The Web of Deceit
The travel from remote cottage safehouse to Blackthorn Manor ballroom consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The fist came again. Harder. The iron bar rattled in its cradle. A heavy knock rattles the door. “Open up! By order of Lord Blackthorn!”
Iris’s hand stilled on the ledger. The candle flame flickered as the door shuddered on its hinges. Margot stood at the counter, her fingers frozen around a spool of thread. The whisper of wool against the floorboards was the only sound between the knocks.
“I’ll go,” Iris said, her voice low enough that Margot might pretend not to hear.
“You can’t.” Margot’s eyes were wide, fixed on the iron bar across the door. “They’ll—”
Another blow. The bar jumped, metal scraping stone. A man’s voice, rough and impatient: “We know she’s in there. The seamstress and the girl. Open now, or we break the frame and charge you for the damage.”
Iris crossed the room before her mind caught up. She lifted the bar, the cold weight familiar now—she had done this twice in the past month, each time for smaller demands. A bolt of silk. A list of clients. Now this.
The door swung open. Three men stood in the rain, collars turned up, torches sputtering. The one in front had a scar that split his left eyebrow, and he smiled when he saw her.
“There you are. Lord Blackthorn requires your services tonight. Lady Blackthorn’s maid took ill.” He held out a folded silk mask, black with a single silver feather. “You will attend the masquerade. You will serve. You will not speak unless spoken to.”
Margot stepped forward. “She’s not a servant. She’s a guest in my home.”
The man’s gaze slid past Iris to Margot, and she smile thinned. “Your home. Right. The lease is held by Blackthorn Holdings, isn’t it? I hear the rent’s overdue.” He let the silence stretch. “One month. Maybe two. Then the shop becomes a storage house.”
Iris took the mask. “Tell me where to go.”
She did not look back at Margot. She could not afford to see the fear on her friend’s face—not when her own pulse was a drum against her ribs. The men flanked her as she stepped into the rain, and the door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded more final than any slam.
—
The Blackthorn Manor ballroom was a cathedral of gilt and glass. Chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls, each crystal catching the candlelight and scattering it across the polished floor. The air was thick with perfume, wax, and the low hum of a string quartet. Masks of every color moved through the crowd—birds, beasts, courtiers, clowns—each face hidden behind velvet and feathers.
Iris stood against the wall, a silver tray balanced on her palm. The mask felt like a cage. Through the eyeholes she watched the dancers turn, searching for a familiar stride, a telltale scar, anything that meant she wasn’t alone.
She saw him before he saw her.
Gideon Voss wore a plain black mask that covered the upper half of his face. No silver, no jewels. He moved through the crowd with the economy of a man who owned every room he entered—not by title, but by attention. His gaze swept the perimeter, catalogued the exits, noted the guards positioned at every archway. He was hunting.
Iris shifted her tray, angling her body so the candlelight caught the side of her face, not the front. If he looked directly at her, he might recognize the line of her jaw, the way she held her shoulders. She could not afford to be seen. Not here.
But he turned. His eyes, dark and unreadable behind the mask, found her. Held.
For a single beat, neither moved.
Then a footman brushed past her, muttering an apology, and the connection broke. Iris looked down at the empty glasses on her tray. When she raised her head again, Gideon was gone.
The string quartet paused between dances. A young woman in a gold-feathered mask laughed too loudly near the refreshment table. Victor Blackthorn stood at the far end of the room, speaking with his father Grant. Victor’s mask was a silver wolf, its jaws frozen mid-snarl. He smiled as he listened, but his eyes wandered the crowd with the patience of a predator.
Iris began walking. Not toward the servants’ door, but along the edge of the dance floor, keeping her tray level, her steps measured. She needed to find Gideon before Victor noticed her. She needed to tell him about the note that had arrived at Margot’s shop that morning—the one that mentioned Liam by name.
She did not make it.
A hand closed around her elbow. Not rough, but firm. She turned to find Victor Blackthorn’s silver wolf mask inches from her face. His breath smelled of wine and cloves.
“I don’t recognize you,” he said, his voice smooth as oil. “New staff?”
“Lady Blackthorn’s personal maid, my lord. The regular took ill.” Iris kept her tone flat, her gaze fixed on his cravat. Never meet a wolf’s eyes.
“Pity. My mother’s maids never last long.” He released her elbow, but his hand lingered in the air, palm up. “Dance with me.”
“My lord, I am not a guest.”
“You are now.” He took the tray from her hands and set it on a passing servant’s cart. The gesture was fluid, practiced, as though he had been dispossessing people of their burdens all his life. “One dance. Consider it a test of loyalty. I want to know if my mother’s servants can follow orders without excuses.”
The quartet struck up a waltz. Couples formed around them, masks bobbing in the candlelight. Iris had no choice. She placed her hand in his, and he led her onto the floor.
The dance was a whirl of bodies and light. Victor’s grip was precise, his steps flawless. He did not speak for the first eight bars, merely watched her through the eyeholes of the wolf mask. Then, as they turned near the tall windows that looked out onto the darkened garden, he leaned close.
“You have remarkable composure for a maid.”
“I learned from my mistress, my lord.”
“Did you?” His thumb pressed against her gloved palm—a subtle pressure, searching. “And where did your mistress learn? I heard there was a woman in the village. A seamstress’s guest. Dark hair. Quiet. Kept a child out of sight.”
Iris’s foot caught on the parquet. She recovered, but not fast enough. Victor’s hand tightened.
“That was you, wasn’t it? In the village, three months ago. I saw you at the market, buying bread. You had a boy with you. Blond hair. Blue eyes.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “Eyes like the Duke of Ashworth’s.”
The waltz ended. The couples around them broke apart, laughing, applauding. Victor did not release her hand.
“I think,” he said, “we should continue this conversation somewhere more private.”
He steered her toward the side of the ballroom. Toward a heavy velvet curtain that hung beside a darkened alcove. Iris’s heart hammered. She looked over her shoulder, searching the crowd for Gideon’s black mask, for any sign of rescue.
The crowd had closed behind them. The music swelled again. No one was watching.
Victor pulled the curtain aside. The alcove was narrow, lined with silk, lit only by a single candle on a small table. He released her hand and gestured for her to enter.
“After you.”
Iris stepped inside. The curtain fell, muffling the ballroom’s noise to a distant hum. Victor stood in the opening, his silver wolf mask gleaming in the candlelight.
“You are the woman from the village,” he said, slowly, tasting the words. “And that child—he has the Duke’s eyes.”
The candle guttered. The silk rustled. And Iris knew, with a cold certainty, that there was no going back from this moment.