen my own likeness satirised more times than I care to recall. It was Lady Spencer who kept that gossip alive, ensuring that all eyes remained fixed upon me and my wretched countenance. That her chatter attracts less notice now does not mean it has ceased.”

James pressed his lips together but did not argue.

Henry crossed unsteadily to the fireplace, intent upon reclaiming some fragment of dignity. The room tilted faintly beneath his feet. The mixture of whiskey and laudanum was proving more potent than he had anticipated. Hoping his unsteadiness had gone unnoticed, he braced a hand against the mantel.

Unfortunately, that position left him no choice but to confront the mirror above it.

One might rarely escape one’s reflection; that knowledge did little to soften the shock. A stranger stared back at him—wide-eyed, pale, faintly wild.

The mirror was heavy and ornate, its glass slightly tarnished with age and neglect. At Henry’s own instruction, the servants seldom disturbed the study, and a fine layer of dust dulled the silvery surface. It was not, however, sufficient to obscure the all-too-familiar ruin of his features.

He allowed his gaze to skim over his face only briefly before turning away, his stomach churning.

I know what I look like, he thought bitterly. I require no reminder.

Society remembers as well. And Society does not forget.

He turned from the mirror and encountered James’ steady gaze—only to look away almost at once. There was no overt sympathy in his friend’s expression; James knew how Henry despised it. Sympathy was scarcely preferable to pity. Yet there was understanding there—a silent wish that he might somehow shoulder a portion of Henry’s burden.

But no one could take his thoughts. No one could banish the nightmares, restore his face, or command Society to smile upon him once more.

No one smiled upon him now.

“I cannot endure their scrutiny again,” Henry said quietly, his voice unsteady despite his efforts. “Have I not suffered enough? Why must we stir it all afresh?”

“Henry, you know I detest the gossip as much as you do. But the truth is that it harms Rosemary. She wishes to marry, and a duke’s sister ought not to be entering her fourth Season. She is mortified. If you would only show yourself—occasionally—the Dowager believes it might improve her prospects.”

Henry bit the inside of his cheek and drew a measured breath. Eleanor Wakeford, the Dowager Duchess of Akendale, was a woman with a hard-earned knowledge of Society. If she believed that Henry’s absence was damaging Rosemary’s marital chances, then she was likely correct.

A flurry of light footsteps in the corridor forestalled his reply. Without so much as a knock—the household seemed to have abandoned that courtesy entirely—the door flew open to admit a tall, slender young woman of two-and-twenty.

“Behold!” Rosemary declared triumphantly. “The final stitch has been set in my masquerade gown. Tell me, Henry—what do you think?”

She executed a delighted twirl. The gown shimmered in pale blue and white, its surface covered in overlapping sequins that caught the candlelight like fish scales. Long, feathery ruffles adorned the neckline and sleeves, giving the impression of some fanciful creature—half sea-nymph, half bird of paradise. Presumably, the mask would render the theme intelligible.

Her spin slowed. She beamed at her brother—only for her smile to falter slightly at the sight of James.

“Mr Fairmont,” she stammered, colouring faintly. “I did not realise you were here. I would not have burst in so unceremoniously had I known—”

“Pray, offer no apology, Lady Rosemary,” James replied, inclining his head with a courteous smile. “I understand this gown has been many weeks in the making.”

“It has,” she admitted, smoothing the sequined bodice with evident pride. “I confess I am quite eager for the masquerade.”

She lifted her chin and met her brother’s gaze directly. Like their mother, Rosemary was one of the very few who could look upon Henry without flinching or looking away.

“But Mama fears we may be obliged to miss it,” she added, unable to disguise the note of disappointment in her voice.

Henry clenched his jaw. “Because I do not mean to attend?”

Rosemary coloured, darting a brief glance at James before lowering her eyes.

“Mama believes so. And I think it would be rather ill-mannered to withdraw our acceptance to Lady Spencer at this late hour. The party is tomorrow evening, after all.”

“And you,” Henry said, with an effort, “are of James’ opinion? That I ought to attend?”

His mouth felt uncomfortably dry—another consequence of the laudanum. Perhaps he ought to moderate his use of it. And yet, if he were expected to return to the very Society that had cast him out—had christened him the Beast of Akendale…

Rosemary drew in a breath, squared her shoulders, and met his gaze once more.

“I think you are too much alone, Henry. I think that the years since your accident—and Edward’s death—”

“Do not,” he burst out. But she pressed on, her voice steady despite the strain in it.

“—have clouded your thoughts. I know how readily you sink into despair, how bleak the world must appear to you at times. If you would only step back into the light, you might see that—”

“See what?” he interrupted sharply. “See that my absence has only embroidered the legends and rumours? That people are no more charitable regarding my appearance now than they were then?”

Rosemary recoiled at his tone, and remorse swept over him at once. He cleared his throat and looked away, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“I beg your pardon,” he said at last, careful not to meet either her eyes or James’.

“I am not offended,” Rosemary assured him gently, laying a tentative hand upon his shoulder. “Truly, I am not.”

Henry closed his eyes for a moment.

“You are right in one respect,” he conceded quietly. “If Mother believes that my presence in Society may improve your prospects, then I must make the attempt. It can only be for a few weeks—surely no longer than that.”

Rosemary’s face lit at once. “You truly mean it?”

He inclined his head before he could reconsider. “Yes. I mean it.”

She gave a squeal of delight and relief, scurrying forward to press a kiss to his cheeks.

“Let it be understood, brother,” she said with a laugh, “that I am more relieved to know you will not bury yourself in this study forever than I am at the thought of securing a husband. That ambition belongs chiefly to Mama.”

He winced faintly. “And Mama’s ambitions are rarely disappointed.”

“Just so,” Rosemary agreed, her eyes dancing. “Which reminds me—you had best dress for dinner with haste. What Mama desires at present is your punctuality.”

“Your wish is my command.”

Still smiling, she slipped from the room, casting a quick, unreadable glance at James as she passed. He returned it with a hesitant smile, his gaze lingering after her departure.

Now that Henry considered it, James’ gaze seemed often to linger where Rosemary was concerned.

But that was a matter for another time. At present, he had more pressing concerns.

First, he must dress for dinner. And thereafter, he must determine how he was to endure Society’s unrelenting scrutiny for the coming weeks—perhaps months.

The situation reminded him of one line from Hamlet. What was it again? Something about one’s conscience turning one into a coward. Sometimes, cowardice really was the right thing to do.

But was it cowardice to remain hidden from a world that had wounded him so deeply? Or cowardice to return to it merely to satisfy his family’s wishes?

No answer presented itself.

Perhaps that was for the best.

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

“All causes shall give way: I am in blood

Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more,

Returning were as tedious as go o’er.”

Macbeth

 

 

The drawing room of Belford House was, in Marguerite’s opinion, considerably smaller than it ought to have been. She made this observation loudly and frequently to any guest unfortunate enough to be seated within its modest proportions.

“…and of course, my darling William had every intention of making extensive improvements,” Marguerite continued, stirring her tea with a reflective air. “Had he lived, I daresay this house would resemble a veritable palace by now.”

“What a tragedy for you to lose him,” Lady Bridges—Susan—replied, with the air of one long accustomed to such lamentations.

Marguerite sighed and gave a faint roll of her eyes. “Yes, yes—most lamentable. The funds went with the estate, of course, entailed upon the next viscount. And a most inconvenient portion of what remained was set aside for Helena’s dowry. I would argue that was nearly as great a loss as the estate itself.”

A small, brittle silence followed.

Both ladies turned, as if by instinct, toward the subject of this remark. Helena Bramwell, for her part, made a commendable effort to appear wholly unaware that she had been mentioned.

“Oh, I am sure it is not so dreadful,” Lady Bridges ventured weakly. “Helena will marry soon, I am certain. Will you not, my dear?”

Helena’s tea had long since grown cold. She had abandoned it in favour of her book and had been nurturing the faint hope that her stepmother and Lady Bridges might forget her presence altogether.

No such fortune.

She cleared her throat, keeping her gaze resolutely fixed upon the page.

“I shall marry, I suppose, if the opportunity presents itself, Lady Bridges,” she replied as evenly as she could manage.

Marguerite pressed her lips into a narrow line and took a deliberate sip of her tea.

“And what are you reading, Helena?” she demanded, a sharpness entering her tone. “I trust it is something agreeable. Perhaps some poetry—or that very useful volume of etiquette I so thoughtfully retrieved for you from the library?”

Helena swallowed. “It is Macbeth.”

Her stepmother emitted a low, exasperated sound. “Oh, Susan, you see what I have to endure. Four Seasons—four!—and still Helena refuses to secure a match. Instead, she fills her head with such grim nonsense and positively alarms the gentlemen. Pray, what man wishes to marry a lady who reads Macbeth? If one must read Shakespeare at all, one ought to confine oneself to the comedies. Or better yet, the romances. Those are far more suitable for a young lady.”

“I can read Twelfth Night, if you prefer, Marguerite,” Helena replied mildly. “Or Romeo and Juliet. We possess the complete works.”

Marguerite groaned in theatrical despair.

“You see what I contend with? Four-and-twenty is high time to be married. Since that unfortunate engagement two years ago, she has not received a single offer. I could very well make use of her dowry, to speak plainly—but poor dear William was adamant that the sum be reserved for her.”

Helena bit the inside of her lip. Marguerite always spoke as though she were nobly upholding her late husband’s wishes. The truth was rather different. Marguerite had contested the will with remarkable ferocity, and had it not been for its clarity—and for an executor of uncommon resolve—she would have secured every penny for herself.

As it stood, the provisions were exacting. Marguerite could not touch Helena’s dowry. But neither could Helena.

Not unless she married.

Thus, the money languished in the bank while the wallpaper peeled in discreet corners, the butcher delivered increasingly gristly cuts with pointed remarks about unpaid accounts, and the modiste’s bill lengthened alarmingly.

Sooner or later, credit would fail them. Helena was less concerned about the modiste than about the butcher and grocer. Marguerite, however, visited the dressmaker with astonishing frequency, accumulating new hats, gloves, pelisses, and a veritable parade of ribbons, lace, buttons, and trimmings.

How many pairs of gloves could one lady require? Were three perfectly serviceable pelisses truly insufficient? Helena could scarcely look upon the growing collection of finery without mentally calculating its cost.

At such moments, she almost wished she might access her dowry. If she had control of it now, she could manage the household sensibly—settle accounts with the tradesmen, secure provisions, and quietly refuse yet another demand for French lace.

When Papa had been alive, Marguerite’s demands for increased allowances had been little more than an irritation. He had been a practical man, with a steady estate and ample income. There had been enough to indulge his wife’s whims, purchase books for his daughter, and maintain the household respectably.

None of this would happen were I a son, Helena thought, a flicker of guilt accompanying the notion. Or had I married before I was injured.

She cut off the thought at once. It was fruitless and bitter.

Drawing a steadying breath, Helena lifted her eyes and met Marguerite’s resentful glare as calmly as she was able.

Since the prospect of marriage had never seemed more distant, the dowry might well have been put to better use elsewhere. But such reflections were idle. Her father was gone, and whatever their mutual antipathy, she and Marguerite were bound together by circumstance.

Bound.

Marguerite cast one final reproachful look in Helena’s direction before turning back to her companion.

“In any case, we shall hope she secures a husband this Season,” she declared in a tone that suggested she entertained no such hope. “We may begin our campaign at Lady Spencer’s masquerade this evening.”

Lady Bridges brightened. “An excellent notion. Has she a costume prepared?”

Helena cleared her throat and carefully set aside her book. She straightened as much as she could, ignoring the familiar twinge in her hip and leg. She had been seated too long; she would pay for it later. For now, she had something of consequence to say.

“Actually, Marguerite, regarding the masquerade—”

“Yes, yes, I have procured some flounced green confection the modiste insisted upon,” Marguerite interjected, taking another sip of tea. “With the mask in place, there is no reason Helena should not captivate one of the newer gentlemen in town. If she is prudent and refrains from walking about too much, he may form an attachment before he observes her unfortunate…condition.”

Condition.

The word, so deceptively mild, concealed a host of humiliations. Marguerite wielded it with habitual precision. Helena scarcely flinched now, though she felt the cut all the same. Lady Bridges, to her credit, shifted uncomfortably.

“Come now, Marguerite, her limp is not so very pronounced,” she murmured. “A gentleman of true character would not mind it at all.”

“Hah! Inform Lord Hartwell of that. He would have been a most advantageous match, but he withdrew after the accident. One can scarcely fault him—but it was exceedingly inconvenient.”

“Well,” Lady Bridges ventured, offering Helena a tentative smile, “I have heard a morsel of gossip that may render such concerns irrelevant. It is said that the Beast of Akendale may attend tonight, accompanied by his mother and sister. I can scarcely credit it—but if true, I doubt anyone would be attending to anything else.”

Marguerite sniffed delicately. “We shall see.”

In the quiet that followed, Helena seized her moment.

“I do not believe I shall attend the masquerade this evening, Marguerite.”

The silence this time was more profound.

Marguerite turned slowly to face her, fixing her with an unblinking stare. Her large blue eyes, bright and smooth as porcelain, gave her a doll-like aspect. In truth, the disparity in their ages was not great—Marguerite had only just turned three-and-thirty. In another world, they might almost have been mistaken for sisters.

Not in this one, of course.

“You do not wish to attend the masquerade?” Marguerite repeated at last. “You would prefer to remain at home? To sit with your books while your life slips quietly away—and while I clothe and feed you from my exceedingly modest means? I think not, Helena. You will attend this party, and you will endeavour to secure the attention of a suitable gentleman.”

Helena pushed herself to her feet.

As she had anticipated, her injured leg protested at once, the tightened scar tissue pulling sharply, threatening to buckle beneath her weight. She had collapsed in such a manner before. The memory alone was mortifying. Even bracing herself against the expected surge of pain, she swayed, lurching forward a step before recovering her balance.

Lady Bridges flinched, half-raising her hands as though prepared to catch her. Marguerite did not so much as blink.

“I am of age,” Helena said, her voice taut but steady. “I am four-and-twenty. You cannot command me, Marguerite. You were Papa’s wife, but you are not my mother.”

Marguerite inhaled sharply, her eyes narrowing.

I have erred. I ought not to have spoken so plainly before her friend.

It was too late now, of course. Helena could only stand where she was, her leg throbbing, and await the response she had provoked.

A flicker of movement drew her gaze upward, and she caught sight of herself in the mirror above the mantel.

A reasonably pretty young woman regarded her from the glass—hair of a warm red-brown brushed simply back, without fashionable curls; a pale oval face with well-formed features; large grey-green eyes often remarked upon for their clarity.

Me. That is me.

How strange to recall that this face had once been admired throughout London. The scandal sheets had praised her complexion and expression in equal measure, and her engagement to Lord Hartwell had been hailed as one of the most promising matches of the Season.

That was then.

This is now.

Swallowing, Helena lowered her gaze from her reflection and faced her stepmother once more. Marguerite’s lip curled faintly as she leaned back in her chair, brushing at imaginary specks of dust upon her cuffs.

“Indeed,” Marguerite responded at length, her voice cool and deceptively light. “I cannot compel you to do anything. I have no authority to detain you here, have I? A clever young woman of four-and-twenty must be eager to try her fortunes in the world. Dear William did leave me tolerably provided for; I shall not starve. And the house is secure. Once you marry, you will have your dowry. Until then, we are under no obligation to one another. So if you find you cannot honour me as a mother, there is nothing whatsoever to prevent you from packing your belongings and seeking your independence.”

Helena’s jaw tightened.

Lady Bridges cleared her throat, looking profoundly uncomfortable.

“Marguerite, my dear, you cannot mean to turn the girl out,” she murmured. “Even at four-and-twenty, such a thing would be…most irregular. She is your stepdaughter.”

“So she is,” Marguerite replied crisply, never removing her gaze from Helena. “But if she cannot show me respect beneath my own roof, I do not see how we are to proceed.”

“This is my house. I was born here. Mama—”

“It is not your house,” Marguerite cut in, her eyes flashing. Any mention of Helena’s mother invariably roused her temper. “It is mine. Now—will you abide by my rules, or will you not?”

For one fleeting moment, Helena allowed herself the indulgence of defiance. She imagined dashing the tepid tea into Marguerite’s face, declaring herself free, refusing ever again to limp through a ballroom for the amusement of strangers.

Then she imagined mounting the stairs, the heat of rebellion cooling as swiftly as it had risen. She imagined packing her few possessions, counting her meagre savings, and wondering where she might lay her head that very night. She imagined scanning the papers for a governess’s post. If the ton could not be persuaded to overlook a limp and a crooked gait, why should the wider world prove kinder?

As though sensing her hesitation, Marguerite leaned forward, smiling sweetly.

“Well, my dear? Will you attend the masquerade, as I have requested?”

Helena’s throat constricted. A faint nausea stirred in her stomach. In truth, there was only one answer she could give. For now, at least.

“Yes,” she mumbled, clenching her teeth. “Yes, I shall attend.”

Marguerite’s smile curved, satisfied.

“Good girl. Run along and try on your gown. I must be certain it fits to advantage. It is of the utmost importance that you appear pretty tonight, my dear. Utterly essential.”

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

“Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.”

Julius Caesar

 

 

This was it, then. There could be no retreat now.

The carriage rumbled on towards Lady Spencer’s residence, the great house lit up and positively glowing with light. Even from this distance, Henry could imagine the laughter within. The music he could hear plainly—strains of some fashionable air drifting from open windows, carried upon the cool sweep of the night.

Their carriage drew up before the broad stone steps. Ahead, another coach rattled away into the darkness, the horses no doubt to be rubbed down, the weary coachman and footmen permitted a brief respite. Behind them stretched a serpentine line of vehicles, each awaiting its turn to discharge its glittering occupants.

Henry knew, of course, that he might yet change his mind. He could sit stubbornly where he was, refuse to descend like an ill-tempered schoolboy, order the driver home. The man would obey.

There’d be consequences, naturally. Disappointment and anger from his loved ones. Disappointment in himself. The bitter knowledge that, at the end of the day, he was nothing more than a coward.

He sat rigid upon his carriage seat, trying to remember to breathe.

Rosemary sprang down first, trembling with anticipation. Candlelight and moonlight caught upon her sequined skirts, setting them aglow. James followed, clad in a sober reddish coat and a matching domino. He had spoken little during the drive, allowing Rosemary’s lively chatter to fill the space. More than once, Henry had caught him watching her with an expression too soft to mistake.

It only strengthened Henry’s suspicion that, somewhere in recent years, James’s affection for his sister had deepened into something more.

Or perhaps that was wishful thinking. Perhaps Henry was so eager to see Rosemary safely settled—with a good man, not merely a wealthy or convenient one—that he imagined tenderness where there was only friendly regard.

Eleanor moved forward, preparing to follow her daughter out onto the raked-gravel courtyard, but paused, glancing over at her son.

“Henry?”

“Hm?”

She tilted her head; the feathers upon her mask trembled softly. Her gown was handsome yet restrained. Tonight was Rosemary’s evening to attract notice. Most mothers need not fear outshining their daughters—but they were, as a family, a handsome set. Henry notwithstanding. The Dowager had borne her years well. Though firmly in middle age, she remained striking, and could easily have remarried had she wished.

She had not.

At times, Henry could not help but wonder whether that, too, lay at his door—whether she had forborne because she believed her son still needed her. Perhaps it was one more life that he had ruined.

“Thank you for coming,” she said quietly, resting a gloved hand upon his shoulder. “It signifies more than you know. I am aware how difficult this is for you. Do not suppose your efforts go unremarked.”

“I am only sorry to have been such a disappointment for so long,” Henry replied, his voice tight.

Eleanor caught her breath. “You are no disappointment. You know that—and I wish you would not speak so.” She hesitated, as though on the brink of further confession, but a shout from behind demanded to know what detained them. The long queue of carriages had not diminished.

Reality reasserted itself.

She sighed. “Come. We must go in.”

She descended with practised grace, managing her skirts with efficiency. Henry followed, moving almost without volition, as though another directed his limbs. Gravel crunched beneath his boots. For a man of his height, entering and exiting a carriage was rarely elegant—particularly in evening dress. He felt the tight pull of fabric across his chest and arms.

A costume was unavoidable. He had chosen the simplest possible: a dark green coat, unadorned by lace or embroidery. Even his cravat pin was no more than a modest silver stud. His mask matched—plain, unembellished, devoid of feathers or frippery.

An arm slipped through his. He started, glancing down to find Rosemary smiling up at him.

“Come, brother,” she whispered. “We shall go in together.”

He managed a faint smile. When he inclined his head, the mask shifted slightly against his skin, and a sharp chill passed through him. His was no light domino but a full covering, fashioned almost in the manner of a Grecian actor’s mask. Precisely what he required. There would be talk, certainly—but talk was preferable to the alternative.

It was not as though Society had forgotten his face. The scandal sheets had ensured that.

The thought soured his mouth.

He steadied himself and allowed Rosemary to guide him forward.

They moved forward, and Henry could not quite shake the feeling that this was all a dream.

I should be so fortunate.

A nightmare, rather.

At the thought of nightmares, memories rushed through him.

Flame. The suffocating reek of smoke. A distant cry for help ringing in his ears.

He shut his eyes for the briefest instant and forced the recollection back. The visions would return soon enough—waiting for him at home, beside his bed, ready to seize upon the midnight hours. The nightmares had become an accepted companion, lingering just beyond the dulling comfort of the laudanum bottle.

The physicians had assured him they would lessen with time. In a manner, they had. Yet the terror and agony they left behind remained as sharp as ever.

At times, he wondered whether the physicians dispensed comfort rather than truth.

They mounted the steps, passed through the foyer, and approached the glittering crush of the ballroom beyond.

Lady Spencer stood at the entrance, greeting her guests. Her eyes widened at the sight of Henry, but good breeding prevailed. She addressed him as though the so-called Beast of Akendale were an everyday visitor beneath her roof.

Henry confined himself to a stiff inclination of the head. Speech felt perilous. To speak would render the moment fully real—and he might yet retreat.

They passed her.

And then came the worst of it.

The ballroom.

It teemed with bodies—a restless sea of silk and satin, surging and shifting from wall to wall. Masks everywhere: leather, lace, muslin, feathers. Eyes glittering behind them.

Watching.

A cold nausea rose in his stomach. He faltered, half a step backwards, but Rosemary’s arm remained firm in his, and James stood steady at his side.

They cannot see you, he reminded himself. They may guess who you are, but they cannot see an inch of your skin.

He had ensured that much. The mask, the high cravat, the gloves concealing the backs of his hands—no scar lay exposed.

That left the guests free to guess at them. He wasn’t sure whether this wasn’t worse.

“The dancing is about to commence,” James observed. Leaning slightly forward, he addressed Rosemary across Henry’s shoulder. “May I claim you for the first set, Lady Rosemary?”

She brightened—then hesitated, glancing anxiously at her brother.

“What about Henry? Mama will be obliged to go and sit with the chaperones, but Henry won’t want to do that. I had better stay with my brother.”

“No,” Henry said, with more firmness than he expected of himself. “You must dance. I shall manage exceedingly well. I will find the library and conceal myself there.”

Rosemary looked unconvinced, but Eleanor gave her a small, encouraging nod. The first strains of music rose, and couples hurried toward the forming lines. James extended his hand; Rosemary took it, though not without reluctance.

“We shall find you when the set concludes,” James said quietly.

“Pray do not concern yourselves,” Henry replied. “I am perfectly capable of minding myself.”

Whether he believed it was another matter.

They vanished into the throng. Eleanor stepped before him, her gaze intent.

“I need not retire to the chaperones at once,” she murmured. “Your presence here is no small matter. I have no intention of abandoning you.”

“I would rather seek a quieter corner, Mother, truly,” he answered gently. “Enjoy the evening. You have anticipated it with such hope. I shall be well enough.”

She hesitated, clearly wishing to protest further, but mastered herself.

“If you are certain.”

She would not depart first. Henry knew her too well.

Drawing a slow breath, he turned from the last familiar face in the room and stepped forward—into the sea of masked strangers.

 

***

 

The library proved easy enough to locate. No discreet footman stood sentinel at the door to divert wandering guests. On the contrary, the door stood slightly ajar, as though the room were offered up as a temporary refuge.

Henry felt a flicker of unease at the thought that someone might already have claimed it. Thus far, save for Lady Spencer, no one had addressed him directly. That was the mercy of a crowd. In a throng, one might almost cease to exist—observed yet unengaged. But in a quiet chamber with only a single companion, civility became unavoidable.

He eased the door open and looked within.

The room lay in half-shadow. A handful of candles cast more darkness than light, and the corners were thick with it. Yet he discerned no movement. Good. He was alone.

Moonlight streamed through a pair of tall French windows that opened onto a narrow balcony. The night air slipped in through the slight gap, cool and bracing.

With a measured breath, Henry entered and pressed the door shut behind him with his heel.

The evening would stretch on for hours. Word of his presence must already be circulating through the ballroom. Those unfamiliar with the tale would quickly be enlightened; those who knew it would whisper afresh. Eleanor, Rosemary, and James would be questioned. They would not betray his refuge—but they would confirm he was present.

Perhaps my disappearance will prove more diverting than my appearance, he thought dryly.

He crossed to the shelves. The library was well ordered, the volumes neatly arranged and properly dusted, though the room bore the air of one seldom frequented. He selected a volume of Shakespeare with little effort and could tell immediately that it had not been disturbed in some time.

The tragedies.

His favourites.

There was irony enough in that.

He turned the pages until he found the play he sought.

Hamlet.

Yes, there was something almost commonplace in loving so celebrated a work. Yet popularity was rarely accidental.

He paused over familiar lines—phrases so often repeated in his mind that he sometimes muttered them in his sleep.

 

…That one may smile and smile and be a villain…

…There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so…

…There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy…

 

The words settled over him like a thin balm.

They would suffice to carry him through this wretched evening, until his mother came to claim him and declare it time to depart.

Goodness. How pitiful. Even Hamlet possesses more resolve than that.

With a sigh, he returned the book to its place and turned toward the seating arranged about the room. No fire burned in the grate—nor was one intended to. Guests were not meant to hide themselves in the library. They were meant to dance.

Not to hide.

The mask itched intolerably.

He lifted a hand, resisting the urge to adjust it. Where the edges met his skin, they pressed and chafed. Though plain and unadorned, it was no less oppressive for its simplicity.

I could remove it.

The thought came unbidden.

It would be madness, of course. And yet the ties were simple enough; he could loosen them and refasten the mask in a moment—provided no one entered without warning.

If he selected a chair with his back to the door—

He had just set his mind on a wide armchair with a low table behind it when a shadow flitted across the room. Henry went still, gaze darting towards the French windows.

There was somebody out there.

For a moment, he saw only his own reflection mingled with darkness. Then a figure resolved itself in the candlelight.

He rose slowly, tension coiling low in his stomach. Alongside it stirred a more familiar anxiety—the dread of impropriety. There were countless ways to err in Society. To say the wrong thing. To stand in the wrong place. To enter a room not intended for one’s presence.

“Who is there?” he called, his voice steady and deeper than he felt. “I was not aware the room was occupied. Pray show yourself.”

The door opened.

A lady stepped inside.

She wore dark green—a shade not unlike his own coat. Her mask was a simple gold domino, free of lace or ornament. Yet the effect was striking. Gold trimming caught the candlelight along the flounces of her gown; matching ornaments glinted in her hair, which gleamed a warm red where the light touched it.

In short, she was arresting.

“I beg your pardon,” she said evenly. “The library was empty when I entered. I wished for a breath of air and stepped onto the balcony. I did not hear you arrive.”

“It is no trouble,” Henry replied, though the words felt oddly mechanical.

When had he last conversed with a stranger? A pretty stranger, no less?

Even masked, it was evident she was remarkable. The sort of young lady who, were he unmasked, would instinctively turn her face aside.

Yet she did not withdraw now.

She regarded him with quiet curiosity and made no move toward the door.

He felt her gaze linger upon his mask. Few gentlemen wore so complete a covering; most were content with a light domino, if they wore one at all. Masquerades were far more the ladies’ province.

He found himself imagining her selecting her costume, weighing mask against gown, arranging her hair before a mirror with some secret thrill.

Why had such a creature sought refuge in a library?

Do not indulge that line of thought, he admonished himself. There is a more immediate concern.

They could not remain together in this room. Unchaperoned solitude would endanger her reputation above all. As the gentleman, he ought to withdraw.

The mere thought of returning to the ballroom made his stomach tighten.

The card-room held no appeal; he played little and wagered less. Nor would his presence there be warmly welcomed.

But then, I am not especially welcome anywhere, am I? I am a lion prowling through the ballroom. Fascinating to look at, but goodness, they all wish I were elsewhere.

And I would as soon be elsewhere myself.

A sharp gust swept through the half-open French door. The lady drew in a breath and staggered forward as though her balance had betrayed her. For an instant, Henry thought she might fall.

But she recovered almost immediately, her body stiffening as if braced against pain. She straightened, shoulders squared with deliberate composure, and shut the door firmly behind her. Tossing her hair back from her face, she lifted her chin and met his gaze.

There was defiance there now.

As though she challenged him to say something.

Only then did Henry observe the book in her hand.

That, too, was unexpected.

He knew that gentlemen occasionally withdrew at such gatherings to read or play cards—but ladies were expected to remain among the company. Had she truly sought the library for reading rather than mere solitude?

His attention sharpened as he discerned the title upon the spine.

“Romeo and Juliet?” he queried.