twinged in her stomach. Alaric Kerlan, it seemed, was a collector.
As she drew steadily closer to the great mansion, she thought she saw a gray tint to its glass windows and felt a slight chill seep through her furs. She wouldn’t be surprised if Kerlan’s entire estate was blackstone-infused and built with the highest security detail in mind. The mansion loomed, menacing now, and Ana couldn’t help but imagine that it was an enormous spider amid its vast web of spies, brokers, and criminals, spinning its secrets and gold.
Light and music spilled from the giant mahogany double doors. Guests clustered up the marble steps, and through it all, Ana caught sight of a line of guards at the front, and a man in a black-and-gold doublet holding a thick stack of parchments.
Her heartbeat fluttered anxiously, and dread slowed her steps. Blood, thrumming in the excited guests all around her, crowded her thoughts. The blackstone-infused walls seemed to hum with menace.
Farrald, she reminded herself. She was dama Farrald. There was no reason for the doorman to turn her away, especially when she already looked the part.
She’d need to act the part, too; she’d con her way in.
She thought of Ramson, of how he could shed one act and step into another within the blink of an eye. So Ana squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and followed the stream of guests up the steps.
The doorman barely spared her a glance. “Name and invitation letter?”
Ana froze, feeling as though a stone had dropped in her stomach. Invitation letter. Why hadn’t Ramson mentioned an invitation letter? Her mind was sifting through the past few days they’d spent planning even as she stammered, “D-dama Farrald.” At no point had Ramson mentioned this crucial detail—and why not? Her heart pounded in her temples.
Had he tricked her, after all this time?
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