Chapter 52

Jack huffed at the doorway, arguing with the footman for a moment before finally resigning himself to slipping in through the servants' entrance.

Baron pinched the bridge of his nose. He hated drawing attention, yet Jack had already caused a stir. Since they'd arrived together, any suspicion cast on Jack would inevitably fall on him as well.

He started forward to smooth things over, but someone else appeared first.

A woman in a red gown that left her shoulders bare stepped into view. Beneath the outer skirt, a brighter scarlet petticoat flashed with every movement. Her soft, alluring black hair, dark as ink, was tied back with a ribbon, each strand seeming to shimmer with a wanton light.

Behind the silver mask, a pair of striking crimson eyes surveyed the room, making her porcelain skin seem even paler.

She offered the footman the faintest smile. The man straightened as though bewitched, a spruce tree waiting to be chosen for Christmas.

Gentlemen blinked, momentarily robbed of their polished courtesy; ladies froze, their practiced grace forgotten. None of them had ever seen a woman like this. Even behind a mask she dazzled, like a diamond sealed behind glass—beautiful, but untouchable.

Jack seized the distraction and darted inside, leaning close to Baron's ear. "Nine o'clock."

Baron swept his gaze toward nine o'clock, scanning left and right. "I don't see S."

S was their code for the target of tonight's mission: Freya. The plan was to create a private moment between her and Baron so he could persuade her to grant him absolution— or at least a reduced sentence.

The thought made Baron's brows draw together. He still had no idea how his former fiancée felt about him after everything. He could only hope she'd prove susceptible to moral pressure.

"Who mentioned S?" Jack whispered. "I'm talking about the suckling pig. See it? We split it, fifty-fifty."

Jack went on, analytical. "The guest of honor hasn't shown up yet, and these nobles are too proud to eat even though they're starving. Look—seven o'clock on the right. That girl in the princess dress has glanced at the pig at least seven times!"

Really, Jack? All you're thinking about is food?

Baron accepted a glass of red wine from a passing footman. Jack's words had awakened his own hunger, but duty came first.

"So?" Jack murmured. "The pig's at the best vantage point in the hall. From there you can see ankles above the gallery and plates below... Oh, fresh Peking duck!"

"Peking duck? I love Peking duck," came a voice behind them.

They turned. The woman in the silver mask and red gown stood smiling.

Baron's heart lurched; his hand instinctively dropped toward the gun beneath his coat. He hadn't sensed her approach—had she overheard their conversation?

Crimson eyes met his, unfazed. "I'll take the whole Peking duck. Leave me two pig's trotters and we'll call it even."

Jack recovered from his daze, delighted at the prospect of dining with such beauty—especially one who combined noble elegance with girlish charm.

He thumped his chest. "Two? I'll give you three!"

"L, what do you think? Shall I save you a—"

He swiveled, but Baron had already left the table, heading toward the glittering ballroom where couples now waltzed beneath golden chandeliers.

Freya had appeared.

The woman in red declined yet another gentleman, then gracefully carved the suckling pig with knife and fork, lost in thought as she watched Baron's retreating back.

...

Baron drew stares as he crossed the floor. Behind his mask glinted jade-green eyes, and the gold-thread pattern on his cuffs—the emblem of Westminster—flashed under the lights.

Secretary Stella had lectured him before the ball: "Attending as Deputy Director may help clear your name, L, but every move you make reflects Westminster's dignity."

Jack had grumbled the whole time that his own suit didn't fit and why didn't he get the gold trim, seniority and all.

People noticed the black-clad young man. Heads turned; hearts skipped. Here was someone both stern and dazzling.

On the dais, Old-Blood aristocrats whispered.

"That's the Westminster agent, here for Howard-Davis."

"Expensive cut. Must be high rank..."

"Masked, but you can tell he's handsome. And that posture—definitely trouble."

Old-Blood ladies twittered, curiosity laced with desire.

Another voice cut in, low and contemptuous. "Westminster... a pack of trash who can't do anything without their Forbidden Objects. Look at that conceited stare—makes even Wild look tame."

The speaker was a tall young man with wolf-tail hair: Gold Walter, second son of the Walter demon-hunter clan, Bronze-rank Beast-path.

Beside him, a red-haired, red-eyed youth in a silver mask murmured, "Best not provoke them. Anyone who messes with Forbidden Objects for a living isn't harmless."

Andy—nicknamed the Dragon-hunter—was also a Bronze Beast-path hunter.

Gold's gaze hardened. "A Westminster bastard broke into my family manor and stole my Forbidden Object under the guise of 'containment.' When we demanded the culprit, they claimed no such person existed."

His eyes on Baron turned icy. "Only Westminster pulls that kind of switch. I'd know that blond devil anywhere—even burnt to ash."

...

Baron fielded invitations from young matrons and noble misses with practiced ease, learning the evening's true purpose between sips of champagne.

It was exactly as Stella had said.

At the climax of the ball, the young master of House Hesstine would propose to Freya, the only daughter of House Lancelot. The ring: a single scale from the legendary Red Dragon, unique in all the world.

Red-Dragon Scale.

Baron's gaze drifted past the crystal glass a lady held toward him, coming to rest on Freya, surrounded by admirers.

Tonight she wore a pure-white princess gown studded with pearls, white sleeves and crystal slippers completing an angelic vision. For once her golden hair fell loose, the twin rose clips nowhere to be seen.

"Who is the young woman in white beside Miss Lancelot?" Baron asked idly.

He meant to use the "besiege Wei to rescue Zhao" tactic—approach the friend to reach the target.

The lady pouted. "Miss Constantine, sir." She assumed he'd lost interest in her.

Constantine...

Baron's brows rose. His face tightened before he remembered the mask.

Keeping his voice level, he asked, "Which Constantine family?"

"Which other? The infamous one—Baron Constantine, the bloodless scion who murdered Anthony."

Another lady, décolletage daring, clinked her glass against his and sipped.

"But House Constantine moved quickly. They announced years ago that Baron and his sister had been expelled from the Inside. The real power now lies with a cadet branch."

She straightened, eyeing the timid girl beside Freya with disdain.

"This Miss Windsor is from that branch—original surname unknown, but she's a Constantine now. The elders sent her to curry favor with House Lancelot."

The lady lifted her chin toward the dais. "See the man in black? One of the current heads—Baron's uncle by marriage. The three young men and Miss Windsor behind him are his children and thus Baron's cousins."

Baron looked up and met the sharp gaze of a middle-aged man, temples streaked with gray. The man raised his glass in silent toast, drained it, and looked away.

"Father, the Westminster boy didn't return the toast," one of the young men murmured.

Conrad Constantine—once Conrad Pell—shrugged. "No matter. His eyes remind me of someone I knew. An excuse for a drink."

He paused. "As for your sister... her noble polish still falls short of Yelena's."

Conrad waved them off. "Why are you hovering? House Hesstine, House Frank, House Walter—everyone's on the dance floor. If House Constantine is to rise again, we'll need their help."

...

"Even if the man was a bloodless scion, he was still the true heir. These usurpers are beneath contempt, don't you agree?"

The lady turned, but Baron was gone. She watched him drain his glass, set it on a tray, and step forward, bowing to Miss Windsor Constantine.

"May I have this dance, fair lady?"

Change of plan: no more besieging Wei. Time for a feint to the east while striking in the west.