“How?”
He went back to writing. “I know who to ask. He’s holding a masquerade tonight. He loves his masquerades, the more debaucherous, the better. You will need to be dressed appropriately.”
He looked up, green eyes surveying her. “Do you have a domino or a mask?”
She clutched the note. “I do, but nothing risqué like you are suggesting.”
He waved a hand and went back to his page. “One of the tavern outfits will be more than perfect.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you insane?” she hissed. “Who is your friend?”
“John Alcroft.”
She blinked. “I can’t attend a party held by John Alcroft dressed like that. People willknowme there.”
“Not if you are a tavern wench wearing a mask, they won’t.” His pen scritched across the parchment.
“But—”
The scritching halted. “Look, Marietta. No one will notice you or identify you, trust me.” His gaze swept her. “You blend in too well.”
Her stomach tightened. “I realize I’m plain, but that doesn’t mean—”
“You aren’t plain. You are mutable.” He cocked his head. “Able to look differently depending on the situation and what you are wearing or how your hair is fixed. It’s a strength.”
She stared at him, her mouth ajar.
He leaned forward, a smile curving his lips to vie with his piercing eyes. “I’ll bet before this you wore your hair exactly the same way, every day. And your black or brown dresses? The same. You probably tilted your head the same way to every opening conversation salvo. And the way you glared and stared. The same. Rarely did you smile, I’ll bet, and have fun? Not for years.”
The only sounds she could hear were the continued simmering of the soup pot and the heavy beat of her heart.
“And from your silence I can see that I would win that bet easily. So tell me, Marietta. If you redo your hair, apply kohl around your eyes, and attach a mask, do you honestly think someone will recognize you?”
The seconds ticked by. She was frozen. He raised a brow then started scritching again.
No, there was no chance that she would be identified. Either as the boring fringe society member she was or the sister of the Middlesex murderer.
She hadn’t realized her actions were so…predictable. She hadn’t liked being out of control since very shortly after their parents’ deaths. Perhaps she had gone to the extreme.
There was freedom in going to the masquerade as someone else. She opened her mouth to respond when the back door banged open.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?”
A tall man, even taller than Noble, strode into the kitchen, immediately heading for the sideboard without another word. He lifted a bowl and the ladle.
Noble didn’t look up, though she had seen him tense right before the door opened. Now he just shook his head, his grip relaxing around the pen.
“Jeremy, what are you doing here?” His voice was exasperated and…fond?
Jeremy walked to the table. He couldn’t be much older than she—might in fact be younger, it was hard to say. But it was immediately apparent who he was. He had the same cheekbones as her host, though his features were somewhat rounder and more open. Devastatingly attractive as well, but Jeremy was more of a charming, boyish scoundrel, whereas Noble immortalized a dark sexual demon.
Jeremy plunked down so that they formed an off-center triangle and smiled at her—the smile was a little crooked, but all the more charming for it. “Good afternoon. Name’s Jeremy Noble.”
She smiled back. It would be easy to be captivated by such a man. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jeremy Noble. I’m Marietta Winters.”
“The Middlesex murderer Winters?”
Her smile tightened. “One and the same.”
