Page 16 of Red Masquerade

“Alas,” I repeated. “It seems she’s made an enemy of both of us.” I straightened and gave her another clipped smile, reaching for the small purse I brought with me every night.

“Miss?” In the low light, her eyes gleamed, and a small part of me wondered if perhaps she had indulged in a drink or two herself. But she was steady on her feet, the ceramic teacup never rattling when she came into the room.

I had noticed, in the months she’d been with us, she was light on her feet. Quiet. Polite. It was an old house, at least a century or so, and I never heard her come up the staircase, when Mother’s presence would’ve been announced at the first step. She was agreeable, mostly, except when I saw her professional exterior slip—never around Mother. Only around me, it seemed. A girlishness that drew me in.

There was no one else in this house to save appearances for, except the cook and Mother’s own maid, I supposed.

“You cannot tell me youlikemy mother,” I laugh, my voice perhaps too loud.

She quirked a brow. “This feels incriminating,” she mused. “I cannot speak ill of my employer.”

“You wouldn’t be,” I said, my hand finding the doorknob. “If anything,Iam your employer.” I hadn’t meant it to be, but it felt like a pointed reminder.

“Regardless,” she fought the corner of her lips from rising, “I am still stuck in here with her, no?”

“Perhaps not for long. She intends to marry me off, and if so,Iintend to take you with me.” The words were bitter on my tongue, a sudden feeling rising in my throat, like they were poison, a lie, a curse.

Sighing, I opened the door. “Distract her for me, will you?” And I slipped down the back staircase and into the garden to make my escape for the evening.

Six

The elevator doors opened onto the suite of the top floor, the gazes of at least a dozen people in the foyer turned toward us, zeroing in on us, inspecting our hair, how well-dressed we were, our manners—were we worth entertaining?—and deeming us acceptable guests, all in the space of a second.

The car ride wouldn’t have been long if not for the traffic—everyone seemed to be out and about. And half of them must have ended up here. When we’d parked, I nearly fell over backward, staring up at the skyscraper lit like a Christmas tree.

Flora squealed in delight and began hugging women as soon as we entered the room, touching cheeks with pursed red-painted lips. Dixon shook the hands of a few men. Their eyes all seemed to mostly skip over me.

It was just as well.

My dress was perhaps a bit superfluous for the evening, but the rest of the guests seemed to get the same memo: they dressed as though attending a club, a high-scale party of sorts, rather than a shindig in someone’s apartments.

Flora grabbed my arm and led me around, bubbly as ever, in her element.

“We need to find you a guy,” she said, her blonde curls brushing my cheek.

“That is always the plan,” I mused.

“Somebody to erase the stench of Brancato off of you.”

I rolled my eyes. “He won’t be here, will he?”

“God, no,” she laughed, pulling me further into the apartment. Dixon had found a group to chat with, though I felt his eyes following us the whole time. His hand had lingered on Flora’s waist before they parted. A reluctance to let us wander out of his sight.

She and I entered the back room, another parlor of sorts, with a few men, all but one smoking, lounging on a few seats. Flora ground to a halt.

“Sorry!” she said, adding a bit of her usual bubbliness to her voice.

No other women were present, and the way the men were all facing each other on the couches made it clear they were discussing something.

The man lounging closest to us waved his hand. “No, come on in,” he said. He wore a black suit that matched his dark hair, combed neatly back and gelled, his bronze face clean-shaven, cheeks sucking in as he pulled on his cigarette. “We need some morepersonablecompany in here, anyway.”

Flora looked to me.

I led her in, feeling all the eyes follow my movements, the rest of the group silent as I sat myself on the arm of the chair of the man who spoke. He raised a dark brow and the hand with the cigarette. I accepted.

I hardly smoked, but the burn brought a lightheadedness I welcomed. A teaser of what was to come once we got our hands on some gin.

He watched me with cool eyes that met mine, then fell to my lips wrapped around the white burning paper. His irises were a bright amber, a golden brown, sparkling with intrigue, which then fell to the column of my throat.