Miss Camellia Grenville stood just outside her mother’s sitting room, too nervous to bring herself to knock upon the door. She inspected her skirt for wrinkles.

Why had she been summoned to her mother’s private parlor? Camellia was never summoned anywhere. She was the good daughter. Her headstrong younger sisters were frequently called to the carpet, but Camellia? Never. She was the sensible one. The shy one. The elder spinster sister who would be perfectly happy to live the rest of her quiet life in the same living quarters she’d enjoyed since leaving the nursery years earlier.

Camellia never rocked the boat because she liked her life exactly as it was. Comfortable. Predictable. Never more than an arm’s reach from home and family. Surrounded with books and music and laughter. Her biggest fear was that one day, her parents would tire of the unseemly rambunctiousness of their youngest two girls, and marry Bryony and Dahlia off to the first available suitors, leaving the house preternaturally quiet and Camellia all alone.

Her hands went clammy. Perhaps that was exactly what was happening. And she, as elder sister, would be expected to break the news.

She swallowed hard and forced herself to knock upon the door.

“Daughter, is that you? Come inside, darling. Tea will arrive at any moment.”

Camellia warmed. Not only had she never before received an unexpected summons, she also had never been invited to a private tea. The idea sounded lovely. Tea with Mother would no doubt be quite a departure from Camellia’s usual spot nestled into a safe corner of the girls’ sitting room to watch the younger two giggle and argue. Yet the lump of worry in her stomach only increased.

She smoothed the wrinkles from her day dress and entered the room.

Mother sat perched on the edge of a chaise longue, her silver-streaked brown locks expertly pinned into a gorgeous chignon. With a wave of her perfectly manicured fingers, she gestured for Camellia to take the seat opposite.

“Sit, darling. A lady must never stand about like a servant awaiting orders.”

Camellia sat, well aware that doing so was still following orders.

“Is something amiss, Mother?”

“Amiss?” Mother clasped her fingers to her chest in something akin to rapture. “Quite the opposite. The future is finally falling into place. Darling, you’re going to be married!”

“I’m…” Words failed her as Camellia gripped the edges of a wingback chair, grateful than she’d taken the advice to sit down before her mother’s pronouncement could knock her over. “Me? Married? To whom?”

“His name is Mr. Irving Bost, and he is a mature, respectable gentleman in want of a mature, respectable bride. He has chosen you for that honor. Congratulations, darling.”

Camellia stared at her mother in utter stupefaction. Not because she didn’t understand what was happening—but because she did. The news could not have been worse.

In polite conversation, a “mature” gentleman meant he was old enough to be her father. Conversely, a “mature” bride meant that Camellia was a spinster, and ought to consider herself lucky to have him.

She had a vague recollection of meeting Mr. Bost. He wasn’t especially handsome, but he had all his hair and his teeth and a large library and a kind smile. He was unexceptional and unobjectionable.

And if she didn’t stop this right now, he was going to be her husband.

“He’s twice my age,” she stammered in desperation.

Her mother airily waved a hand. “Many marriages are that way. Why, I was twenty years younger than your father, and everything worked out fine, did it not? If anything, Mr. Bost’s age is an advantage. He has already sown his wild oats and is ready to settle down. Why would you want an immature lad when you could have a grown man?”

“Not immature,” Camellia interjected, unable to hide her frustration. “I simply meant less…”

Less what? Stodgy had been the first word to come to mind, followed by boring, both complaints that would have impressed her mother as being quite ironic indeed.

Unfortunately, Miss Camellia Grenville was not known for being stodgy and boring. Miss Camellia Grenville wasn’t known at all, because she was stodgy and boring.

In fact, she found it unlikely that Mr. Bost—or, well, anyone—would have called upon her parents seeking the nondescript elder sister’s hand in marriage. More likely, he had glimpsed Bryony or Dahlia somewhere outrageous and had come in search of one of them, only to be told that the Grenvilles could not possibly part with one of their younger daughters until the eldest had made her match, and wouldn’t Camellia do just as well?

“Is it my dowry?” she asked weakly.

The daughter of a baron was not the same as the daughter of a duke or an earl, but her family was by no means poor. All three sisters boasted a respectable dowry, expressly designed for the purpose of attracting suitors.

Mother laughed. “Darling, you needn’t worry about money ever again. Mr. Bost may not be Croesus, but his accounts are quite flush. You shan’t want for a single thing.”

Wouldn’t she? Camellia pushed the thought away and forced herself to smile. She would make the best of the situation. She always did.

“We would live here in London?” she asked.

“Northumberland, actually,” Mother replied. “Mr. Bost has a picturesque estate not far from the Scottish border. Positively enchanting, he tells us.”

All the way north to Scotland? Horror engulfed Camellia. Nowhere could be farther from London, from her family, from everything and everyone she knew and loved. That wasn’t enchantment. That was hell.

She tried to think. What else did she recall about Mr. Bost? He admired the out-of-doors, but only from afar. His propensity to wheeze during any exertion meant he not only wouldn’t be riding horses with her across the rolling hills, but also Camellia’s dreams of nature walks and other such activities with her future husband would stay just that. Dreams.

Mr. Bost wasn’t destitute. He did not need her dowry. He wanted a nice quiet mouse to live in his nice quiet cottage in the middle of the nice quiet countryside. Who better than Camellia Grenville? Her fingers went numb. This was a disaster. She might be the answer to his problems, but he would be the cause of hers.

She didn’t want to seal herself inside nature-proof walls with no one but him for company. They had never spent more than a few moments together. He was a stranger. Her sisters were her best friends. His home was at least a six-day drive. Even if he were a royal prince, living so far from her family would be a nightmare. Her hands trembled at the thought.

“Look, darling.” Mother lifted a hand toward the door as a pair of maids brought in the tea service. “I had Cook send up your favorite lemon cakes. Have as many as you like. We’re celebrating!”

Camellia was closer to screaming than celebrating.

She simply could not possibly bring herself to do it. Could not, would not, wed a man twice her age and live the rest of her life far away from her family.

Except her parents weren’t giving her any other options.

If Mr. Bost wished to have her, then so he would. That was what being a dutiful daughter meant. This was her path. Camellia had always been the good girl. She would do as she was told. As she had always done.

And because she would do the right thing—because she was already firmly on the shelf and her desperate parents had despaired of receiving any offers for her at all—by accepting this suitor, Camellia’s younger sisters could finally have the attention they’d been denied due to the presence of an unwed elder sister in the house. She should be pleased. Relieved to be out of their hair.

Mr. Bost was not her choice. She couldn’t be more miserable.

Her stomach sank. She’d always dreamed that choosing a suitor would be the one moment in her life when she was actually able to do what she wanted. But it was not to be. Once she was married, it wouldn’t even be her well-meaning parents making all her decisions for her. It would be her husband. A stranger whom she would be expected to obey in all things. Even if it meant her own skin had become a cage.

“Such a fine match,” Mother said with obvious pride. “Mr. Bost is a kind man. He might even allow you to sing a little when you’re not occupied with your other responsibilities. Even if he is not so musically inclined, I am certain no husband could object to you humming quietly in a separate room.”

The thought failed to conjure images of wedded bliss. Camellia’s fingers shook. Singing was the one thing she loved almost as much as her family. It was more than a mere hobby. It was her passion. The only time she truly felt free. And now perhaps that too would be gone forever. “He’s still downstairs speaking with Father, I presume?”

“Oh, I’m afraid not. Mr. Bost left at once. He must be out of London by now.”

“He… left?” Camellia echoed in disbelief.

Mother selected another teacake. “It’s a very long drive back to Northumberland, darling. He was wise not to dawdle. There are highwaymen in the dark.”

“But… did he not wish to talk to me?”

Mother’s forehead creased in genuine befuddlement. “About what?”

About what, indeed. Camellia rubbed her temples in frustration. This was a nightmare. She had never felt more like a nonentity. And yet, what had she expected?

Her parents had never asked for her opinion about anything at all. Not because they were cruel, but because it had not occurred to them that she might have one. They never asked what their daughter thought or wanted because it was irrelevant. She knew what was expected of her. They were confident she would do the right thing. As she always did.

“I’m delighted for you, darling.” Mother leaned forward to give Camellia an excited pat on the knee. “It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving young lady. You’ve never given your father or me the least bit of trouble, and we know you’ll do the same for Mr. Bost. Your father even told him so. ‘A perfect wife.’ Mr. Bost will return in a month to sign the contract and submit the first banns. You’ll be wed in no time!”

Camellia was far from delighted. Her flesh crawled at the thought of being married to a man who chose a wife without consulting the woman in question.

Yes, she knew such circumstances were not unusual. There were many young ladies desperate to secure their futures, who would consider Mr. Bost a fine catch. Amongst Camellia’s set, marriages were often business transactions, political deals, necessary evils to beget an heir. But a part of her had always hoped…

Her teacup rattled against its saucer, and she placed it back on the tray before it fell from her lap. Her appetite had long since vanished.

“Might I be excused, Mother? The news is… something of a shock.”

“Oh, certainly, darling. You must be dying to share your good fortune with your sisters. Perhaps they will even come to visit you someday!”

Her smile brittle, Camellia pushed herself out of the chair and down the hall before her mother’s well-wishes could destroy her mood even further. Panic sluiced through her veins.

A fine pickle she’d got herself into this time. Northumberland. Mr. Bost. Impossible. There had to be a way out.

Her place was here, with her family. Her sisters counted on her for companionship and advice. She couldn’t leave them. Because of her practical nature and logical mind, her sisters had always considered Camellia the “smart” one. What would they think now? She certainly didn’t feel clever. She felt trapped. Soon, she would be expected to trade the life of a wallflower for one of even more isolated domesticity. Her skin went cold.

If she were a wallflower by choice, by nature, perhaps the prospect would not seem so grim. But she had always done what was expected of her not because of a personal affinity for propriety, but because someone had to be respectable. Their brother Heath was clearly unsuited for the task, and besides—men were judged by a completely different standard.

Which left Camellia. Elder sister to two incorrigible dreamers. Bryony, the hoyden, and Dahlia, the big heart. Both had always looked up to Camellia. Been scolded by their parents that they should be more like their sister. But this was not a path Camellia wished them to follow. She hoped they might find love matches.

Or at least be granted a token consultation prior to presenting themselves to their father.

With a sigh, she peered into the sisters’ shared sitting room. As usual, the girls were in the midst of a heated, animated discussion.

“Lord Wainwright is the soap scum from the bottom of a communal bathing bucket,” Dahlia declared from her habitual perch in one of the large bay windows. She was far too restless to sit behind an escritoire, and preferred to employ a travel writing desk on her knees so she could look out upon London. Today, her red-rimmed eyes were not on the city, but on the battered correspondence piled on her lap. “He has ruined my life, and the lives of two dozen innocent young ladies in the process.”

Camellia’s heart caught in dismay. She had thought her day was as bad as it could get, but that was before someone had hurt her sister. She clenched her fists as anger flooded through her.

Bryony set down her curling tongs to meet her sister’s gaze in the looking glass. “The earl is unquestionably a shallow, arrogant Corinthian, but I am not certain you can refer to the residents of a school for wayward girls as ‘innocents.’” She frowned in consideration. “Or ladies.”

“That’s the point of the school.” Dahlia rubbed her face, her eyes dejected. “To teach proper comportment and give them a chance for a better future. Or at least that had been the plan, until Lord Wainwright convinced everyone to retract their donations.”

Camellia’s mouth fell open in horror. Good heavens. Of all the despicable—

“He what?” Bryony leapt up from the dressing table. “The school lost all its donations? That is unconscionable. I thought you were exaggerating about Lord Wainwright ruining innocent lives, but without that money… What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Dahlia said bleakly. “Without donations, I cannot continue to purchase food or pay the chef or the instructors.” Spine curved dejectedly, she leaned against the window pane. “We can’t toss the girls back out to the streets. But if they stay… they starve.” She lifted her head. “I suppose I could always go back to—”

“You will not return to thievery.” Camellia marched into the room, her tone final. The threat was real.

When Dahlia was much younger, she had once been caught stealing food and garment scraps earmarked for the rubbish bin and delivering them to rookery orphanages instead. Their parents had very nearly disowned her. They asserted that neither sculleries nor rookeries were the place for a lady.

“It’s not thievery when it’s trash,” Dahlia insisted. “If the rich have no use for their rubbish, why not give it to someone who does?”

“Fair point.” Bryony nodded slowly. “We cannot let her wards starve or sell themselves in the streets. Lord Wainwright has ruined the only chance to raise reputable money. What else is she supposed to do?”

“Nothing.” Camellia tightened her fingers in determination. “I will handle it.”

“How?” Dahlia’s shoulders slumped. “There is no other way to raise money. My funds will be dry within the next month.”

Camellia took a deep breath. She would handle it. She had been saving her sisters for years. This might well be her last chance to do so. She squared her shoulders. “I shall ask my husband for the money.”

“Your what?” A pile of wrinkled correspondence fell from Dahlia’s lap as she shoved her writing desk aside. “What husband?”

“It is my honor to inform you…” Camellia struggled to keep the hitch from her voice. “It seems Father has betrothed me to a mature, respectable stranger in want of a mature, respectable wife. In six weeks’ time, I will be Mrs. Bost.”

“What?” Dahlia repeated in a horrified whisper. “Cam, no.”

“Mother assures me his accounts are quite flush. Since he has no particular need for my dowry, certainly he can spare a portion for a worthy cause.”

“You cannot mean to marry him.” Bryony’s countenance was pale.

“What choice do we have? The marriage contract is being drawn up now. If at least one good thing can come of it…” Camellia swallowed. “Even if he has no wish to become a permanent patron, with luck his donation will carry the school forward until Dahlia can attract new funding.”

“Damn that Lord Wainwright.” Bryony’s eyes flashed. “This is all his fault. Why couldn’t he have left us alone?”

“Watch your tongue,” Dahlia said tonelessly. Her shoulders curved. “Ladies shouldn’t curse. Or steal rubbish. Or betroth themselves to save someone else.”

Camellia eased down onto the fainting couch and hoped she wouldn’t need it. “Tell me what happened. Why would Lord Wainwright wish to dismantle a deportment school? What exactly did he do?”

“He doesn’t know the first thing about my school.” Dahlia’s lips flattened. “The brute managed to jeopardize the entire enterprise simply by being the sort of person he is: a rich, handsome, frivolous rake.”

Camellia reared back, aghast. “He didn’t even realize what he’d done?”

“Do rakehells ever?” Dahlia rubbed her temples. “I was at Lady Kingsley’s dinner party. I would still be there now, but I couldn’t bring myself to stay after…” Her gaze unfocused. “The ladies at the table have supported many charitable causes over the years, and had agreed to help fund mine. We were just finalizing the details when Lord Wainwright strode into our midst.”

Bryony twisted her lips. “All it takes is a single glance from his entrancing hazel eyes and every woman in the room starts fluttering her fan to her bosom to calm her racing heart. You know what he’s like. So handsome it’s hard to breathe.”

Like her sisters and the rest of the ton, Camellia had once been just such a ninny. Every debutante dreamed of dancing with the rakish earl. The spinsters and the widows dreamed of far more. Caricaturists from Gillray to Cruikshank delighted in chronicling the swath Lord Wainwright cut through the seas of heaving bosoms. Now that the war with Napoleon was over and Beau Brummel had fled to France, the scandal columns had little else to report than the foibles of the ton.

Camellia wished so many of the caricatures didn’t also happen to be true.

“Let me guess,” she said with a sigh. “One heated gaze from his angelic visage and those featherbrains forgot they were in the midst of a conversation that had nothing to do with a man.”

“Worse.” Dahlia sighed. “He told them he was dazzled by all their beauty and accomplishments already, and asked why they would want to create more competition for themselves.”

Camellia gasped. “Destitute girls aren’t competition. They’re children.”

“My students will never attend a ton soirée no matter how high the marks they score in deportment,” Dahlia agreed. “Lord Wainwright might have been teasing, but the effect was the same. Lady Upchurch was the first to withdraw her donation and declare herself far too clever to do such a foolish thing. After that, the others had no choice but to follow suit.”

“What did Lord Wainwright say when he realized he’d placed the entire school in financial peril?”

“He didn’t. He left the moment he set hearts a-flutter. We were not the only females in the room, and a rake does have to make his rounds.” Dahlia lifted her chin, her eyes hard. “Someone really ought to take that man down a peg or two.”

A part of Camellia couldn’t help but agree. She did not condone vindictive behavior, but at the very least a man with that much power over his peers should be made to understand how deeply his thoughtlessness could affect others. Instead, his shamelessly rakehell ways were fêted by the gentlemen and cooed after by the ladies. She curled her lip. He was exactly the sort of self-centered, arrogant scoundrel that she despised the most.

“I agree.” Bryony retrieved her forgotten curling tongs and frowned at her reflection. “I hope I get to be the one. Wainwright deserves it.” She made a sappy expression over her shoulder. “Although… When we’re done taking him down a peg, a girl might consider unbuttoning that chiseled chest a button or two while she’s at it.”

Dahlia’s eyes flashed. “If you so much as smile at that insufferable rake, I shall never speak to you again.”

“Never fear,” Bryony assured her quickly. “I would never flirt with any bounder who hurt my sister. Instead, I shall console myself with admiring the occasional manly form from afar. Or perhaps many manly forms.” She gave a suggestive wink. “Tonight I am attending one of Lambley’s masquerades.”

Camellia gasped in shock… and envy. A secret part of her often wished she could be as confident and carefree as her youngest sister. “You cannot mean one of the Duke of Lambley’s scandalous masquerades. Those gatherings are synonymous with hedonistic abandon. If anyone finds out you attended, your reputation—”

“It’s a masquerade,” Bryony pointed out. “No one recognizes anyone. That’s the whole point… and a perfect distraction. I have been waiting to hear back from my solicitor for so long, I shall go mad without a diversion.”

Camellia opened her mouth to respond, then changed her mind. They could all do with a diversion. Whoever Bryony’s solicitor was, he would be unlikely to come up with a fast solution for the financial situation at Dahlia’s school. But as long as Camellia managed to talk her soon-to-be fiancé into donating as soon as they were married, perhaps it would buy enough time for a more permanent solution to be found.

“The masquerade is tonight?” she asked instead. There was no point asking how Bryony had wrangled one of the limited, coveted invitations. Camellia’s youngest sister was a force of nature.

“Ten to dawn.” Bryony glanced at the clock on the mantel and grimaced. “Which gives me only a few hours to curl my uncurlable hair, dress in my most shocking gown—specially commissioned just for this occasion—and finally discover precisely what goes on at those infamous parties.”

A knock sounded upon the door.

Dahlia sprang up from the window seat and raced to answer. “Perhaps someone has changed her mind about the donations.”

A footman stood in the corridor with a folded missive upon a platter. “A letter has arrived for Miss Bryony.”

Dahlia trudged back across the room and slumped against the window without another word.

“It’s my solicitor!” Bryony’s face lit up, then immediately fell. “There’s a small window of opportunity for us to speak, but only if we meet at once.” She groaned. “It seems I am not going to a masquerade. I’m going to a barrister’s office.” She glanced up at her sisters. “One of you needs to use my invitation. It was too hard to come by to let the opportunity go to waste. And then of course you must describe everything you see. I shall be suffering in abject envy.”

For a fleeting moment, Camellia wished she were both foolish enough and fearless enough to say yes. She forced herself to remain silent. Sometimes it was difficult to shake off such bouts of wistfulness, but she would be a married woman soon and ought to act like one. No matter how little pleasure the notion brought.

Dahlia shook her head. “The last thing I’m in a humor for is a party. I intend to stay hunched over a desk, scouring each page of Debrett’s Peerage until I scrounge up a few new names to cover the ones Lord Wainwright turned away.”

“Then Cam wins.” Bryony thrust the invitation away from her face as if its proximity caused physical pain. “Take it before I decide to cancel the solicitor. A masquerade can be life changing.”

“I can’t.” Camellia backed away from her sister’s outstretched hand. “You could go another time.”

“There won’t be another time.” Bryony’s voice was urgent. “Repeat invitations are only given to guests who accept the previous invitation. You have no idea how scarce this opportunity is. You have to go.”

“I cannot,” Camellia repeated, trying not to stammer. “What if someone recognized me?”

“They will not be able to. You’ll wear a mask the entire night, like everyone else.” Bryony pushed the invitation into Camellia’s hand. “In the extremely unlikely event that some bloodhound catches a Grenville scent, just claim you’re me. It’ll be too dark to discern eye color, and we’ve all got the same dark hair.”

“No one would believe it was you anyway,” Dahlia added from the window seat. “The only public routs you attend are when Mother forces you to sing at the family soirée musicale.”

“Nobody forces her,” Bryony objected hotly. “Cam likes to sing. Everyone likes it when she sings. From the moment she opens her mouth, no one even notices my violin. She’s more talented than anyone we’ve ever seen at Drury Lane, you must admit.”

“The point is, Cam wouldn’t know that because she never leaves this house. She’s as cloistered as a nun. Which means you’re right—no one would ever guess it was her.” Dahlia leaned forward as some of the sparkle returned to her eyes. “Say yes, Cam. You’ll be like a spinster spy. I cannot wait to hear your shocked, conservative observations.”

The warmth Camellia felt at their compliments vanished at “spinster spy.” Six-and-twenty was older than the average debutante, but still a far cry from some stooping, elderly aunt. She bit back a terse reply about which of them ought to be cloistered. Her sisters were only one and two years younger than her, but sometimes it felt like a lifetime.

A lifetime of wasted opportunities, she realized belatedly. Of comporting herself as a lady was meant to behave, or a daughter, or an elder sister, or a spinster, or anything at all except however Camellia herself might wish. Soon she would be trading all that in for the role of wife. Another prescribed set of rules and regulations to govern her every word and thought.

Being someone else for a few hours first was tempting, indeed.

“It’s an absurd idea,” she said instead. “No one would ever believe it.”

“Of course it’s an absurd idea,” Dahlia agreed. “That does not mean you shouldn’t do it. There won’t be a second chance. Unless you think Mr. Bost is likely to take you to scandalous masquerades?”

Mature, respectable Mr. Bost wasn’t likely to take her anywhere but Northumberland. A world away from her sisters… and adventure.

Camellia hesitated. As a girl, she had never once done anything rebellious. And she wasn’t betrothed yet. Not for a few more weeks.

Yet, much as she would like to have a mad night of freedom, she could not make herself agree to the scheme. It was reckless. Irresponsible. Wild. Everything Camellia had never been and suddenly longed to be, more than anything.

“I wish I could,” she said softly. “I’m afraid I shall have to be brave and prepare for my future position as Mrs. Bost. It will be far easier to accept my destiny than to tempt fate with risky behavior.”

“Bravery isn’t what you do when it’s easy,” Bryony said in surprise. “Bravery is what you do when it’s hard.”

Camellia sent her a dubious look.

“I tend to think all Bryony’s ideas are terrible,” Dahlia put in slowly. “But if you would truly go… then I think you ought. Shouldn’t we accept destiny only once we know what the choices are?”

Camellia hugged herself. “A masquerade cannot change one’s destiny. Destiny means no choice.”

“Then why not go?” Bryony held up a stunning ball gown with puffed sleeves, a plunging neckline, and yards of sumptuous sky blue silk. “I daresay this will attract more intriguing options than any dance card at Almack’s.”

Dahlia let out a slow whistle as Bryony turned about with the dress. “All of the options deliciously wicked, one supposes.”

Bryony winked. “Only if Cam’s lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky,” she admitted. Yet her skin tingled as if the night were already touched with magic. “I feel as if I only have a month to live.”

Bryony grinned. “Then make the most of it.”

“I’m going to regret this,” Camellia muttered as she succumbed to temptation. She flung her arms wide in dramatic fashion. “Dress me like I’m a princess in a fairy story. Tonight, I will pretend to be someone else.”

Dahlia squealed as loud as Bryony and leapt from the window seat to help with the transformation.

In their younger days, all three sisters had spent countless hours dressing each other in old, elegant outfits their mother no longer wore, and dressing each other’s hair in minute, elaborate styles.

Although they had since grown into young women with designated ladies’ maids to mind their appearances, they could not risk one of the servants discovering their plans. Camellia would have to trust that her sisters would do it right.

She let them outfit her as befit the occasion, from the satin ribbons holding up her silk stockings to the rakish ostrich feather curving over a pile of ringlets they’d curled in her hair.

When at last they declared her properly attired for a masquerade, the woman staring back at Camellia in the looking glass no longer resembled the inconspicuous, forgettable wallflower she had been for the previous six-and-twenty years.

The masked lady with the rouged full lips and voluptuous sapphire blue gown would catch the attention of any gentleman in possession of a heartbeat. Camellia’s pulse raced at the shocking difference.

“I don’t look like a story princess,” she gasped, light-headed. “I look like a seductress of loose morals.”

“Perfect!” Bryony exclaimed in delight. “You’re going to a licentious masquerade full of rakish gentlemen and night birds of loose morals. You want to blend in.”

“Dance scandalously close with anyone you fancy,” Dahlia added with a wink. “Just mind not to lose your mask.”