“Oh, Ollie girl,” John sighed, raising her hands and kissing her knuckles. “I do not know what’s happened to me. I just need one good investment. Justoneand our luck will turn, I know it!”
“I know,” she sighed. It was what he said every time they found themselves in a pickle- which now seemed almost weekly.
She pulled her hands gently from her father’s grasp and slowly started to circle the table, doing mental calculations in her head as she studied the mountains of paperwork. They would need a small fortune to cover September’s bills, and from her work, she only had about a quarter of what they needed.
“What’s this?” She asked, picking up a face-down envelope.
“Hmm? Oh, I believe it’s from your agency. Perhaps they have another tutoring session available for you,” John replied.
Tutoring was the cover she’d chosen for her real job; which was painting. It had taken years of hard work, but three years ago she had been deemed worthy to be a client for an art agency that served London’s most auspicious residents. She had to disguise herself, of course, and painted under the monikerS.R;the mute painter. She never spoke to anyone when she worked, unable to reach those deep tones to make herself sound like a man- which is what she disguised herself as. Her silence and shabby men’s clothes often got her mocked by her clients, but she’d taken the verbal putdowns and harsh judgment in stride because the jobs paid well and had spared her and her father from eviction.
Ophelia flipped the envelope over, and her body nearly sagged with relief when she saw the red insignia at the top left corner. It had been a couple weeks since her agency had had work for her, and whatever offer was inside couldn’t have come at a better time.
“Yes, it would seem they do,” Ophelia agreed, tucking the letter under her arm, “I need to go to my rooms for a moment, Papa,but when I return we will continue to sort this out, then have some supper.”
She moved to leave, but her father caught her hand, stopping her. When she looked at him she bristled at the pure guilt glistening in his eyes. Unlike most women, she was not good at dealing with other’s emotions. She barely had enough patience with her own.
“I just want you to know how much I appreciate the work you do for our family,” John rasped, sounding on the verge of tears.
“Papa, stop that,” she scolded, wresting her hand from is. “We are family. This is what we do.”
“Not most families,” John choked out. “Most fathers provide for their daughters, not the other way around.”
“I do not wish to be like other families,” she quickly replied. “You love me and accept me for who I am. I will take that over you forcing me into a marriage any day.”
“I will never force you,” John agreed hastily, a look of hesitation crossing his gaze, “However, if you did have a husband, Ollie girl, you would not have the burden of fixing my mistakes. You could have your own life free of my folly.”
“Idohave my own life, Papa,” she insisted, “So stop this nonsense.”
Ophelia left before he could speak further on the subject or make himself more emotional. She had burdens to bear yes, but she would bear them gladly as long as they gave her the freedom of being unmarried. She’d rather work a thousand thankless jobs than be yoked to a man who did not value her for who she was.
In the privacy of her room, Ophelia ripped open the letter. She was expecting another project that would pay a hundred pounds or so, but as she read through the request, her eyes bulged. The offer was willing to pay one-thousand pounds!
Immediately she ran her eyes through the rest of letter, and got her second shock. This was not her average aristocratic client, she discovered, but certainly would be her most infamous one. The offer was signed not with the name of a person, but an establishment.
The Devil’s Masquerade
A crimson-red letter; the coveted invitation of the secret club, was enclosed within the letter from her agency. It detailed the requirements for accepting and when and where to meet the carriage that would take her to the secret location.
Ophelia slowly lowered the letter, her mind reeling with questions and thoughts. She knew of the Devil’s Masquerade for two reasons. One being that it had been the talk of London on and off for nearly three years. There had been multiple attempts at finding the owner of the salacious relations club, and in fact Alistair and Everett had been accused of being such at one time.
Two was that even though they were not the owners, theyweremembers. As were her dear friends Theo and Rose. Amelia and Dominic were as well.
She’d been told stories of the place, and while her friends had expressed happiness over the club, Ophelia had taken those stories as cautionary tales. They might like the club and that was fine. She held no judgment for them. Yet she herself hadneverwanted to visit.
Now though, as she held the offer in her hands- an offer that would help her family greatly- she found herself unable to say no.
CHAPTER TWO
“This is a fine establishment,” the doorman said gruffly, his masked face looking Ophelia up and down with disgust. “A dress codeisrequired, sir.”
Behind her mask, Ophelia fought the urge to roll her eyes, and held out the invitation. She was dressed as she usually was when she took her painting jobs. Loose gray trousers, a white high-collared shirt, and a gray matching waistcoat and jacket. She had piled her long locks of light brown hair into the confines of a gray newsboy cap. She looked far from sophisticated, she knew that, but the loose clothes and low- riding hat helped hide her feminine features, and the full black face mask she’d spent precious coin on covered her face completely.
The doorman plucked the invitation from her hand rather roughly and read down it. A tense, quiet moment passed between them as Ophelia shifted heavy wooden paint and material case on her shoulder. It was a burden and a half to lug around and pained her shoulders something awful, but it did allow the safe keeping her pots of paints and brushes.
“Oh,” the doorman said flatly, handing the invitation back to Ophelia. “You are the painter. I was told you might be coming. I suppose you should come in, but stay close to the foyer and away from the guests. The master would not appreciate you making them uncomfortable. I will have someone come fetch you.”
Ophelia bit back her bitter retort. She didn’t give two rips about the ‘guests’ discomfort’. However she needed the job, and she needed to speak as little as possible. Try as she might Ophelia had never managed to create a false baritone, and no matter what she was simply too feminine. So she pressed her lips together and let the doorman lead her inside. At first all she saw was several ceiling to floor swaths of red and black silk that created a false hallway- but when they were drawn back, she couldn’t help but gasp at what she saw.
