“Is it a riddle, or a poem?” Juliana murmured in Tristan’s ear. It didn’t sound like a critique, strangely enough.
“Both, I think,” he responded, sparing her a glance.
The young woman stood where she was, fingers twisted in front of her waist. She wore a mask, of course, but only a domino. She squinted somewhat blindly at the audience, and he found himself wondering if she wore spectacles. She could not, of course, wear spectacles with a domino mask. There was dogged determination in her eyes as she waited for a response. A murmur ran through the crowd—the Devils did love a riddle, after all—but nobody spoke up.
What am I?The question hung in the air.
Juliana cleared her throat and leaned forward.
“A woman,” she answered, her voice clear and loud enough to carry across the room. “That is the answer to your riddle.A woman.”
The young riddler gave a brief, acknowledging smile, nodded, and then dropped a curtsy.
Applause began to filter through the room, dubious at first and then growing in strength. Itwasan interesting poem-riddle, and more importantly, it was something new, fresh, and snappy.
Juliana leaned back, allowing herself a wry smile. “What an interesting idea. At least it was shorter than the previous poem. What do you think, Tristan?”
Tristan did not immediately answer. He watched the woman climb down from the platform and scurry across the room. She was heading toward one of the exits.
Not so fast,he thought abruptly, and got to his feet.
“Do excuse me, Miss Bolt,” he said, not waiting for a response, and set off at a loping stride.
The crowd moved deferentially out of his way, allowing him to reach the opposite doorway at almost the same time as the woman, who had been forced to fight through groups of people who did not seem to have noticed her.
She slipped through the first doorway and into a narrow foyer beyond, offering a little privacy after the heat and crush of the main room. She reached for the next door, the one that would spit her out onto a narrow side street beside the Devils’ building. There was supposed to be a footman on duty here, but the fellow was nowhere to be seen. Probably smoking a pipe out in the alley.
She wasn’tquitefast enough. Tristan placed his hand on the door just above her head, pressing his weight against it. That was all that was needed to slam the door closed. A gust of cool air swooped inside the foyer.
The young woman gave a squeak of alarm and spun around to face him, eyes widening. He half expected her to scream, perhaps to kick him in the shins. She did neither, only pressed herself back against the door and stared up at him.
“My dear lady,” Tristan murmured thoughtfully. “I hate to ask, but you seem so very unfamiliar. Do you have an invitation?”
Oh, bother,Madeline thought. The word did not quite do justice to her situation. Swallowing thickly, she stared up at the man.
Her first impression was that he was a giant. Of course, being so very short herself, Madeline was used to being towered over, but really, this man washuge. His shoulders seemed as wide as the doorway, and there was no sign of the padding and corsetry some gentlemen used to fill out their arms, chests, and shoulders.
Not that she should be looking at those parts of him. Madeline dragged her gaze upwards, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
He had strange eyes, amber-colored and a little lighter than one might expect from a man of his coloring. In some lights, his eyes almost appeared red. He had auburn hair, only a few shades away from a dark brown—barely red at all by candlelight. Generally speaking, the duke was considered a good-looking man, if a rather strange one. Most of the audience wore masks tonight, but he had not bothered.
“Your Grace,” Madeline managed, her voice coming out as a mousy squeak. She cursed herself and her anxiousness, but plowed on. “Do excuse me. I was just leaving.”
He lifted one brownish-red eyebrow. “Oh? How did you get in? I’ll wager that you aren’t part of theTon’s Devils. Oh, calm down, my nervous little mouse. You aren’t in trouble. Not yet, at least. Not unless the Duke of Arkley takes exception to your being here. Evenhiswife is not in attendance.”
Madeline bit her lip and said nothing. Her friend, Charlotte, was now the Duchess of Arkley, and her husband, the Duke, was a key member of this particular club.
Madeline did not generally bother herself with these silly clubs and their rivalries, but even she was aware that there were two major clubs in London: theTon’s Devilsand theOrions.One could not be a member of both, to be sure. Isaac was aTon’s Devil, and Charlotte’s brother was anOrion. Apparently, that mattered a great deal.
They’ll all know I was here,Madeline thought with a rush. She knew why Charlotte was not here tonight. She’d heard the other poems that had been recited. They werenotsuitable for ladies. Besides, with women like Juliana Bolt here, no respectable lady would want to be seen dead in this building.
It’ll kill Papa if he finds out.
“I only wanted to recite some poetry,” Madeline blurted out, staring up at the duke. He was the Duke of Tolford, sheremembered with an effort. That was his proper title. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
He still had his hand planted on the door just above her head, preventing her from yanking it open and making her escape.
“I’m not sure your poem was very relevant to tonight’s theme,” the duke murmured, tilting his head.
