Read Chapter 24: The Masked Ball

The carriage wheels crunched to a halt on the gravel of the Hôtel de Vasseur’s private driveway, and for one suspended moment, Camille allowed herself to breathe. Through the window, the mansion blazed with a thousand gaslights, each flame caught and refracted by the diamonds and pearls of the arriving guests. A waltz drifted out from the open doors, carried on the cold November air like a promise of forgetfulness.

She touched the mask at her face—midnight blue velvet, edged with silver feathers that curved like crescent moons. Beneath it, her features had been transformed by Madame Roche’s careful hand: the shading beneath her cheekbones deepened, her lips painted a shade darker than her own, her hair piled high and dusted with silver powder. She was not Camille Moreau. She was Marguerite Leclair, widow of a shipping magnate, a woman of ruined reputation and sharper tongue, back in Paris after five years of exile in Biarritz.

The footman opened the door. Camille stepped out, her gown—a confection of deep sapphire silk with a train that whispered against the gravel—moving with her as though it had been made for her alone. It had been, in fact. Marguerite’s former seamstress had worked through three sleepless nights to finish it, muttering in her Breton accent about the original’s exact taste in fabric and cut. Now, as Camille climbed the marble steps between potted orange trees, she felt the gown do half her work for her. It spoke of money, of careless luxury, of a woman who had never once worried about the price of bread.

The vestibule was a furnace of perfume and heat. Mirrors lined the walls, each reflecting back masked figures in a dizzying kaleidoscope of silk and domino. Camille paused at the threshold, letting the assembled guests take her in. A woman who hesitated was a woman with something to hide. Marguerite Leclair hesitated for no one.

“Madame Leclair.”

The voice came from her left. A man in a harlequin costume, his mask a black lozenge across his eyes, extended his gloved hand. “The Comte de Vasseur sends his compliments. He was told to expect you, but did not think you would come.”

“The Comte underestimates me,” Camille said, letting Marguerite’s low, amused drawl curl around the words. “A common mistake among men of his age.”

The harlequin’s lips twitched. He offered his arm, and she took it, allowing herself to be led through the crowd. Her eyes swept the room as she walked, cataloguing exits, faces, the placement of the musicians. Somewhere near the far wall, she caught a glimpse of a domino in deep green, its wearer broad-shouldered and watching her with a stillness that felt familiar. Julien. Her heart gave a small, traitorous leap, and she forced her gaze onward.

The Comte de Vasseur held court in the east salon, enthroned in a velvet chair like a spider at the center of his web. He was unmasked, his face a ruin of old desires and newer cruelties, and his eyes tracked her progress across the room with the detached interest of a man appraising livestock. Beside him, the Baron devereux stood with a champagne flute, his own mask pushed up onto his forehead as though he had nothing to fear from recognition.

“Madame Leclair,” the Comte said, rising with a courtliness that did not reach his eyes. “At last. I had heard you were dead.”

“Reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated,” Camille said, offering her hand. He took it, his skin dry and cool against her gloves. “And the fault was my husband’s. He was always a poor correspondent.”

“I remember your husband,” the Comte said. “A dull man, but a reliable one. His ships were always on time.” He paused. “Do you know, I believe I invested in one of them, once.”

“Then you were luckier than most,” Camille said smoothly. “The *Isabelle* sank off the coast of Madagascar with forty thousand francs of cargo in her hold. My husband never forgave the sea for it.”

The Comte laughed, a dry rustle of sound. “And now you are here, seeking… what? Adventure? Revenge?”

“Entertainment,” Camille said. “I have been boring myself in Biarritz for half a decade. Paris is so much more amusing when one no longer cares what anyone thinks.”

It was the right thing to say. The Comte’s eyes sharpened with interest, and he offered her his arm with the air of a man who had just found a new toy. “Then let me introduce you to the Senator. He is famously boring, but he owns a vineyard that produces tolerable champagne. One must weigh one’s entertainments.”

The Senator was a round, red-faced man in a domino of watered silk that strained across his belly. His mask was too small, leaving his jowls visible, and he had already drunk enough that his voice carried half a room too far. He brightened when he saw Camille, his eyes traveling the décolletage of her gown with the directness of a man who believed himself invisible.

“Madame Leclair,” he said, bowing with an unsteadiness that suggested he had been at the champagne already. “I have heard of you. Who has not? The woman who told the Préfet of Biarritz exactly what she thought of his cousin’s gambling debts.”

“I have always believed in honesty,” Camille said, letting her smile turn sharp. “It simplifies things, don’t you find? There is no need to remember what one has said.”

The Senator laughed too loudly. Around them, the waltz swelled, and masked couples swept past in a blur of color and motion. Camille watched them out of the corner of her eye, cataloguing the room’s architecture, the position of the doors, the movement of the servants. Julien had shifted, moving closer, his green domino a constant presence at the edge of her vision.

The Senator leaned in, his breath sour with wine. “You know, I find honesty vastly overrated. The most profitable conversations are those in which no one says quite what they mean.”

“Then you must find politics a profitable arena indeed.”

He laughed again, louder this time, and the Comte, beside him, smiled with the thin patience of a man who had heard this laugh many times and found it no more amusing each time. “The Senator and I were just discussing a matter of mutual interest,” the Comte said. “Perhaps you would care to join us, Madame Leclair? My study is quiet, and the champagne is better.”

Camille’s pulse quickened. This was the moment. She had expected to have to angle for it, to plant hints and let them ripen, but the Comte was inviting her in of his own accord. Perhaps her reputation preceded her in ways Julien had not anticipated. Perhaps the Comte saw something in her—the glint of a woman who knew secrets and was willing to sell them.

She smiled, slow and deliberate. “I would be delighted.”

The study was paneled in dark oak, hung with portraits of men who had the Comte’s heavy jaw and colder eyes. A fire crackled in the grate, and the champagne was indeed better, poured from a bottle that carried no label but tasted of gold. The Senator settled into a chair with a grunt of pleasure, while the Comte stood by the fire, watching Camille with an unreadable expression.

She allowed herself to drift toward the window, her back to the garden, her silhouette limned against the glass. She had chosen this position deliberately. If Julien was watching from the terrace, he would have a clear view of her face. The tiny microphone—a thrill-seeker’s device that Julien had promised worked, though neither of them had tested it—was hidden in the lace at her throat.

“I have a confession,” Camille said, letting her voice drop to a conspiratorial murmur. She turned, the silver feathers of her mask catching the firelight. “I did not come to the ball for entertainment.”

The Senator’s brows rose. The Comte did not move, but she felt his attention sharpen like a blade being drawn.

“Then why have you come?” the Comte asked.

Camille let a pause hang in the air, long enough that the Senator shifted in his chair, long enough that she could feel the sweat at her temple beneath the mask. Then she reached into the hidden pocket of her gown and drew out Odette’s silver locket, letting it catch the light.

“I have something that belongs to you,” she said, directing her words to the Senator. “Or rather, something that implicates you. A ledger. A list of investors. Names that would be very damaging if they ever found their way into the hands of a journalist.”

The Senator’s face drained of color. He looked at the Comte, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. The Comte’s expression did not change, but his hand, resting on the mantel, curled into a fist.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Senator said, his voice too high.

“Then you have a poor memory,” Camille said, “and I have a very good one. I know about the shares you and the Baron have been selling. I know about the shell companies in Lyon. I know about the investors who have been led to believe they are buying into a railway venture that does not exist.” She smiled, and it felt like a wound. “I know that you have been selling air, gentlemen, and calling it gold.”

The room was very quiet. The fire crackled. Far away, in the ballroom, the orchestra struck up a new waltz.

The Comte was the first to speak. His voice was soft, almost amused. “You are not Marguerite Leclair.”

Camille’s heart seized. But she held her smile. “I am whoever I need to be.”

“What do you want?” the Senator asked. His hands were shaking. “Money? How much?”

“More than you have,” Camille said. “But I am not here for your money. I am here for your confession. I want to hear you say it. Say that you have been selling worthless shares. Say that you and Devereux have been defrauding investors for years. Say it, and I will give you the locket, and you will never see me again.”

The Senator looked at the Comte. The Comte looked at Camille. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face that did not reach his eyes.

“I think,” the Comte said, “that there is more to you than a widow’s costume. But the Senator is a weak man, and weak men confess when frightened.” He nodded to the Senator. “Say it. Tell her what she wants to hear. The locket is worthless to us if it leaves the room, but she will not leave this house alive.”

The Senator swallowed. His voice, when it came, was trembling. “Yes. Yes, we have been selling worthless shares. The Baron arranged the offering, and I introduced him to the buyers. Railway bonds that do not exist, mining stocks with no mines. We have taken millions from men who trusted us. There. Is that what you wanted?”

Camille nodded once. Her smile was fixed. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest. But she had done it. Julien had heard. They had the confession.

She began to back toward the door, the locket still in her hand. The Comte moved to stop her, but before he could, the door behind her opened, and a servant’s voice cut through the tension.

“My lord, forgive the intrusion, but there is a woman at the gate claiming to be the real Marguerite Leclair.”

The Comte’s eyes widened. His hand went to the bell pull.

And Camille ran.