Decisively.
Then stepped directly between his mother and Clara.
The music faltered.
Not stopped.
Faltered.
Enough.
Augusta stared at her son.
He held Clara’s white mask in one hand.
His own black mask still covered his face.
“Give that back,” Augusta said.
“No.”
“You will not embarrass me in my own ballroom.”
Julian looked at her.
Then removed his own mask.
The gesture changed everything.
Not because anyone doubted who he was.
Because he had ended the masquerade.
For himself.
Publicly.
“If embarrassment concerns you,” he said, “you should have stopped before taking Miss Bellamy’s mask.”
Augusta stared.
“You do not understand what she is doing.”
Clara made a small sound behind him.
Julian turned enough to see her.
Then back.
“I understand considerably more than you think.”
Augusta’s face changed.
“Julian.”
He lowered his voice.
“She is here because I asked her to be.”
“That is not what I mean.”
“I know.”
He held up the white mask.
“And if you wish to discuss Miss Bellamy’s finances before a ballroom full of people, we can begin with the twenty thousand pounds Father removed from her trust to pay the mortgage on this house.”
Silence.
Real silence.
Not social quiet.
Not listening disguised as dancing.
Silence.
Augusta felt all the blood leave her face.
Clara closed her eyes.
Somewhere behind them, a glass touched a tray with a tiny, impossible sound.
Julian continued.
“Or would you prefer the library?”
Augusta stared at him.
He knew.
Not suspected.
Knew.
She looked toward Clara.
The girl appeared as shocked by the public statement as everyone else.
Good.
At least she had not planned this.
That thought gave Augusta almost no comfort.
Julian turned to Clara.
“I am sorry.”
He offered her the mask.
She looked at it.
Did not take it.
“No.”
His face tightened.
She looked toward Augusta.
Then the room.
“I think we have finished pretending.”
Clara lowered her hands.
Her face remained uncovered.
She walked out of the ballroom.
Every eye followed.
Julian started after her.
Augusta caught his sleeve.
He stopped.
“Do not.”
Her voice was barely audible.
He looked down at her hand.
She released him.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered.
“No.”
“Julian.”
“No more tomorrow.”
The words struck harder than anger.
“You will come to the library now.”
Then he followed Clara.
Augusta remained beneath the chandeliers wearing a gold mask that suddenly felt ridiculous.
The ball did not end.
That would have made too much sense.
Balls had food.
Musicians.
Guests who had traveled.
Carriages scheduled.
Daughters needing to be seen.
Mothers needing to pretend nothing had happened.
Harcourt House continued around the scandal as if the building itself understood aristocracy better than the people inside it.
Lady Amelia found Augusta first.
At nineteen, Julian’s younger sister had their father’s gray eyes and none of their mother’s discipline.
“What did you do?”
Augusta turned.
“Not now.”
“Did you actually pull off her mask?”
“Amelia.”
“I saw it.”
“Then why ask?”
Her daughter stared.
“Who is she?”
Augusta looked toward the door through which Clara disappeared.
“Someone your brother should have left alone.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
Amelia’s expression changed.
“What money?”
Augusta closed her eyes.