The restlessness had been growing stronger lately. The urge to get away from everything; to have a different life without fear hanging over their heads. More often than not, when they left a party, she had to fight the urge to keep going. To simply disappear. But they had nowhere to go. No means to afford even a cheap hackney to the outskirts of London. Bones owned them both.
They were stuck in this life, but at least she had Nic.
The brow over Nic’s eye patch rose, and a knowing grin tipped one corner of his mouth. Wisps of black hair curled around the strings of his disguise. Damn him. He knew what he did to her. He always played the rakish flirt when they were working. He made her blood do crazy things inside her veins, yet he reverted to acting like her friend the moment the masks came off. It frustrated the hell out of her.
As she watched, a woman sidled up to him and he turned his attention to her. She leaned in and said something as he reached up to trace a lazy circle on her shoulder. When she leaned against his arm, fiery jealousy exploded inside Arista. He should be paying attention to the job, not to some barely dressed woman. She pushed through the crowd, hand on the knife hidden under her dress. A knife that Nic had given to her.
He had not yet noticed Arista getting closer. The woman held all of his attention. She wore a costume of shimmering blue satin. The bodice dipped down very low in front, and the entire costume rippled like waves when she moved. A swan’s mask obscured the features of her face, but Arista could see the hungry gleam in her eyes as she looked up at Nic.
The woman could have been a street-corner flower girl or a princess, and every man there would still want her. The anger fell away from Arista like a discarded cloak. There was no comparison between her and the radiant girl that held Nic’s gaze.
Arista stopped before she reached them. What was she thinking—was she going to pull her knife and demand the woman leave Nic alone? He didn’t belong to Arista. He didn’t belong to anyone except Bones. None of them did.
The fire in her gut turned to ice.
It did no good to wish things were different. Arista knew that. And even though Nic appeared engaged with his companion, his awareness was focused solely on Arista. If she gave him the signal, he’d abandon the woman without a single glance back.
She met his gaze and raised one eyebrow at him. Nic only grinned back at her, his finger now sliding down over the woman’s collarbone. Arista turned away, her long dark curls brushing her back. The curls were an unfamiliar and heavy presence, even now. The wig had become a perfect accomplice to her charade, but she preferred the feel of her own much shorter hair, tucked safely under a wool cap.
After all this time, Arista still had not gotten used to playing the role of Lady A. There was a certain vulnerability in wearing a dress—shoulders bared, breasts accentuated to the point of indecency—that she could not get used to. Even after Becky had raised the neckline, Arista complained it was still too low. By the end of nights like these, she only wanted to retreat back into her normal disguise. As a boy, no one bothered her, apart from an absent swipe or two from a disgruntled workman.
Lord Huntington now stood at the buffet stuffing delicate pastries into his mouth as if this were his last meal. Only a few more minutes, and their business could be started. A dull throb had started at the base of her neck. She wanted to end the evening and go back to the quiet of her room. Absently, Arista rubbed at the source of the pain, and her knuckles brushed against the silk scarf wound around her hair.
“You’ve been to India?” a deep voice from behind her asked.
Arista half turned her head, enough to look up, and found herself face-to-face with a highwayman. A black silk scarf obscured the lower half of his face. He had an equally black hat pulled so low, she could only see a glimpse of his eyes, which were reflecting the flickering candlelight. It might have been a masquerade, but she could almost believe he was an actual outlaw. “Excuse me?” she asked, unable to look away from him.
He fingered her scarf, his touch grazing the back of her neck. Tension coiled just under her skin. Should she stay? Run? The urge to do both overwhelmed her.
“This scarf is from India, if I’m not mistaken. I only wondered if you’d traveled there.” She found herself mesmerized by his rich voice.
“No,” she whispered. “Have you been?”
“Yes.”
His one-word answer sent a thrill of anticipation over her skin.
How often had she visited the docks and watched the ships sail in and out? How many times had she wished she were on one of them, on her way to India? The men at the docks told stories of people who rode elephants and wore colors so bright you had to look away; of air full of the pungent aroma of spices.