Masks and Shadows (28 page)

She would be wearing a domino, he'd decided. Not that it was his concern, but still, it was always diverting to construct costumes in his mind. It would be a plain domino—black, of course. Some masquers wore great enveloping, soft hats over Venetian beaked masks to complete an all-encompassing disguise when wearing simple dominoes, but not the Baroness. That would strike too hard and close against the grain for her, that frightening ambiguity—of sex and of rank—that total anonymity gave. No, she would wear a plain black domino over her usual black gown, a black half-mask on her face, and her hair would be powdered and piled atop her head, as usual. And no doubt, if she danced, it would only be with the most suitable Hungarian or visiting Austrian nobles.

He turned away from the dancers. What did he care whom she chose to partner? He would look at the orchestra instead and enjoy the fine music.

He wasn't the only one to do so. Ahead of him, a slim officer stood watching the orchestra intently, his back to Carlo. One knee-high boot tapped to the Janissary rhythms. Something about the man's posture looked disconcertingly familiar. That intense concentration of attention . . .

The officer swung around, and Carlo blinked.
Not
a man after all, despite the uniform and the thick brown hair pulled back into a military queue. No man could have that chest, bound down though it appeared to be. And that mouth . . .

Recognition tingled through him, mixed with a jolt of sheer erotic awareness.

All day, he'd cherished the anger that had lingered from their words the night before. He'd held the memory of his injury like a shield, to protect himself from any rash actions too tempting to resist. But now, as he looked at her transformed . . .

The Baroness's eyes widened behind her leather half-mask. She took a breath, and her chest moved underneath her military uniform.

Run
, Carlo ordered himself.
Turn around. Now!

Instead, he walked straight toward her.

She would have recognized Signor Morelli in any costume, Charlotte thought, for his height and his build, if nothing else. But in the toga of a Roman emperor, he looked startlingly natural. A wreath of laurels balanced on his shining black curls. Below his half-mask, his smooth, hairless cheeks looked, for once, only appropriate—like the dazzling neutrality of a god in a Greek statue.

Tingling, percussive music surrounded them as he walked toward her.

She'd ordered herself to avoid him tonight, after his behavior during the day. But her feet wouldn't move to carry her away.

“Baroness.” He bowed, flipping back his short cape. “Would you care to dance?”

Charlotte had to stifle the automatic impulse to curtsey—absurd in her tight breeches.

“I . . . don't know if I can. In this outfit, I mean.”

His lips curved. “Would it be easier if I let you take the lead?”

“No!” She flushed. “That's not what I meant.”

“Did you never take the man's role, when you and your sister had dancing lessons?”

“That was many years ago,” she said. But she could imagine—couldn't stop herself from imagining—doing it now. Leading him through the steps of the dance, crossing the square with the other men to greet him in the women's line—

No
. She swallowed hard, fighting down the vivid images. The wine and the music must have gone to her head.

He was watching her as if he knew the madness in her thoughts.

She should excuse herself, apologize, turn and run away before she lost her wits entirely—

But the music shifted into a new and wilder dance, and Charlotte didn't leave.

“I think I can manage, even without my skirts,” she said, and then flushed deeper at her own words.

He nodded gravely. “Shall we try?”

He took her bare, gloveless hand. Warmth ran up her arm, beneath her uniform jacket.

“Your hair,” he said. “It's brown.”

“I'm sorry?” She blinked at him, half-dizzy from the heat that rose from his skin.

“It's nothing,” he said. He shook his head. “Forgive me. It's only . . . I'd always wondered what the true color was.”

“Oh.” Charlotte took a quick, almost airless, breath, fighting the impulse to step even closer. “Are you . . . surprised?”

He closed his eyes briefly. She saw a muscle work in his jaw. “You always surprise me, Baroness,” he said, and swept her into the dance.

Chapter Twenty

Friedrich hurried through the side door of the Bagatelle and closed it behind him, shutting out the music and the lights. He felt his way up the stairs in darkness, his own breath loud in his ears.

If Sophie saw him sneaking around the edges of her ball, she'd throw a fit. But he couldn't help it.

He had to know
. He had to see for himself what had been left in the dance hall, after the flames and the pits of darkness. He stretched his face tentatively, and the burned skin stung, proof that he hadn't just gone mad or dreamed the whole thing in a drunken haze.

He came to a halt in front of the dance hall door, breathing hard. The door handle was cool against his sweaty palm. He twisted it and pushed the door open.

Whispered voices cut off abruptly. Two dark figures spun around to face him, backlit by a single lantern.

Bloody hell
. Friedrich's mouth went dry. They had no faces!

No
. They were only wearing masks—dark masks that covered their faces entirely. His shoulders sagged in relief. He waved cheerily and let the door fall closed behind him.

“Sorry to intrude,” he said. “Only wanted to take a look around—didn't realize anyone else would be here right now.”

One of the figures turned and strode to the unlit far corner of the room, slipping quickly into the all-encompassing darkness. The other stepped forward, his vast cloak flinging rippling shadows onto the smooth, unmarked floor.

“Only wanted to look around, Brother Friedrich?” he purred. “And what exactly were you looking for?”

Friedrich stumbled backward. His mind gibbered frantically:
Oh God oh God oh God . . .
It offered him no help.

“My—my—my handkerchief?” he finally offered. “Couldn't find it anywhere, so I thought—I thought I might've dropped it here the other night?”

“Your
handkerchief
?” The figure advanced on him inexorably. “And the honorary Lieutenant von Höllner, living off the generosity of his wife's princely lover, couldn't afford to replace a single handkerchief?”

“Well . . .” Friedrich glanced desperately around the great, shadowed room. No scorch marks, no pits—it didn't even look the same size anymore!—and no scraps of cloth for him to snatch.

The figure held out his cloaked arm in a gesture of generosity. “Look your fill, Brother Friedrich. In fact, I'll aid you in your search. What color was this famous handkerchief?”

“Ah . . . it doesn't matter. Truly.” Friedrich fumbled behind his back, hunting for the door handle. “It's probably just fallen under my bed.”

“No doubt.”

“So I'll be off then,” Friedrich said. His fingers closed around the door handle. “Sorry to disturb you. Have a good eve—aah!”

He leapt backward, flattening himself against the door. “What the hell is that?”

Red eyes glared out at him from a cloud of smoke in the corner of the hall. It drifted closer, watching him, until a low voice rapped out from the darkness at the far end of the room, and it came to a halt. Friedrich shuddered at the look in its eyes as it pulled back.

The masked figure turned to follow Friedrich's trembling finger.

“That?” He shrugged. “I wouldn't worry about that . . . not anymore. Think of it as a mere illusion, set to trap the unwary.”

Without any wide, billowing skirts to act as a shield between them, Carlo found himself tinglingly close to the Baroness each time the steps of the dance brought them together.

Around them, priests danced with Greek goddesses and Harlequins with sorceresses. Dancers filled the wide lawn before the Bagatelle and filtered off through the pathways of the formal gardens that spiraled out around it, separated by tall hedges.

The Baroness laughed softly.

“What is it?”

Carlo breathed the words into her ear as they met between the lines of dancers. She lifted her hand and pressed her palm against his in burning symmetry.

“It's only odd,” she said, “that we met scarcely a week ago. I feel . . .” She cut herself off.

“I know,” Carlo said. Pressure built behind his chest. He fought to recover his hard-learned courtier's detachment.
Remember who she is. Who you are.
But she did not look the unapproachable, noble lady now, as her breech-clad legs moved close to his. The masks lent too much freedom. Freedom to fantasize the impossible . . .

Carlo breathed in the scent of her rich brown hair and let it dizzy him.

Behind him, he heard a half-familiar voice. But when the steps of the dance turned him away from her to look in that direction, all he saw were masks and shadows.

“Don't worry,” Lieutenant Esterházy whispered. “No one will recognize you.” He grinned beneath his half-mask, flashing strong teeth. “Even if they did, what then? My cousin doesn't dictate whom I bring as partner to his masquerades.”

Anna hesitated a moment longer at the edge of the crowded lawn, smoothing down the folds of the black domino he'd brought her. Through the eye slits of her mask, shapes and colors seemed oddly thrown out of proportion, and even the sounds seemed more intense than usual. The glittering jewelry of the ladies and the gentlemen alike, the bewildering array of masks, the laughter, the music . . .

“Come, Fräulein!” He took her hand and led her into the mad whirl.

Anna had never danced in such exalted company. She found herself stumbling with excitement and fear. She shouldn't be here, would never be allowed to be here, pretending to be one of them—but Lieutenant Esterházy swept her through the ball, grinning and confident, and it became an exhilarating game.

After a panicked moment at the beginning, Anna recognized the steps of the country dances, though they were set to strange, exotic music, a world away from the tunes she'd heard in the servants' hall back in Saxony. She stumbled once against Lieutenant Esterházy, thrown by a sudden, unexpected shift in the rhythm, but it didn't matter. Everything she said made him laugh. His eyes never left her face. She felt herself to be different and strange—exalted beneath the intensity of his gaze.

Between each dance, he clicked his fingers for more wine, more, more!—until she was dizzy and reeling half-against him with laughter and confusion in the shadows of a tall hedge.

“I think . . .” She took a breath and looked up at his eager face, scant inches from her own. “I think I ought to sit down, lieutenant. Or perhaps . . .” She blinked and put one hand out to steady herself against his shoulder. “Perhaps I ought to go to bed?”