Page 73 of The False Vow

“I dressed without a thought for you.”

Noé smiled. “Oh, I’m sure that you did.” Slinging his own cape over his arm, he leaned closer, eyes glinting in the lamplight. “Did you have a nice time with my father today?”

The change in subject momentarily threw me. “Lovely,” I said, catching up to him. “We were sorry to miss you.”

His mouth pulled higher. “Perhaps you should invite me next time.”

I huffed. “I don’t believe your father would approve of smoking in his precious automobile.”

“No?” Noé hummed, his gaze still trained on mine. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve decided to quit.”

The confession took me aback. Startled, I searched for the jest in it but found nothing. Noé’s eyes were hard, his features resolute; he seemed to be studying me as intently as I was him, as if eager to determine my reaction.

The thought made me suddenly nervous. “You have?” I asked. “Why?”

His expression did not change. “Well, my fiancée told me it was as good as poisoning myself, and I do hate to disappoint her.”

I swallowed. At once, the bodies around us faded; I was aware of only myself and him, watching one another through the dimness. Without warning, my mind jumped to the pair of us in my bedroom, several nights ago. How softly he’d spoken to me after Clio’s attack, my palm on his chest, his heart caged beneath the tips of my fingers.

Match your breaths to mine.

I opened my mouth, and reality pushed back in. From the far side of the room, the attendant shouted, “Twenty-one!”

We glanced in unison at the ticket in my hand, the paper drooping where Henri’s wine had dripped onto it. Clearing his throat, Noé nodded in the direction of the curtained entrance. “That’s us.”

I closed my fist around the slip. My pulse beat overquickly as we made our way through the crowd, like a watch wound too tight. Biting down on my lip, I drew in a breath. Clearly, the claustrophobic nature of the room had stoked my anxiety. I looked forward to getting out.

The attendant took my ticket from me skeptically once we reached him, his gaze snaring on my caul in much the same manner as Henri’s had earlier. When he registered Noé standing to my back, his concern dissipated. Bowing his head, he pulled aside the fabric drape, ushering us through.

Beyond the threshold stood a second chamber. Without the swarm of occupants to warm it, the air here was colder, the area lit solely by the rusting brass candelabras stationed about the room. Aside from the whispered crackle and snick of their flames, the space was entirely quiet; for a moment, I thought it empty, but then my vision adjusted, and I made out a half dozen or so forms sprawled over low, tattered furnishings pushed up against the walls. In their center, a single figure sat upright in an armchair, lounging with one leg crossed lazily over their knee.

Observing them, my stomach plunged to my feet. “Well then,” a familiar voice said. “So you did get my invitation, Miss Lovett.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

I had to give my fiancé credit: However callously I’d brushed aside his claims during our carriage ride, it seemed Noé understood his former friend far better than I did.

Dorian Drake appeared unchanged from my last encounter with him prior to his dismissal as a judge in the Vainglory, when he’d sequestered me in Fortblanche’s far reaches to interrogate me about the whereabouts of Bastian’s missing key. Tonight, he was dressed in a dark suit, the glossy ruff of an ascot at his throat. A pocket watch hung from his waistcoat, polished brass; on his left thumb, he sported a fat golden ring, crowned with a ruby and glinting in the candlelight as though brand-new.

Arranged in a semicircle around him were six silkwitches. Unlike Dorian, the girls were positioned in varying states of repose, clad in identical white dresses with their hair tidily bound up in beaded silver cauls. I recognized Mireille Laurent’s corn-silk tresses on the figure to the far left of the group, though I could not make out the rest of her features.

Her face was hidden from me, covered from forehead to chin by a gauzy scarlet veil. A veiled lady.

My heart stopped. Slumped in his armchair, Dorian settled his attention on my fiancé, his blue eyes scornful. “And Noé is here, too,” he continued. “How sweet. Do you let her tote you around everywhere, old friend?”

He held out an empty crystal glass as he said it. In response, the silkwitch nearest to him shot up from the moldering sofa she was sprawled on and poured him a measure of red wine from a bottle tucked behind it. Like Mireille, she, too, was wearing a veil, so that all I could see was the subservient dip of her head as she filled Dorian’s cup, then retreated. It made her appear spectral, an anonymous, faceless woman in the dark.

As she passed the drink to him, I forced my thoughts into order. Based on the former judge’s opening words to me—his mention of an invitation—it appeared that my guess in the carriage had been correct, and Mireille’s seemingly accidental dropping of her monocle during the Maiden’s Race hadn’t been such an accident at all. Dorian had evidently been hoping to lure me here. But where was here exactly? And why had I been summoned?

I spoke. “The advertisements in the papers,” I said, meeting Dorian’s stare. “They’re yours.”

He smirked. “And you’ve been asking questions about them,” he replied with a nod. “Even pestering my idiot uncle for clues as to my whereabouts, or so I’ve heard. I do still have a few friends in Fortblanche.” Exhaling, he sipped moodily from his wineglass, then set it down. “I figured if you wished to speak to me so badly, the least I could do was oblige your request.”

His eyes still trained on mine, he lifted a hand and motioned to the silkwitches.

“Ladies! My friends and I require privacy. Go mingle—and remember, no free favors.”

Obediently, they rose, filing past Noé and me through the curtain to our backs. I attempted to catch Mireille’s gaze as she brushed by me, but her veil made it impossible, disguising her expression completely. All I made out was the flutter of something beyond the fabric—her lashes as she blinked, perhaps—like a moth behind a curtain, and then she was gone.