His accusation—that she’d faked everything between them, simply to gain a new client—hurt more than anything he could physically do to her.
“You have no idea who I am. You know nothing about me or my past, or what I’ve had to do just to stay alive.” Arista covered her mouth and stood. She hadn’t meant to say that much. The tears in her eyes were treacherously close to spilling over. “Just leave me alone.” She whirled around, running blindly for the door.
“Ana! Wait—” Grae’s words followed her through the door.
She stood with her back against the hard wood, taking deep, shuddering breaths. Why did she have the urge to tell him everything? To make him understand that none of this was her doing? She hated the look in his eyes when he’d called her by her name—Lady A—like it was an accusation. That look was familiar, and it made her feel ashamed of who she had to be. How many people had looked at her with the same disgust on their faces, every day of her life? How nice had it been that Grae only knew her as a girl at a party, and not a notorious extortionist?
A quick knock at her inner door sent her pulse racing. Had Grae come back? Would he demand the truth from her? The knock came again. She could not ignore it. He knew she was in her room. Steeling herself, she walked to the door and opened it.
It was not Grae. A strange disappointment settled inside her.
“This just came for you, miss,” Wilson said, handing her a card. “The messenger said to bring it to you straightaway.”
The address was written on the outside, along with her made-up name: Ana. The writing looked unfamiliar, but it could only be from one person—the only other person who knew she was here.
“A trunk was also delivered. It’s in the front hall. Should I bring it to you?”
“A trunk for me?”
“Yes, miss.”
It couldn’t be hers—she had nothing now, after the fire. Not that she’d had much before that. Certainly not enough to fill a trunk. Wilson stood there waiting. She could argue, but she had a feeling it would do no good.
“Yes, please—bring it in.”
Arista quickly closed the door and swung around to press her back against it. She clutched the card tightly in her fist. She had not expected Wild to call so soon. She slipped her finger under the seal and opened the card.
An invitation. Tonight?
Another soft knock came from the door and when she opened it, Wilson stood there with a rather large trunk behind him. “Your things, miss.”
Things? She owned nothing. “Are you sure that’s for me?”
“It came with the card, miss. And this tag has your name on it.” Wilson looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“Of course.” It had to be from Wild, but what on earth was in it?
Wilson pulled it inside the room and set it down. “Your maid is with Sara in the kitchen, if you need her.” He waited expectantly.
“No, that’s fine. Thank you.” She could not keep from staring at the trunk. It was about the size of a crate of vegetables at the market.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind Wilson, Arista pulled the straps free. She lifted the lid and gasped. Inside the chest were clothes. Clothes that were most definitely not hers—she had never owned that many nice things in her life.
She pulled the first dress free and shook it out. The fabric was simple cotton, a rich brown color that looked almost like chocolate. It had a modest neckline lined with delicate lace. Arista held it up to herself. Of course the length was perfect.
She carefully laid it on the bed and dove back in, pulling out several more dresses and undergarments. They were all dark colors, appropriate for a girl in mourning. Wild had thought of everything. At the bottom were shoes and stockings and a pile of dark clothes tied together with string. A note had been pinned to them.
For the esteemed Lady A.
Her fingers shook as she lifted the bundle; it was a reminder that there was a price to the luxuries bestowed upon her.
She set the package on the bed and untied the string, then folded back the paper, revealing more clothing. But this was different. There was a blouse, stark white with a low neckline, lined with ruffles. Next she found a brightly colored skirt, seemingly made from hundreds of different pieces of cloth, sewn together in patchwork fashion. A black corset lay under the skirt. A plain black mask sat on a pair of tall black boots at the very bottom of the pile.
This was all for Lady A? She’d expected a black dress. A raven-feather mask. Instead she’d gotten…the mismatched clothes of a beggar? Arista took the shirt and skirt and walked to the oval mirror in the corner, holding them up.
As soon as she saw her reflection, she knew. A cold dread seeped through her and sank down into her bones. She could almost hear Nic’s teasing whisper in her ear. Wild had not meant for her to go as a beggar at all. Somehow he’d known.
Arista stared wild-eyed at the gypsy looking back at her.