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Not that any part of her scandalous dress allowed her to blend in.
She might as well be a red flag in the middle of a bullpen.
To Bronwyn’s shock, the ball gown her dour, unimaginative mother had chosen was practically indecent. Red, lacy, and much too provocative. She had to be truly desperate to barter her daughter off as quickly as possible to the peer of her choosing. And a boring one at that. The masquerade theme was unoriginal in the extreme—Roman gods and goddesses. No surprise there from an aristocrat named Herbert. Bronwyn could point out a dozen Venuses and Apollos.
Thought it was more than likely that Lady Borne had commissioned the bold red gown, long before Bronwyn’s disappearing act, with one thing in mind: A splendid—and altogether swift—engagement.
Bronwyn sighed with a discreet tug to her bodice while smoothing the voluminous skirts, and sipped on warm ratafia. Under other circumstances, such a luxurious gown would make her feel beautiful—the black Venetian lace over the red was truly a work of art—but while she was trying to avoid the attention of one persistent lord in particular, the dratted color was worse than a beacon! Luckily, a large column at the side of the ballroom served as a wonderful hiding spot.
It offered a lovely nook resting adjacent to an enormous statue of Jupiter, one of the many sculptures placed all around the massive room. Guests whirled and danced, most wearing masks, and all in grand costumes, but no one took notice of her. ThankGod.
“The roses in my garden are inundated by weeds.”
She jumped at the low male voice, but excitement pooled in her chest. “Perhaps you should invest in a sharp pair of shears.”
“When the weather is good, I shall.”
With gladness, Bronwyn moved to turn toward Wentworth, but was stopped by a low hiss. “Don’t turn too quickly. I’m on the other side of this column. There are too many eyes and ears about.”
She lifted her glass and pretended to take another sip, hiding her lips. “Where have you been? I was nearly arrested and shot.”
“I heard. I am sorry I could not offer assistance. I was also in hiding, after an assignment gone wrong in Washington.”
Washington? He’d been in America as well? Bronwyn blinked. Then why had he sent her to Philadelphia? “Listen carefully. There’s a traitor in the War Office. I received word of an urgent cable. The American president was shot an hour ago at Ford’s Theatre.”
Horror filled her. “Is he dead?”
“We don’t know yet. He was taken somewhere for treatment.”
Bronwyn’s heart went cold. Her actions weeks ago had thwarted a kidnapping but the attackers had persevered. Sadness flooded her at the loss of a man who had been working toward equality for all, something the world desperately needed. “Will he survive?”
“I hope so.” Wentworth went quiet as a couple walked past them around the perimeter of the room. “I need the list of names from that report.”
“I don’t have it with me,” she whispered, her stomach clenching at the sound of the duke’s name and the report that belonged to him. “Wentworth, what is going on? Is this related to the man after me?”
He made an angry sound. “I’ll send word via Sesily for the list.”
“Wait,” she whispered, but he was gone. Damn it! Things had to be awful if he couldn’t help her and was worried about his own neck. Thornbury’s list included many names she hadn’t recognized. Was one of them English? And possibly the traitor?
The hairs on her nape rose as a new presence drifted over. “Who were you talking to?”
Valentine.
She glanced up at him, her gaze colliding with a burning amber stare and making a river of heat travel to every pulse point in her body. God, what he could do with those eyes alone was indecent! She cleared her suddenly dry throat. “No one.”
“There was a man dressed as Neptune in a fish mask on the other side of this pillar.”
She feigned confusion. “I did not see anyone.”
His lip curled, though anger flashed in his eyes. “But you didhearhim, did you not? That seemed to be quite an intense, cozy conversation. Was he your contact?”
“If you’re so interested in him, whoever he was, why don’t you go harass him?” She glared at the duke, even as his full mouth flattened. “Why aren’t you in costume? Too uninventive and dreary to come up with an idea?”
“I’m not here for entertainment, Lady Bronwyn.”
“Mars, perhaps? With that scowl, you could be the Roman god of war. Ah, I’ve got it! Pluto, god of the underworld, but that would be too much on the nose, don’t you think? I do credit you with a little more imagination than that.” Her gaze traced him from the tip of his crown to his raven-black evening clothes and polished boots, ignoring how well the tailored jacket fit his broad shoulders and the snug lines of his trousers over strong legs. “Never mind. I know who you are. You’re Janus, the two-faced god of duality, one face to the past and the other to the future.”
A grim laugh broke from him. “Clever. And who are you supposed to be?”
