He’d long accepted that fact.
However, Lord Percival Bretagne had been at this particular supper party. A serious-minded man himself, Bretagne wasn’t a usual comrade of Rhys’s. But Bretagne had a reputation whispered about him—shadowy dealings in the past…perhaps in the present, too. And as Bretagne was a friend of a friend of a friend, and Rhys had needed someone well-versed in shadowy dealings, he’d called on Bretagne and laid his problem at the man’s feet. He’d been that desperate.
And luck of all luck, Bretagne hadn’t dismissed him out of hand. He’d listened and told Rhys he’d see what he could do. He would be in contact.
That was a year ago.
And in the intervening year, Rhys had heard nothing.
Until tonight.
Until from across the dining table, Bretagne had looked him straight in the eye and spoken thirteen fateful words—Sir Felix will be attending the masquerade ball tonight at the Royal Pavilion.
The trajectory of Rhys’s night switched direction in an instant. He’d stood abruptly, claiming stomach disrupt, and hastily scarpered, leaving fifty sets of lifted eyebrows in his wake. Of course, they might’ve expected as much, given it was Lord Rhys Osborne causing the kerfuffle.
Rhys had a reputation.
One, admittedly, he’d earned.
The thing was, he’d been invited to that ball. The invitation had surely made its way to every lord and lady presently in Brighton. As the son of an earl, Rhys counted.
Even if he was only a third son.
So, here he was stepping into the Royal Pavilion at ten in the evening. Beyond its grandiosity, this palace was something of an interesting hodgepodge of India-come-to-England. As if it were an Englishman’s vision of the subcontinent’s grandeur that he would never see firsthand, but had studied in reports and paintings. In fact, Rhys supposed that was exactly what the Royal Pavilion was—King George IV’s dream of Indian splendor. A fever dream, really, with its onion domes and minarets that were neither entirely Indian nor English, but a style all their own.
As Rhys approached the front entrance, he adjusted his thin black mask and presented the footmen guarding the door with the invitation he’d stopped by his hotel to retrieve. Granted entry with a nod and a murmured, “My lord,” Rhys stepped into the dimly lit interior, music from stringed instruments wafting through the air, every dark corner an invitation for close conversation.
Of course, that was entirely the point of a masquerade ball—close conversation…intrigue…amorous pursuits…decadence. Riding along the edge of the music came laughter, too, and gaiety. A feeling of spontaneity sparked through the air, as if anything could happen at any moment—possibility.
A feeling that lifted one out of one’s life for a night.
One didn’t have to be oneself.
One could be anyone.
Of course, dawn would inevitably arrive—and, with it, bleary-eyed reality.
But at ten in the evening, the night was crisp and young.
Dawn—and reality—were hours away.
Except, this wasn’t the narrative Rhys’s night would follow.
He wasn’t here for decadence or gaiety or amorous pursuits.
He’d had enough of those to last him a lifetime.
He was here for Sir Felix Mortimer.
But, really, he was here for redemption.
That was the possibility that lay at the heart of this night for him.
As he wound through opulent, gilded rooms done in the chinoiserie decor so popular in the last century, Rhys caught the light of recognition in several pairs of masked eyes and experienced not an iota of surprise. He was tall and broad-shouldered, black-haired and silver-eyed. He’d stood out in a crowd all his life.
But that wasn’t the only reason he would’ve been recognized.
He would’ve been expected, as in the eyes of Society, he was a waster and a rake.
