An unfamiliar thrill washed over Arista as she stood at the edge of the ballroom and watched the costumed dancers fly by. She was there as Lady A, but no one would recognize her this time. Behind the plain black mask, she was simply a guest. They were expecting a black dress and a raven-feather mask. Lady A’s signature costume.
But dressed as a gypsy tonight, no once glanced at her with disdain. No one whispered as she walked by. And without the threat of Bones over her head, she could not stop the smile that curled her lips. Freedom. This must be what it tasted like.
Dancers whirled around her as she stood watching. Laughter floated through the air, and more than one touch grazed her arm, both male and female. They were subtle invitations. Unspoken offers. How many times had she wished for this very thing?
Lady A’s identity was still anonymous behind the raven feathers, of course—no one knew the girl in the mask—but it was different this time. Not only did they not know the girl under the disguise, but they did not even know she was Lady A.
Spiked punch gave the confident guests reason to talk more. To boast and flirt and disclose secrets meant to be kept silent. Mouths shut tight when the black-cloaked Lady A approached, but a gypsy girl attracted no notice.
It gave Arista the chance to eavesdrop, and make note of bits of gossip that might come in handy at some other time. It also allowed her to move about the room freely, searching for the person she was to meet tonight. Wild had sent another note later that day. She must look for a red kerchief in the left breast pocket of a man dressed all in black.
Wild had supplied no name. Perhaps that was how he intended to conduct business, which was fine by her. She didn’t need a name. Usually she could pick out the guilty party simply by observing the telltale signs of stress. Fidgeting with a neck cloth. Trembling hands. Furtive glances around the room, followed by mopping the brow. All signs that the person was most uncomfortable in their current surroundings.
Given the anonymous nature of a masked ball, discomfort should be the last emotion in a guest. In fact, most times it was the opposite. Complete abandon and indiscretion led to gaiety and false comfort.
Each stride she took exposed a long length of leg, which did not go unnoticed. There were looks of interest in several gazes she met. They reminded her of Grae, and in a moment of self-indulgence, Arista allowed herself to think of him. To wish that he was here with her like before—just two guests, with nothing but time to explore the unfamiliar longing between them.
It was not an uncomfortable thought at all. On the contrary, she’d liked the quickening of her pulse when he had stepped too close. At Lady Carstair’s party, his kiss had rendered her senseless. It was something she wished to experience again—there was no doubt.
With a secret smile on her lips, she made her way around the room, leisurely taking in each person that she passed. Though in disguise, Arista knew there were several of Lady A’s clients in the room tonight. What would they do if they knew she stood so close, brushing against their arms as she walked by?
It was a heady feeling, this power of complete anonymity.
It took her two turns around the perimeter of the room, and two refusals for a dance, before Arista spotted the person she was to meet with. A flash of red caught her eye. A second glance proved the man was dressed entirely in black from head to toe, except for the bright handkerchief in his pocket.
He stood to her right, and in the dim light she could not get a clear look at his face. A jewel-encrusted cane rested on the floor by his side: a grotesque overstatement of wealth, for anyone to see. She curled her lip and moved closer. Tonight there was no threat of physical retribution over her head. Bones was gone. She did this for herself and Becky alone. She walked taller, knowing that she would reap the benefits of this encounter.
She had relied on Nic to protect her before, but tonight she didn’t need a bodyguard. She would control the meeting from this point forward.
Arista moved toward him, the swirling colors of her skirt dancing above her knee. The hem on the right side of her skirt had been fashioned in such a way that when she walked, most of her thigh was exposed. She had strapped her knife to the covered thigh, the opposite side that she was used to.
The practical white blouse had become much less demure when Becky fastened the black corset around it. The top of her chest was pushed out, exposed by the low neckline. Knee-high black boots completed her outfit. Becky had tied the plain black mask in place and wound Arista’s brightly colored silk scarf around her head, letting the loose ends trail down her back.