Clara was breathing hard, partly from her hasty escape, but mostly from the memory of following a handsome, seductive stranger into the dark shadows beneath a staircase, and feeling the shocking, sizzling lure of temptation.
She had thought she was stronger than that.
Groping for some semblance of normalcy, she glanced around the room in search of her sister, Sophia, the Duchess of Wentworth, and spotted her near the orchestra, conversing with her husband, James.
“There she is,” Clara said to Mrs. Gunther, who was still unaware of what Clara had been up to when she was supposed to be sipping punch. She was now pressing Clara for answers. “Let’s go and tell her that we’ve arrived.”
Mrs. Gunther led the way around the perimeter of the room. Sophia’s face lit up with a radiant smile when she noticed them. Wearing a Charles Worth gown with gold lace and jewel trimmings, topped off by a sparkling tiara—a requisite among married ladies when royalty was present—Sophia met them halfway, leaving her husband to socialize with a group of gentlemen.
“Where were you?” Sophia asked. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”
Clara spoke breathlessly. “We went to the wrong ball.”
“The wrong ball? Which one? And why do you look so pale? Are you unwell?”
Mrs. Gunther spoke haughtily to Sophia. “It was a disgrace.”
Clara gazed imploringly at her sister, who knew her well enough to guess that she wished to speak privately. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Gunther. Perhaps Clara and I could have a moment alone. Would you excuse us?”
Mrs. Gunther’s brow furrowed, but she nodded in agreement and snapped open her plumed fan. “I will wait by the fountain.”
As soon as Mrs. Gunther left them, Sophia led Clara aside to a private corner. “What happened? You look as white as pastry dough.” She reached into her jeweled purse for an embroidered handkerchief and used it to dab at Clara’s forehead. “Perhaps we should find somewhere to sit down.”
“I don’t need to sit down. I’m fine. I just need to know where I was.”
Sophia paused. “How can I possibly—”
“We had to wear half-masks, and there were no dance cards. Everyone was drinking a tart punch that kicked like a mule, and no one wished to be introduced.”
Sophia covered her mouth with her gloved hand. “Oh, dear.”
“What was it?” Clara asked. “Please, tell me.”
“Were you at Livingston House?”
“Yes, and what do you mean, ‘Oh, dear’? Tell me, before I lose my mind.”
“You went to a Cakras Ball,” Sophia finally explained. “But how in the world did you get in?”
“We had an invitation.”
“From where?”
“Mrs. Gunther picked it up from your desk. She couldn’t remember the address of where we were supposed to meet you, so she went through your invitations and thought that Livingston House was the place.”
Sophia shook her head. “Do you still have the invitation with you?”
“Yes, here.” Clara pulled the tattered card out of her purse.
Sophia examined it and touched the small medallion in the corner. “Oh, Clara, I can’t believe you went there. Did anyone see you?”
“Yes, but we were wearing masks.”
“Did you talk to anyone?”
“Yes. And I danced—twice. No, wait. Three times, actually.”
“That’s all? You just danced?”
