Chapter 54

Windsor half-leaned against Baron, her small face pale with tension. "It's the young master of the Walter family. Rumor says he has a violent temper..."

Violent didn't begin to cover it. If Baron hadn't already confirmed that Gold carried no weapons, he'd have sworn the man was seconds away from pulling a saber and charging.

Was this an enemy of House Constantine—or was the target actually Windsor?

Baron instinctively frowned. In his public role as a Westminster agent, he couldn't imagine having enemies... unless one counted the jealous who simply resented his swagger.

But according to Stella, a man who didn't flaunt himself would never catch Freya's eye.

Baron asked, "Can you waltz? We'll slip off the floor together when the music turns."

His mission was to find a moment alone with Freya and persuade her to clear his name; distractions were the last thing he needed.

Windsor nodded. She had studied ballet rigorously and could spin on pointe for an hour without pause.

The music rolled on, the dance continued. Every guest moved with measured courtesy; even when the tempo surged, they merely quickened their steps.

The postures were the same, the technique the same, the smiles as blandly uniform as ever. Like clockwork dolls, everything had been predetermined—the only choice was how fast the mainspring unwound.

Baron's hands rested on Windsor's shoulders as they retreated step by step along the pattern, seeking an opening to leave the circle.

Freya had already noticed him; the next step was an introduction via Windsor.

With that in mind they drifted toward the outermost ring.

The floor was arranged in three tiers: the outer circle for guests with modest skill or no interest in showing off; the second for social-dance adepts; and the innermost, where Gold partnered Kaysha.

Kaysha wore a black, high-slit gown; her movements were as dazzling as her looks. Matched with Gold's overpowering presence, they might have been an emperor dancing with his favorite concubine.

Andy on the dais sipped red wine, eyes narrowing.

Hard to imagine the burly demon-hunter Gold could dance at all—yet every footfall landed on the beat, every motion radiated masculine vigor, like a lion poised under the sun.

By comparison Baron looked like a toddler taking his first steps.

Every lady's gaze had been drawn to them—including Freya's.

Baron wasted no more thought. He wanted off the floor, and Windsor read his mind, easing her steps toward the exit.

But a black whirlwind blocked their path.

The man spun the woman; within the dark silk gleamed a body white as lamb, legs long and perfect as a dancer's—no, they were a dancer's legs.

Gold smiled at Baron. "If you can't tango, I'll teach you."

So it really was aimed at him. Did he have some kind of scapegoat magnetism? Even in disguise trouble found him.

Baron rolled his eyes; Gold caught the gesture and anger flickered.

He tightened his grip on Kaysha's hand.

Understanding, she gave a gaudy, almost foolish smile. As the music peaked she kicked high, pivoted, and the black skirt slid down, revealing nearly bare, gleaming skin that drew more than one gentleman's stare.

Arms lifted, wrists crossed like a lotus.

Gold snorted, raised one hand, and caught hers. On a high heel she rose, the black skirt flaring crimson—the red sole of her shoe flashing like a blade.

Under Gold's control she glided toward Baron, a flashing cut aimed straight at his face.

So this was a deliberate show of force against Westminster.

Windsor trembled, but Baron slipped an arm around her waist. "Don't be afraid. I'll count three, two, one. When I let go, spin off the floor."

"What about you?"

In ballroom etiquette, remaining alone on the floor before the music ends marked one as ill-mannered.

"Me?" Baron smiled faintly beneath his mask. "If etiquette can't buy you gold, it's just an empty shell."

"Ready—three, two, one—release!"

The instant Kaysha and Gold spun past, Baron flung Windsor aside and imitated their whirl, retreating in a controlled spin.

The black blade-dance whistled between them. Gold's icy glare made Windsor shiver, but she obeyed and fled the floor.

Leaving Baron alone... to be humiliated?

Suddenly the music changed again.

The tuxedoed pianist was elbowed aside; a figure in scarlet sat down, black hair like spilled ink, a red dress blazing as fire.

The same crimson girl who had earlier rescued Jack.

In an instant every eye in the hall fixed on that red silhouette.

Her fingers touched the keys—butterfly light—yet the melody slashed like drawn steel.

"Continue in this key," she ordered the pianist, voice calm, queen-like.

As the dumbfounded man found the chords she rose, pulled the pin from her hair, and ink-black tresses cascaded free.

She lifted her skirt, revealing long, straight, luminous legs. Securing the pin at the hem, she cinched the waist, baring softer arms.

She glided toward Baron—no, danced as no one had danced before. Each stiletto step carved perfect circles; arms overhead, she spun like a scarlet bird above a cliff.

The red dress unfurled like a war-banner in the wind.

Music, every gaze, flew with her as she grew like a lush red maple.

If social dance was a neat outline drawing, her steps were a freehand ink-bloom.

She stretched a hand to Baron, gaze sharp and proud—a queen granting a subject the honor of a dance.

Baron, after a moment's shock, stepped forward, took her hand, slipped an arm around her waist.

She signaled the band; the pianist struck the keys.

The melody shifted—dramatic yet elegant. Baron recognized the classic tango "Por Una Cabeza."

His only previous exposure had been Al Pacino dancing with a girl while guests watched. But this was 1987; Scent of a Woman hadn't even begun filming, and Pacino's first Oscar was years away.

Judging by the footwork, the woman opposite him would have made the better Pacino.

"Can you tango?" she murmured, dipping with the music.

"If I say no, will you push me away?"

"Not necessarily."

"Why help me?"

"I don't like them. Good enough?"

She folded into his arms; gauze rose and fell, long legs gleaming under the lights, her red eyes misted like frost.

"I'll help you beat them. You'll owe me."

Before he could answer she led him toward Gold.

Kaysha, fresh from her spin, spotted the sudden rival. Her eyes narrowed, then only snorted.

She refused to believe anyone could out-tango her.

Guests quietly withdrew, circle after circle, until only red and black remained.

Red and black spun, perfect, flawless. To the onlookers the floor had become a battlefield between a queen and her knights.

The only direct clash came between Baron and Gold: Gold kicked toward Baron mid-step, but Baron, unbending, let faint dragon-scales ripple over his shin. Since returning from Prol he'd gained the ability—scales thin as mist, covering only a small area, yet even a razor blade merely sparked off them.

Shin met shin; Gold grunted and smoothly retreated.

Kaysha stepped in, shot Baron a startled glance, yet kept dancing with haughty grace.

Baron's face was unreadable; behind the mask his pupils were jade, holding back the gold that threatened to erupt.

The music reached its midpoint, shifted, the crowd murmured like surf.

Partners switched!

Red and black parted.

Baron caught Kaysha's waist. Gold, already reaching for the scarlet girl, found her suddenly untie her skirt and extend her hand the other way.

A man caught it, steadying her waist.

Blond hair, tall—Jack!

He had slipped onto the floor; a half-chewed bite of steak still in his mouth.

Gold's eyes bulged—he had not expected another contender.

His gaze flicked anxiously, but Kaysha's hands were locked in Baron's; aside from stomping his foot with a stiletto she could do nothing.

The music's modulation ended. Gold, partnerless, had lost. He shot Baron a furious glare and stalked off.

Victory decided.

"I told you to finish eating first," the girl in red said.

Jack swallowed the steak. "The footman was clearing plates. Good meat shouldn't be wasted."

Watching Gold fume at the edge, Kaysha's eyes glinted. She danced on, leg high, half her weight draped on Baron. "He lost, not me."

Baron replied, "Whoever lost, Miss, you're heavy—best hop off."

He lifted her leg with exaggerated courtesy.

Kaysha's beautiful eyes flashed. She stamped his foot once more and swept away, exiting the floor.

The woman pushed Jack aside as well; he spun away with the current, vanishing against the tide like a golden chrysanthemum caught on the wind.

Only Baron and the girl in the red gown remained at the heart of the floor—no, not "girl" any longer. She had become the triumphant queen.

Every light, every gaze, converged upon her. If she was not the queen, then who was?

The queen stretched out her hand. Baron understood, and took it.

"How did I dance?" she asked, suddenly as shy as a child.

"Wonderfully," Baron said. "Very good!"

The queen laughed.

"Leave the rest to me," she said.

Baron felt himself turn into a marionette, drawn by her guidance through steps no human had ever mastered.

When the waltz reached its final bars, Baron released her. The red gown blossomed like a painted fan; the sharp tap of high heels on black-and-gold marble followed the hem as it drifted downward until it settled about bare ankles.

Dance ended. The scarlet dress was a painting, the woman a flower—yet the world felt empty, the heart lonely, the sky old and vast.

"My brother's luck with women is unbelievable," Jack muttered, still dazed.

Two duck legs protruded from his mouth, making him look like a golden retriever with a whole chicken stuffed between its jaws.

"Mister L..."

Windsor watched the two figures in the middle of the floor, fingers twisted together, unsure what to do.

Her older brother, Newman, stepped behind her and murmured, "You shouldn't have gone out there. He's a senior Westminster agent. Father is very disappointed in you."

He left. Windsor stood frozen until the luminous Miss Freya approached.

"Miss Windsor, could you introduce me to that Westminster agent when the next dance begins?"

Before Windsor could answer, applause rang out from the gallery. It swelled from murmurs to shouts, then thunder.

The ovation poured down like rain—clearly meant for the couple at the center.

Lights flared, applause roared, the very air trembled.

"Excellent—truly excellent. I have not seen such beauty in a dance for a long time."

Footsteps sounded on the high dais. A figure appeared at the top of the marble staircase—a young man with pale-gold hair, the first to clap.

He wore an immaculate white suit with peaked lapels, and on his chest glittered a solid-gold medal: a griffin in full flight.

The badge of the Griffin Knights. He was tonight's host.

Deputy Commander of the Griffin Knights, heir to House Hesstine, Bronze Knight Jill Hesstine.