Read Chapter 25: The Confession

The music swelled, a waltz of champagne and candlelight, and the Senator’s grip on Camille’s waist tightened. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, the scent of cognac and cigars thick on his collar.

“You dance like a woman who knows how to keep secrets, Marguerite,” he murmured. “But you hinted at one that concerns me. I find that… troubling.”

She smiled beneath her mask, a practiced curve of the lips. “Troubling, Senator? Or interesting? A man in your position must find the right secrets worth a great deal.”

His eyes glittered behind his own black velvet mask. “The right secrets are priceless. The wrong ones are merely expensive.” He spun her, and the room blurred — a swirl of emerald silks and powdered wigs, the chandeliers overhead scattering light like diamonds on a gambler’s table. “You mentioned a book. A ledger. Tell me what you know, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Camille let her hand rest lightly on his shoulder, her heart hammering beneath the corset’s iron cage. This was the moment. She had rehearsed it a hundred times in Julien’s apartment, in the mirror of her own cracked vanity, in the breathless dark of the night before.

“People say the Baron devereux is a pillar of finance,” she said, keeping her voice low and silky. “But pillars crack, Senator. I know the cracks. I know the shares he sells are worth less than the paper they’re printed on. I know his Swiss accounts are little more than smoke and mirrors.”

The Senator’s step faltered. For a single heartbeat, his composure slipped — a flicker of something feral behind the mask. Then it was gone, replaced by a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“That is a dangerous accusation, madame.”

“It’s not an accusation,” Camille said. “It’s a fact. You and the Baron have been selling worthless shares to widows and widowers, to provincial merchants who trust the Devereux name. And you both take your cut. Do you deny it?”

He stopped dancing. The waltz continued around them, couples swirling past in a blur of color and laughter, but they were two still figures at the center of a turning world.

“Where did you get this information?” His voice had gone cold, clipped.

“Does it matter?” Camille tilted her head, enjoying — despite the terror coiling in her stomach — how thoroughly he was taking the bait. “What matters is that I have it. And I’m willing to sell my silence.”

“How much?”

“Not money.” She shook her head, slow and deliberate. “Protection. I fled Paris a year ago because of a misunderstanding with the police. I want that record erased. I want a new name, a new passport, and passage to London. Do that, and this secret dies with me.”

The Senator stared at her for a long moment, then laughed — a short, ugly sound. “You’re more clever than most, Marguerite. Very well. You’ll have your papers.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But understand this: Devereux is a businessman. He saw an opportunity in the market’s uncertainty, and he exploited it. That’s all. As for the worthless shares — they were worthless to begin with. Half of Paris’s aristocracy is built on paper promises. I merely helped them maintain the illusion a little longer.”

Camille’s pulse quickened. This was it. The confession, wrapped in arrogance and self-justification. She could almost feel the weight of Julien’s recording device, hidden somewhere in the folds of his costume, a few meters away.

“The Baron organized it all?” she pressed, keeping her voice light, curious. “The shell companies, the false dividends?”

“He’s a genius with paper,” the Senator said, pride curling his lip. “I simply provided the legitimacy. The connections. The trust of old families who would never invest in a stranger’s scheme. They invested in *me*.” He laughed again. “And in an empire that exists only on balance sheets.”

“And the Comte de Vasseur?” Camille leaned in, the name a silken whisper. “He’s part of it?”

The Senator’s expression shuttered. For a moment, she thought she had pushed too far. “The Comte is… uninvolved. A silent patron. He knows nothing of the details.”

It was a lie — she could see it in the way his eyes darted left, the way his jaw tightened. But it was enough. The confession was recorded. The scheme was out.

She smiled. “Thank you, Senator. You’ve been most generous.”

“I expect my silence purchased in return,” he said, his hand tightening on her arm. “I’ll have my secretary deliver the papers tomorrow. Do not try to — ”

The voice cut through the music like a blade.

“Well, well.”

Camille froze. The Baron stood at the edge of the dance floor, his mask discarded, his face a mask of fury in its own right. In his hand, held low at his side but unmistakable, was a revolver, its barrel glinting in the candlelight.

“I knew there was something wrong about you,” the Baron said, advancing. The dancers nearest him stumbled back, alarm rippling through the crowd. “Too clever by half, asking questions about my affairs. Marguerite Leclair, indeed.” He laughed, bitter and cold. “I had you followed. And your friend with the recording device — I’ve already sent men to deal with him.”

Camille’s stomach dropped. Her eyes darted to the side, searching blindly for Julien’s dark costume, his masked face. She couldn’t see him. He was lost in the crowd.

The Baron raised the revolver, aiming it directly at her.

“You should have taken my contract,” he said quietly. “You would have been rich. Instead, you’ll be dead.”

The pearls. The gift he’d given her, the heavy rope of them still coiled around her neck. Without thinking, Camille tore them free and hurled them at his face. The pearls scattered — white comets in the chandelier light — and the Baron flinched, his aim going wide as one caught him on the cheekbone.

She ran.

Behind her, a crack of gunfire split the air. A chandelier shattered, raining glass. Screams erupted, the elegant party dissolving into chaos, panicked bodies colliding, masks falling, wine spilling.

She didn’t look back. She fled toward the tall windows at the far end of the salon, toward the gardens and the darkness beyond, Julien’s name like a prayer on her lips.