What did it matter if he thought her behavior odd? Everything would be over soon. She no longer had to concern herself with acting appropriately. She was about to commit the ultimate sin. She was about to avenge her sister. It was rather freeing.
She swirled away from Hereford, met again with Wiltshire. This time her throat didn’t feel as constricted. “It’s lovely to see you again, Lord Wiltshire.”
He quickstepped around her and returned to her front. “You have an unfortunate advantage over me, madam.” His eyes flicked from her face to her bosom and back. “I am loathe to admit to not recognizing such a lovely woman. Even with your face covered, I feel sure that I should know a woman with such”—his gaze dropped again to her breasts—“bountiful charms.”
She gave him her best airy laugh before following the dance to return to the line of women. She’d never practiced airy laughs before. Flirtations had been Lydia’s area of expertise, not Cassie’s. But it must have been performed well enough for when the dance brought her and Wiltshire together for the third and final time, he gripped her fingers uncommonly tight.
“You must tell me your name, madam, so we are on equal footing.” He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. “I insist upon knowing every beautiful woman in the room.”
Her stomach churned so much she worried about casting her accounts up all over his boots. Although there would be some satisfaction in that, it would not serve her purpose. “What’s in a name?” she said lightly. “But if you want to uncover my identity, I will be taking a turn about the gardens after this dance. I understand the Stockton’s have a particularly lovely fountain in its center.”
“I—”
Hereford returned, reclaiming her hand for the last turn down the aisle. “Was that man bothering you?”
The flintlock pistol she’d taken from Wilberforce’s desk felt heavy on her leg. The skirts of the domino gown hid it well, but still she worried everyone would notice. “No. Why do you ask?”
Hereford hesitated. “He was…leering.”
The music came to its conclusion and Cassie dipped into a curtsy. “With this tight of a bodice, a leer is hardly unusual.”
Hereford blinked, but to his credit kept his gaze on her face. “Yes. Well. Let one of us know if someone does bother you.”
She nodded. The movement was jerky. She could no longer even force a smile. Turning from Hereford, she threaded her way to the open doors that led onto a patio. The night air was like a slap to her heated face. Ignoring the guests milling about on the terrace, she descended the stairs down into the gardens. Each step took her away from the lights of the house. Each step took her away from the woman she used to know. Used to be. The moment had come. She was no longer Cassandra Moore, daughter, sister, friend…lover.
An ache sprang to life behind her breastbone. She pulled her shoulders back and kept walking. She was now Cassandra Moore, killer.
She reached the fountain, a large, garish thing, exploding with naked cherubs. The imp at the top held a basket of overflowing water, bending at his waist, smiling, inviting the viewer to join in his merriment.
It was an ugly, stupid fountain. And her sister had died at its base.
She pressed her palm to her thigh, felt the curving edge of the pistol’s handle beneath her skirts. It was both reassuring and repulsive.
She was going to kill a man tonight.
It didn’t take long for Wiltshire to find her. But then, he knew the way. He’d been here before. He trailed a finger down her spine. “That which we call a rose by any other name, would it smell as sweet?” he quoted. He lowered his head. “Do you smell as sweet as a rose, my little domino? I bet you taste even sweeter.” His breath gusted across her neck, and she jumped away.
He laughed. “You’re not going to play the tease now, are you?”
She turned to face him. His mask was on top of his head again. His eyes twinkled in the moonlight. He looked like a drunken fool, a man led by his Roger, as Hereford’s mistress would say. Pathetic. Weak.
And she was going to kill him.
“No. No teasing.” She planted her foot on the base of the fountain. She never took her eyes from him as she inched her skirts up.
His gaze eagerly followed the hem of her gown as it rose over her calf, bared her knee, slid across her thigh.
With a deep breath and a prayer to her sister, she pulled the gun from its holster and leveled it on Wiltshire.
His forehead scrunched. “I don’t understand.”
No, he wouldn’t understand being the hunted one. Prey.
“I had hoped to choke you to death. Make you die the way you did my sister.” Her hand quivered, and she braced it with her other. “Even in your cups, though, you’re too strong for that. Shooting you is the second-best alternative.”
“Why?” His bewilderment seemed genuine. But he was good at deception. He had convinced Lydia he had a heart.
“Five years ago tonight.” Her voice was harsh. Ugly. It matched how she felt. “My sister waited for you in this very spot. Is this when she told you she carried your child? Did she want you to marry her? Is that why you killed her?”
