Clara’s cheeks reddened beneath the lower edge of the mask.
“I assure you—”
“I reviewed the list myself.”
Julian said:
“And I altered it.”
Augusta stared.
“You what?”
“I invited Miss Bellamy.”
“Without telling me.”
“It is my house.”
The words were quiet.
That made them worse.
Augusta felt every year of the previous nine months gathering behind her ribs.
His house.
His title.
His estate.
His decisions.
Sir William Harcourt had been dead less than a year, and already Julian spoke like a man determined to remove every structure his parents had built around him.
“You might have mentioned it.”
“I am mentioning it now.”
Clara whispered:
“My lord, perhaps I should go.”
“No.”
Julian answered immediately.
Augusta looked at him.
That one word told her more than a declaration would have.
“Of course.”
She laughed.
Clara stiffened.
Julian’s eyes narrowed.
“Mother.”
Augusta looked around at the masked faces pretending not to listen.
She should have stopped.
She knew that later.
But fear often disguised itself best when dressed as indignation.
“You enter my home under a mask,” Augusta said to Clara, “after being denied an invitation, and now you propose to leave before anyone sees who has caused the disturbance.”
Clara went pale.
Julian stepped forward.
“She was not denied.”
“You had no invitation when my secretary closed the list.”
“I sent one afterward.”
“To Lady Fenwick?”
“To Miss Bellamy.”
Augusta’s stomach tightened.
Directly.
He had invited her directly.
That mattered.
Not socially.
Personally.
Augusta looked at Clara again.
“You received a personal invitation from Lord Harcourt?”
“Yes.”
The girl’s voice remained steady.
“How fortunate.”
Julian’s expression hardened.
“Enough.”
Augusta ignored him.
“What exactly did you tell him?”
Clara stared.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You understood me.”
“Mother.”
“Did you explain your aunt’s situation?”
“Did you explain the letters?”
Clara stopped breathing.
There.
Julian’s face changed.
Augusta saw.
He knew about the letters.
Her fear sharpened.
Clara said softly:
“I have explained nothing tonight.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You simply happened to find yourself alone with a viscount at his own masquerade.”
Julian moved between them slightly.
“Mother.”
Augusta looked around.
More people were watching now.
The orchestra had begun another piece, but the nearest dancers remained suspiciously slow in joining.
Augusta could still retreat.
She could smile.
Take Julian aside.
End this.
Instead she saw Clara’s white mask.
A disguise.
Protection.
Anonymity.
Something about it enraged her.
“If you are so certain of your right to stand here,” Augusta said, “then you hardly require this.”
She reached forward.
Clara stepped back.
Too late.
Augusta caught the ribbon.
One sharp movement.
The white mask came free.
Clara gasped.
The room seemed to inhale with her.
Augusta lifted the mask almost without realizing she was doing it.
For one terrible second she stood before half the ballroom holding the thing above shoulder height like proof of a crime.
Clara’s uncovered face went white.
Her hands rose toward her mouth.
Someone whispered her name.
“Bellamy?”
Another voice:
“Edward Bellamy’s girl?”
Julian moved.
He took the mask from Augusta’s hand.
Not violently.