Read Chapter 23: The Plan

The first gray light of dawn crept through Julien’s narrow window, painting the rumpled sheets in shades of pearl and silver. Camille lay with her cheek against his bare shoulder, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertips, trying to memorize the weight of this peace. But peace was a luxury neither of them could afford for long.

Julien’s hand found hers and stilled it. “We need to talk about the ball.”

She propped herself on one elbow. “The Senator’s masquerade. You said he hosts one every spring.”

“He does. And the Baron will be there. Devereux too. It’s the one night of the year when all of Paris’s filth gathers under one gilded roof, masked and anonymous, drunk enough to forget their caution.” Julien sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist. “If we want a confession, that’s where we get it.”

Camille’s pulse quickened. “You want me to go.”

“I want you to play a role.”

She inhaled slowly, letting the actor in her rise to meet the moment. “Tell me.”

Julien crossed to the writing desk, retrieving a crumpled invitation from among scattered papers. “The Comte de Vasseur hosts the ball, but he rarely attends himself. He prefers to let his guests entertain each other while he watches from the gallery.” He handed her the card. “The Senator will be there. And the Baron, if only to keep an eye on his investments.”

“I can’t very well stroll in uninvited.”

“No.” Julien’s mouth curved into a wry smile. “But Marguerite Leclair can.”

Camille blinked. “Marguerite—the scandalous widow who fled Paris after her husband died under mysterious circumstances?”

“The same. She’s been living in Lyon for two years. No one here has seen her face. She used to move in these circles before she fell from grace—she knows half the names in the room, and the other half owe her secrets.”

Camille sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. “You want me to attend as a woman who doesn’t exist here.”

“A woman who has every reason to want revenge on people like the Baron and Devereux.” Julien’s eyes were bright, intent. “Marguerite’s husband invested heavily in the Senator’s railway schemes. He lost everything before he died. Rumors say he killed himself. Marguerite blamed Devereux publicly before she vanished.”

“So I bait him with knowledge he’d think only Marguerite could possess.”

“And you know things Marguerite never could. The accounts you photographed. The ledger’s code. The names of the shell companies.” Julien moved closer, taking her hands. “You don’t have to confess to stealing anything. You only have to let him believe Marguerite has her own copies of the records. That she’s been gathering information for years, waiting for the right moment to destroy him.”

Camille’s mind raced through possibilities and objections. “And if he doesn’t take the bait?”

“Then you use the locket.”

Her hand instinctively went to her chest where the silver locket rested beneath her shift. “Odette’s locket?”

“The Baron believes it contains proof of his wife’s affair. If Odette has already warned you he grows suspicious, then the Baron’s obsession with her fidelity is a wound we can press.” Julien’s voice softened. “Show it to him. Let him believe you’re willing to hand it over for the right price. He’ll be desperate to know what you know about him in return.”

“And the hidden witnesses?”

“I have a friend at *Le Figaro* who owes me a debt. He’ll be stationed in a private alcove off the main ballroom—a servant’s corridor, hidden behind a tapestry. I’ll tell him to record everything he hears.”

“Hide behind a tapestry,” Camille repeated dryly. “Very dramatic, Julien.”

“You’ve made me a romantic.” He smiled, but it faded quickly. “The risk is real. If they catch you—if they recognize you before the mask comes off—the Baron has the photographs. He could destroy your career, your brother’s future, everything you’ve built.”

“And if I succeed?”

“Then we have a public confession from one of them. Enough to bring down Devereux. And through him, the Comte.” Julien’s grip tightened. “It’s the only way to implicate de Vasseur directly. The Baron will never confess voluntarily, and Devereux will give up everyone before he gives up himself—except the man who protects him.”

“So we give the Senator a choice,” Camille said slowly. “Expose the Comte, or face the consequences alone.”

“Exactly.”

A long silence stretched between them. Camille looked down at her hands—the hands that had poured tea for the Baroness, gripped Julien’s in passion, held the photographs that could topple empires. They were trembling.

“When is the ball?”

“Four nights from now.”

“And the Baron’s deadline expires before then.”

Julien nodded. “We either move before his week is up, or we risk whatever he’s planning. But if we show our hand too early, we lose the element of surprise.”

Camille rose from the bed, wrapping herself in a thin robe, pacing the length of the small room. Her bare feet met cold floorboards. She thought of Gabriel at the theatre, unaware of the storm gathering above his head. She thought of Odette, imprisoned by secrets she couldn’t speak. She thought of the Duchess, who had stayed and suffered for her choices—and who had warned Camille that Devereux was not the true threat.

“I need a costume,” she said at last.

Julien exhaled. “I have a contact in the theatre district. A costumier who worked for the Opéra before she retired. She won’t ask questions.”

“And the locket?” Camille touched it again, feeling the weight of Odette’s burden beneath her fingers. “If I carry it with me and the Baron recognizes it, he may act before we’re ready.”

“Then we give him a reason to want it back.” Julien produced a fresh sheet of scratch paper. “We write a letter. Anonymous. Let him believe Camille Moreau has sold him out—that she’s passed the locket to Marguerite Leclair, who will attend his ball with evidence that could ruin him. He’ll come hunting for you.”

Camille took the paper from him. “But he’ll think I’ve betrayed him.”

“He already does. He’s had your apartment watched since the day you took his ledger. He knows about us. The only currency we have left is misdirection.” Julien’s voice was gentle. “You already denied everything. He didn’t believe you. So we give him a version of the truth that serves us better—that Camille Moreau is an insignificant pawn, and someone bigger is moving against him.”

She let the idea settle, turning it over. “He’ll underestimate me. He’ll think the real threat is Marguerite.”

“And you’ll be standing right in front of him, masked, listening to him confess.” Julien took her hand again. “I’ll be there. Not hidden, not in the gallery—close enough to intervene if something goes wrong.”

“Close enough to be caught, you mean.”

“I won’t be caught. I’ll wear a mask of my own.”

Camille laughed despite herself. “And what mask shall I wear, Julien? Marguerite’s face? Or the one I wear on stage every night?”

He studied her for a long moment, something raw passing through his eyes. “Wear the one that keeps you alive.”

She crossed to him and pressed her forehead against his. “Four nights, then. We bring down a Senator, an industrialist, and a ghost of a Comte.”

“Or we die trying.”

“Charming.”

“I meant to say we fight for what matters.” He kissed her, soft and lingering. “I’ll send the letter to the Baron this morning.”

“Wait.” A thought struck her. “The letter must not mention Odette. If the Baron thinks Odette is involved in this plot against him, he’ll move against her before we have proof of anything. She’s already endangered enough.”

Julien considered. “We mention only the ledger. Let him believe Marguerite has access to his private records—that she’s been gathering her own evidence for years, independent of anyone else.”

Camille nodded. That kept Odette safe—for now. But it also meant the Baron would bring all his resources to hunting Marguerite, a woman who didn’t exist outside Camille’s performance. The stakes grew higher with every detail they arranged.

“One more thing,” she said, pausing at the door. “If I’m playing Marguerite Leclair, I need to know her story completely. Every scandal, every connection, every debt. If I’m going to convince a Senator that I’ve been nursing a grudge for two years, I need to feel it in my bones.”

Julien smiled, a glint of admiration in his eyes. “I know the costume designer’s second cousin. She was Marguerite’s seamstress before she fled Paris. She can tell you things no one else knows.”

“Good.” Camille lifted her chin, letting the role settle around her like a second skin. “Then let’s begin.”

She left Julien’s apartment with the thin gray light of morning at her back, her steps quickening as she planned the hours ahead. Four nights was barely enough time to transform into another woman entirely.

But she had built her life on impossible transformations.