Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood 2)

Chapter 1

With trembling fingers, Grace Denton handed the invitation to the sour-faced majordomo and tried to offer a confident smile. He raised his bushy brows before studying the neat script. Thank the Lord she had the luxury of wearing a mask. It afforded a certain anonymity while certain parts of her anatomy were blatantly exposed for all to see. Never in her life had she imagined baring so much flesh. Her breasts were almost bursting out of her sister's scandalous gown.

Under the servant's hawk-like gaze, she felt her control waver as doubt pushed to the fore.

What was she thinking?

No one would believe she was Caroline. It took more than a striking similarity to assume someone's identity. Her sister oozed confidence in every situation, whereas Grace blushed like a berry whenever she felt nervous. Caroline spoke with poise and eloquence, whereas she often rambled and muttered to herself and was prone to say the wrong thing entirely.

"Enjoy your evening, miss."

"I'm sure I will," she replied despite fearing it was highly inappropriate to converse with the servants.

As she stepped into the ballroom, she gasped in awe at the vibrant spectacle. The crowd shone in their florid, flamboyant costumes and her eyes struggled to absorb the dazzling array of colours. Etiquette be damned at a masquerade, she thought, as milkmaids danced with knights and bishops, and an Oriental princess partnered a sea captain.

Pushing through the crowd, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had managed to climb the first obstacle, and now her toes were wedged into the foothold, even if she was dangling precariously from a precipice and could easily flounder.

Once the wife of a gentleman, she knew how to conduct herself in formal situations. Although her education had taken place at garden parties and provincial assemblies and she had no real experience when it came to mingling with the aristocracy.

Her older sister, Caroline, had been in London for a year — as a paid companion to an elderly matron, or so Grace had thought. Even Mrs. Whitman had been fooled. Else, despite Grace being a widow of three-and-twenty, she would never have left her in Caroline's care.

Grace caught her reflection in one of the vast array of mirrors lining the wall. The candlelight rebounded off the glass and cast a golden glow over her surprisingly voluptuous figure squashed into the medieval-inspired gown. From the neck down she appeared exactly like all the other ladies: elegant and sophisticated with an air of wicked sensuality.

From the neck up, things hadn't quite gone to plan.

She had singed a few tendrils with the curling iron. They were crispy, and the smoky aroma invaded her nostrils whenever she turned her head. What had started out as an elaborate coiffure, looked more like a poorly made bird's nest. The pearl hair comb kept slipping down and was now digging into the back of her ear.

Hesitant feet caused her to amble around the ballroom. More than a few people turned their heads to acknowledge her. The mole on her left cheek — in the exact same place as Caroline's — coupled with her fiery red hair, no doubt convinced them of her identity. Yet despite feigning an air of composure, inside she felt like a child in a room full of hungry wolves.

Grace knew the name of her quarry, but nothing more. One word from the dissipated lord would confirm what she needed to know. After spending a lifetime with Caroline, she could recognise the language of a liar. Although she had no skill when it came to the mannerisms of a murderer.

"Caroline. There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

The warm, feminine voice caught her off guard, and she swung around with a gasp, her fingers fluttering to her throat and coming to rest on the topaz necklace — another of her sister's prized possessions.

"Why, am I late?" Grace asked, knowing her voice lacked confidence, knowing the lady before her was a stranger.

"No," the lady replied, her curious gaze roaming over Grace's hair. "You're not late. But Barrington is looking for you, and he is not best pleased. I thought I ought to warn you."

Grace recalled no mention of a Barrington in her sister's diary. There had been a whole host of unseemly tales about other gentlemen; so she had to suppose this man lacked the skills necessary to capture Caroline's attention.

Guilt flared.

Reading the evidence of someone's innermost thoughts was a gross invasion of privacy, and she had spent a whole day holding it in her hands before finally deciding to peel back the cover and peer inside.

"And what could I possibly have done to warrant Barrington's displeasure?" Now she sounded far too haughty.

Oh, this was never going to work.

A frown marred the lady's brow. "Don't be coy. You know full well you were to meet him at the theatre last night. But looking at the state of your hair, it's clear you're not well."

"I do feel a little out of sorts." Feigning an illness would go some way to account for her character flaws and a perfect opportunity to broach the subject of her quarry. "I would have stayed at home tonight, but I need to speak with Lord Markham."

The lady made an odd puffing sound. "Markham? Don't waste your time. You know his rule about never bedding the same woman twice." She leaned closer. "Was he so good you would risk facing rejection?"

What was she supposed to say to that?

"He … he was so good, I'd ride backwards on a donkey and cry tallyho just for another chance."

The lady screwed up her nose and then giggled. "What's wrong with you tonight? You're normally so serious."

"My heart's all jittery thinking about Lord Markham. Where is he? Have you seen him this evening?"