Or had he simply played the con man’s part, giving away just enough information so that she would trust him…but not enough so that she could leave him?
The doorman shuffled through his parchments with white-gloved hands. “Letter, please, dama Farrald.”
“I…” Her palms were sweating in her gloves, and her tongue was dry. She’d never been a good liar. “I’m afraid I’ve lost it.”
The doorman cast her a sympathetic look; several guests behind her whispered. “I’m sorry, meya dama. We can’t accept guests without an invitation. Would you mind stepping aside? I’ll send for Lord Kerlan’s butler.” He must have seen the panic on her face, for he added as though to reassure her: “Not to worry, this is just a necessary precaution. Lord Kerlan’s butler recognizes all acquainted guests.”
Ana gripped her beaded purse tightly to stop herself from shaking. Lord Kerlan’s butler would not recognize her—and she’d be ousted, perhaps even arrested, even before she could step inside and have a hope of spotting Pyetr Tetsyev.
Think, Ana. She could almost hear Ramson’s voice chiding her, his I-told-you-so expression whenever she was about to make a rash decision.
Think. What would Ramson do?
The doorman raised an eyebrow. “Meya dama, I need to ask you to please step aside while we allow other guests in.”
Ana was frozen to the spot, a dozen different options running through her mind yet none viable. She could steal an invitation, come back as a different guest—but the doorman would surely recognize her and call foul play. She could…she could…“Please, mesyr, I—”
“There you are.”
A voice cut through the night. She felt someone’s presence behind her, warm and solid, and a hand pressed against the small of her back. The familiar scent of kologne that had been a part of her days for the past few weeks.
Ana’s legs nearly buckled with relief.
Ramson leaned past her, his black tuxedo cutting him into lean lines and sharp edges. His eyes glinted behind his dark mask as, with a small flourish, he presented two wax-sealed envelopes to the doorman. “Mesyr and dama Farrald,” he declared. “I apologize for the mix-up; I lost my wife in the crowds.”
His hold on her arm was so tight it almost hurt, and the razor-sharp smile he cut her chased away any foolish thoughts that he was actually glad to see her again.
And she felt it, a new stiffness to his gestures and smiles that she’d never sensed before, no matter how frustrated they’d been with each other.
Ramson was angry. Of course he was. She’d tossed him halfway across a room and left him there.
“Please, mesyr and dama Farrald.” The doorman dipped his head. “I apologize for the inconvenience.” His eyes lingered on them as he bowed and gestured for them to enter.
They stepped into a vast banquet hall with a glass ceiling two stories high. Crystal chandeliers dripped warm gold light into the hallway. On either side of the hall, alcoves framed with intricate marble carvings lined the first and second floors. Guests were already lounging in plush velvet chaises or leaning over the balustrade on the second floor, chatting with drinks in hand.
Ramson’s grip was tight on her waist as he steered her around the edges of the ballroom. “Surely you didn’t think I’d let you leave without thanking you for that wonderful parting gift?” he muttered.
His words cut. Ramson had been cold toward her, he’d been calculating, he’d been indifferent—but he’d never been angry. Angry was new. Angry was…personal. “I didn’t want to put you in danger anymore,” she said as he led her up a spiraling set of stairs to the quieter second level that overlooked the banquet hall. “You shouldn’t have come.”
He snorted. “So I should’ve let you be caught like the fool you are?”
Irritation stirred in her. “If you’d just told me about the invitation instead of trying to play me,” she hissed. “You never trusted me. And I shouldn’t have trusted you.”
Ramson’s eyes flashed. “Since when has anyone uttered ‘trust’ in the same breath as my name?”
The second floor was nearly empty, with most of the guests still gathering on the first floor. Ramson cast a furtive look around. “In here,” he said brusquely, parting a set of heavy red curtains to a small alcove. On the far wall of the alcove, a glass door led to a balcony outside; it was dark.
Ana stumbled in. When she turned, Ramson had removed his mask. His face was cold, clean-shaven, and sharp. He was angrier than she’d ever seen him