“I have a strange feeling about tonight.”

Clutching the long skirt of her gown so she didn’t face-plant a sidewalk outside the private home on St. Charles, Rosie stopped midstep and turned to look at Sarah. Rosie had just been dropped off and had found Sarah waiting for her near the corner of the street.

Sarah looked amazing in the similar costume. Being that she was a good head taller than Rosie, had the quintessential peaches-and-cream complexion, and had a mass of blond hair piled atop her head in an elegant updo.

She was dressed like Rosie, wearing the red mask with black lacing and the same long, black-and-red gown with the flowing sleeves and a corseted, lacy bodice so extremely low cut there was a chance the world was going to see Sarah’s girls at some point tonight.

Not that Rosie had any room to talk. If she bent over, there was a high probability she would spill out, and maybe even pass out, because the first thing Sarah did when she saw Rosie was to tighten the corset on her in such a manner she was amazed that her ribs hadn’t broken.

But when Sarah said she had a strange feeling, Rosie listened. “Like a bad, ‘let’s go home right now’ strange feeling? Or just a strange feeling in general?”

Ignoring the annoyed looks from others in period costumes having to walk around them, Sarah closed her blue eyes and stepped closer to Rosie. “It’s a fairly strong feeling.”

Rosie waited for more of an explanation, feeling a fine shiver curl around the nape of her neck. The evening air was cool, but she knew it was more than just the temperatures causing her to shiver. “I’m starting to feel like I shouldn’t have accepted your invitation.”

Laughing at that, Sarah tilted her chin to the side, and Rosie was amazed she didn’t topple over with all that hair piled up on the top of her head. “If I told you that you were going to lose a finger tonight, you’d still be here. You’ve wanted to attend the Masquerade for years.”

“True.” A man walking past them dressed like, Rosie assumed, the vampire Lestat momentarily distracted her. It was quite the authentic costume. She refocused on Sarah. “But you have a strange feeling.”

“It’s not a bad feeling. It’s just that I heard this voice.” A streetlamp flickered on, casting a dim yellow glow on the cornstalk fence that lined the front of the mansion. Sarah turned, lifting the two ivory envelopes to fan herself. Of course the Masquerade didn’t do online tickets or invites. They were old-school, paper all the way. “It was more like a whisper.”

“A whisper?” Rosie was used to this when it came to Sarah, the random whispers and feelings. “Do you know what the whisper said?”

Sarah nodded and a strand of hair slipped forward, brushing the mask. “‘If there is no risk, there is no reward.’”

“Really?” Rosie replied dryly. “Did a ghost whisper a motivational speech in your ear?”

“Funny, right?” She lifted a shoulder. “Did you ever tell any of the de Vincents what happened during our reading?”

Rosie was also used to Sarah’s rapid change of subject. “No. I don’t think they’d believe me, and well, they have their hands full with a lot of things,” she explained, thinking of Nikki. “It’s not the easiest thing to bring up in a conversation with a stranger.”

Surprise widened Sarah’s eyes. “I’m sort of shocked that you didn’t immediately find one of them and tell them.”

Rosie pressed her lips together. It was hard to explain why she hadn’t said anything. Granted, most people would understand why, because it sounded legit crazy pants and it did bother Rosie that she hadn’t shared that info, but it would require her talking to a de Vincent and possibly drawing the attention of Devlin.

Which was probably inevitable since she planned on visiting Nikki again soon.

Sarah studied her a moment and then nodded. “We should get going.”

And then with that, Sarah was walking off into the steady throng of people entering the narrow opening in the fence. It was a good thing Rosie liked weird, because damn, Sarah could be really weird sometimes.

Holding on to her dress, she caught up with Sarah and got a look at the stunning Greek Revival mansion that sat near Loyola University. Rosie had seen it a hundred thousand times it seemed, but never like this. Never on the night of the legendary Masquerade, where the most powerful and the wealthiest in New Orleans rubbed elbows and the sweet Lord knew what else. But Rosie really wasn’t interested in any of them.

She dragged her hand across the small beaded clutch, feeling the small, square voice recorder. Rosie grinned. Her one and only goal tonight was to catch the voice of the ghost of the murdered bride.

She most likely wasn’t going to get the chance again, so maybe whatever voice Sarah had heard had imparted a very important message, if not an incredibly cheesy one. There was no reward without risk.

A team of security guards stood at the gate, which was why it was taking so long to enter, but Sarah flashed their invites and they were soon through, their steps slowing as they entered the property. There was white-and-black lace everywhere, a sea of taffeta and feathered masks and elaborate hairpieces. Ladies painted with fake moles, faces powdered white as rice cakes, and necks glistening with what appeared to be real emeralds and sapphires.

The cloying scent of perfume and cologne mixed with how close everyone was left Rosie a little dizzy. Well, the corset probably had something to do with that, but she pushed through it. There was wine inside, hopefully the really expensive kind she’d never buy, because she was parched.

“It’s really beautiful, isn’t it?” Sarah curled her arm around Rosie’s.

It truly was. The mansion sat back from the street, and it seemed like every inside light was turned on. The large front yard was lit with soft white fairy lights and paper lanterns hanging from poles. The wide walkway led up to a set of steps that were as long as the width of the house.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Rosie said, squeezing her arm. “I know I’ve thanked you already, but it bears repeating. This is an amazing experience.”

Sarah leaned into her, lowering her voice as they reached the steps. “An amazing experience to sneak upstairs into that bedroom?”

Sliding her a coy glance, she feigned an affronted gasp. “How dare you suggest such things.”

“Uh-huh.” Sarah laughed as they climbed the steps. “If you get caught, I don’t know you.”

Rosie grinned. “I’ll make sure I shout your ex-fiancé’s name from the rafters for all to hear.”

“That’s my girl.”

Cooler air teased her heated skin as they crossed into the wide, oval foyer. Voodoo magic had to be the reason they were able to cool the inside with all the bodies crammed together and the doors left open, but she was damn grateful for it. She’d been expecting the place to feel like a sauna, but it was rather airy.

It was hard to get a sense of the space, with the laughter, the hum of conversation, and people everywhere. There was so much to hear and see, she was a little overwhelmed, and it reminded her of trying to navigate the streets during Mardi Gras. She scanned the hidden faces and costumed bodies. If there was anyone here she knew, which was unlikely because she didn’t hobnob with the highfalutin crowd, she wouldn’t recognize them—her eyes widened. Holy baby llamas, the men were wearing . . .

“Breeches,” Rosie whispered, a slow grin tugging at her lips as her gaze swiveled over a lot that was on display in gray, tan, and black super-tight, super-fitted breeches. Many of those legs were paired with pretty authentic-looking riding boots. She hadn’t noticed that outside for some reason. “They’re wearing breeches.”

“That they are.”

Rosie couldn’t look away. “Do you think they’re wearing codpieces under their breeches?”

Sarah snorted.

“You know, so they’d be historically accurate?” Rosie whispered. “Because some of those . . . packages do not look real.”

“I really hope what I am seeing is not the result of codpieces,” she replied and then added, “Some pretty nice butts in the bunch, though.”

A woman in front of them looked over her shoulder, her bright red lips tilting into a faint smile as she blatantly checked them out, her gaze lingering below their chins. “Lots of pretty . . . things here tonight,” the woman replied and then winked before turning back around.

Sarah and Rosie exchanged a long look.

“We need to find something to drink stat.” Sarah kept her arm around Rosie’s. “It should be to the left, in the grand room.”

Rosie let Sarah lead the way and as they broke away from the crowd, she could see more of the grand house. She took in the oak walls and the stunning cypress grand staircase. Rooms were adorned with plaster medallions and elaborate moldings she figured were original.

Sarah was right. Not only was there an open bar in the grand room, the crowd was also much lighter, which was surprising since that was where the liquor was. There was a small group of women by the large window, eyeing the men who stood at the bar.

“Let’s get some sweet, sweet moscato in you.” Sarah grinned. “And get some expensive as hell whiskey in me.”

“Sounds like a marvelous plan,” Rosie said as they neared the bar.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Sarah said in a voice that just dripped with Southern sugar. “May we scoot in?”

Two of the men closest turned and damn if their stares weren’t as blatant as the woman in the foyer. “Of course,” one of the men murmured. He stepped aside, as did the other. Both had fair hair and brown eyes, strong jaws and nice smiles. With half of their faces obscured, that was all she could make out of their features. They were handsome she decided as she smiled at them, because most men were handsome when they wore a mask.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What are you boys drinking?” Sarah asked, and as they answered, Rosie caught the attention of the bartender. Or her breasts did. Whatever worked. She ordered their drinks and then turned to the two men, resting her hip against the bar.

“I want you to find that happiness you had with Ian.”

Her mother’s words crept into her thoughts, unwanted but there and annoyingly loud, too. Did she want that again? Yeah, she did, but she didn’t—realizing one of the men was speaking to her, she pulled herself out of her thoughts. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s okay.” His smile was warm. “I was saying my name is Theo. Yours?”

“Rosie,” she answered, accepting her glass of pink, sparkling wine.

“I like it. Are you from here, Rosie?”

Sipping her wine, she peeked over at Sarah. Her friend was well on the way to forgetting about her ex. “Born and raised. How about you?”

“From Baton Rouge, but I like to think I was adopted by New Orleans,” he answered. “Been here for four years.”

“Well, you know what they say about New Orleans? She either accepts you with open arms or spits you right out.”

“No truer words have ever been spoken.” Theo toasted to that.

Rosie was about to ask what brought him to New Orleans when it happened—the sensation of warm fingers traveling down her spine. It came out of nowhere, and before she knew what she was doing, she looked over her shoulder. Her gaze had landed on him with unnerving accuracy.

The man leaned against the bar, his legs crossed at the ankles and his arm resting on the top of the bar. He was drinking some sort of amber-colored liquor from a short glass and he was staring straight at her. Their gazes met, and the strangest awareness whipped through Rosie, causing goose bumps to spread across her flesh despite the long sleeves.

Wait a second. . . .

Even with a black mask and being too far away to see his eye color, she recognized the perfectly smoothed-back black hair and granite jaw.

Crap on a crusty cracker, it was Devlin de Vincent.

She couldn’t believe it. At no point did she really believe that he’d be here. Nothing about him gave the indication that he’d be at a Masquerade and wearing a mask, but that was him and he looked . . .

Her gaze dropped. He was wearing black breeches and he looked . . . A shiver whipped its way through her, but this one was feverish, as if she was standing too close to a flame.

Oh dear Lord, why was God so cruel? With great effort, she lifted her gaze. In that mask and those pants, he looked like something straight out of a fantasy.

One side of his lips twisted into a smirk as he raised his glass in her direction.

Honest to God, she had the absolute worst luck. She really didn’t want to see him, especially after what he’d said to her at his house.

Before she turned away from him, she lifted her glass of wine and extended her middle finger along the glass, flipping him off.

Rosie refocused on . . . hell, what was his name? She couldn’t remember, and he was now staring at her in a way that said he’d been talking again and she hadn’t been listening. How could she? Even with her back to Devlin, she could feel him, staring at her.

She couldn’t be in this room, and besides, she didn’t come here to flirt with handsome men whose names she couldn’t recall or to have holes drilled into her back.

Murmuring her apologizes to the man before her, she caught Sarah’s eyes. With one look, she knew where Rosie was off to. Ignoring Devlin’s presence at the end of the bar, she walked as slowly as possible from the room, hoping her ass swayed in an enticing way and not like she had a limp.

The only good thing about seeing him tonight was what he got to see. Her and the amazing dress that made her breasts look absolutely divine, so at least there was that.

Determined to not spend one moment stressing over Devlin’s unexpected appearance, she entered the still-packed foyer. There was something going on toward the back of the house, where a band played. She slipped past a group standing near the grand staircase. With her glass of wine in hand, she walked up the steps just like her mother would’ve taught her to do.

Walk like she had every reason to be where she was, and like always, it worked. No one stopped her. No one called out as she trailed a hand along the beautiful wood. She made it to the second floor with a smug smile.

She could totally be a spy.

Or a ninja.

Better yet, a ninja-spy.

Turning to the right, her foot caught on the edge of a runner. She tripped, throwing her free hand out to catch herself. A miracle occurred and she didn’t spill her drink.

Okay, she definitely could not be a spy or a ninja.

Shaking her head, she made her way down the hall that led to the back of the house. Please be unlocked. Please be unlocked. She reached for the handle on the last bedroom to the left. The door swung open, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

She flipped on the light and got a look at the room as she stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. It was pretty small and sparsely decorated. There was just a bed and a nightstand against one wall, a dresser against the one near the door. A standing mirror stood next to a curtained window. Everything was new so, for some reason, she didn’t feel that bad when she placed her wineglass on the nightstand.

What she was doing up in the room without permission was pretty unethical, but no one in her position would’ve passed up the chance. Both Lance and Jilly had done it—multiple times and they’d been caught a lot.

Opening her clutch, she reached inside for the voice recorder.

“Rosie” came a deep, all-too-familiar voice. “What a surprise.”