She nodded and set to work without another word.
An hour later, I struggled to keep from clenching my fists, from tapping my foot madly on Celia’s polished wood floor. It was already past dinnertime for the rest of the village. We had two hours left.
Celia had thoroughly cleaned and brushed my hair, like I was a prize stallion. I reminded myself that Crimson had been waiting all this time in her stable, probably just as anxious to get moving. At least he could rest and eat, while I had to keep standing or sitting in place for Celia like a marionette.
My hair only came down to my shoulders. Hardly long enough to be curled and styled like Celia’s, or that of any other beautiful girl attending the ball. But Celia offered me several wigs to choose from. I had glanced at each of the five and decided on the red one. Celia quietly agreed that it made sense to match Marie’s hair. I had thought the same thing, but I didn’t tell Celia that I also preferred the color red.
She continued the impossible task of hiding my scars with all her creams and lotions and powders. I sat in front of her, helpless to contribute, as she stood inches away from my face, examining every feature. I kept expecting her to twist her lips in disgust or shudder at her close inspection of me. Instead, she studied me like a sculptor trying to shape a masterpiece. She applied rouge to my lips, painted color over my eyes, and smeared her strange concoction of powder and mud over my indelible scars. Finally, she straightened. “Helena,” she gasped. “You’re …”
I frowned. I should have known it would take a miracle to make me any less hideous.
She took me by the shoulders and gently turned me about to face the three-paneled mirror.
“… you’re beautiful.”
She was right. Above my gaping mouth, my eyes were large and full of wonder. My cheeks were soft and delicate. My lips ruddy and full, but shaded so that they did not appear deformed. The combination of dark and light powders around my nose produced the same effect, making it look slender and normal. My blonde hair fell straight about my face. Not as coiffed as the red-haired wig I would don, but still pretty.
I had no scars.
I shuddered as if I had entered a bizarre dream. I felt my cheek, to make certain the face was my own. For the first time in my life, I truly was beautiful.
I choked back my emotions. This was the life my mother wanted for me. To dress up in a beautiful gown and go to parties. To be sought after by eager boys, any of whom would be honored to escort me on his arm. To the ball, for a ride in the country, down the aisle of a church. To start a family, build a home, plan a future for myself and those I love. To be happy.
A life I could never know.
I stood abruptly. “Thank you. This will do.”
She pressed my shoulders down, pushing me back into the seat. “You still need the wig.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” I sat again to stare at the angelic visage in the mirror. At my pure, unblemished face. A face Pierre could admire and stroke and even kiss without shame. I stiffened to keep from crying. It was only for tonight, nothing more. Tomorrow I would return to my normal appearance.
Assuming I survived.
Celia pulled back loose strands of my hair and fastened them with a slim band. She pressed the thick wig down, tugging it tight. It stood nearly a foot above my forehead, like a soldier’s towering helmet and nearly as heavy. But once she secured it into place, it looked magnificent. With this elaborate hairstyle, voluminous golden gown, and diamond jewelry gracing my wrists and neck, I could have passed for a princess, even without a mask. A princess who looked nothing like Helena Basque.
I smiled. Even Father Vestille wouldn’t recognize me now.
MY MASK
23.
It took several attempts to convince Crimson to come with me and Celia, as the sky darkened and grew cold. He tugged back on the reins, refusing to take a single step toward me. Toward the strange redheaded royal princess.
It almost made me laugh, giving me greater confidence in my disguise. Of course, I only needed to fool Laurent and his men at the masquerade ball. But that shouldn’t be difficult if even Crimson couldn’t recognize me.
I finally stopped tugging and spoke softly to him. I stroked his neck and continued talking until he recognized my voice, my touch. He looked at me three more times, as if trying to understand what I had done to myself. Then he nuzzled his neck against me, letting me pet him and hug him. Though he didn’t seem to like the change.
In the remaining daylight, with torches lighting up the towering spires and high windows, Chateau de Laurent looked like a castle from a children’s fairy tale. A place I could only dream of visiting, let alone being invited to attend a royal ball.
Of course, we weren’t here for the scenery. And I wasn’t actually invited.
Celia fidgeted with the lace handkerchief in her lap as we approached the gate in her private carriage. “I’ll speak for us,” she said for the third time since we left her house.
“Yes, you will,” I said. “I told you to. We’ve already gone over this. Now put that away before you tear it to shreds.”
She shoved the handkerchief into the little round purse that matched her scarlet dress. “If they discover you’re a phony, they’ll throw us both in the dungeon,” she said, her voice rising as she took rapid breaths. “And if what you say is true, and there are more men like Monsieur Brocard in the palace who can turn into vile beasts –!”
I pressed my palm onto her hand, trying to still her nerves. “Then we’ll want to be especially careful that they don’t find out,” I said evenly. “Won’t we?”
She sat there on the velvet cushioned seat, staring blankly ahead. Then she gave a few quick nods, seeming to assure me while also committing herself to the task. She exhaled loudly, seeming to relax. “Just remember. I’ll address everyone for us, so don’t say anything unless you must. And then, if you’re unsure of what to say, just smile.”
“Fine,” I said. I forced a tight smile for her, which I had been practicing.
She half-scowled. “Yes, well – just do your best,” she said.
We came to a stop and stepped down from her carriage onto the smooth stone path, accepting the aiding hands of Laurent’s servants as we raised our embroidered masks to our eyes. We strolled together to the front gates, as I concentrated on balancing the weight of my gown on my narrow-heeled shoes. How could everyone be so shocked that I would wear boots but expect me to tiptoe across a dance floor in these contraptions?
I let Celia lead us to the iron gates, where two guards stood holding muskets. Celia’s silver-haired porter followed behind us, carrying her large bag. A man in formal attire greeted us and asked for our names and invitations, which Celia produced. “I am Celia Verdante, the only daughter of Jean-Pierre Verdante, who oversees all textile manufacture in La Rue Sauvage. And this is – Marie –-.”
She swallowed, her gloved hand still extended toward me. “Marie Beauchamp,” Celia introduced, a slight catch in her throat. “Daughter of Philippe Beauchamp, winery producer. My dearest friend.”
She strained to produce a stony smile, and I returned a weak one to the greeter. I felt sorry for Celia’s loss, wishing her scarlet mask could hide her trembling lip, not just her eyes. But we couldn’t afford to show any grief. Not now.
The man surveyed each invitation. Satisfied, he knit his brows together at me. “Duke Laurent bids you welcome. But where are your suitors?”
I stared back at him in silence, wishing he would focus on Celia. Social etiquette and finery was her arena, not mine. I produced my tight, phony smile, but he squinted at me even more.
Celia broke in to get his attention. “They were unfortunately detained, but they offered to meet us inside,” she said. Her face fell and she clutched her throat with wide eyes. “Oh, I do hope that won’t pose a problem for Monsieur Laurent.”
He stared at me a moment longer, unsure. Then he bowed to Celia and smiled. “Of course not, Mademoiselle. Please. Come this way.”
“Oh, he is accompanying me,” Celia explained.
The guard squinted at the porter’s innocent, unmasked face and the large bag he held. A bag that held my boots and weapons. “That is quite a large bag, Monsieur.”
“We’re bringing a few surprises to the party,” I said.
The guard eyed me sharply as Celia glared, and I realized this was the wrong thing to say. He turned back to the porter. “Open it, if you please.”
The porter dutifully set the bag on the ground. Then he opened it wide for the greeter and castle guards to see. Inside, a display of diamond necklaces and earrings winked up at them from a blanket of black velvet.
Celia beamed. “I thought the Queen might wish to see some of my family’s jewels. I would hate for her to imagine that we are all paupers.”
The guard continued to study the jewelry. Finally, he pointed to the porter. “Very well. Seal it up. You may accompany them inside.”
The porter closed the bag, with my boots and weapons hidden beneath Celia’s jewelry, and we strode into the palace.
24.
A round glass chandelier and several raised lanterns lit the dance floor of the Chateau de Laurent ballroom. It was surrounded by tables and high-backed golden chairs, filled with laughter and soft music and masked smiling faces. A miniature string orchestra played from a raised maroon platform, set beside a bubbling fountain with a marble statue of a lion battling a wolf. Rich smells of exotic fruits, meats, cheeses, red wines and chocolates wafted from endless tables graced by burgundy linen cloth. Tall etched windows and an array of circular skylights looked out on the ebony field of stars overhead.
And on the rising full moon that would transform the Lycanthru into ravenous wolves.
“Marie Beauchamp?”
I turned to see a man in a silver mask smiling at me and offering his hand. I glanced at Celia.
“Yes, precisely,” she said. “You must be Monsieur Cézanne.”
He gave a deferential bow, the perfect gentleman.
Celia curtsied. “I’m so glad you were able to find us in this sea of masked faces.”
Cézanne grinned, looking devious with half of his face covered. “I must confess. I asked the greeters to alert me when you and your friend arrived.”
She leaned sideways with a coy smile. “Well, aren’t you strategic?” She turned to me, and seemed to falter again with her masterful pretense. “Marie Beauchamp, may I present your kind escort that – that Monsieur Brocard arranged for us. Monsieur Francois Cézanne.”
I frowned at his name. My stomach turned at the thought of a masked Lycanthru sharing the same name as the heroic woodcutter they had murdered. “How do you do, Monsieur Cézanne?” I said, making a half-curtsy.
He took hold of my hand. I couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion by pulling away. I let him take my fingers in his. Let him lift my hand to his filthy lips and kiss it, trying not to cringe over the fact he could bite it off in his wolf form.
“Please,” he said. “You may call me Francois.”
I calmed my raging nerves and smiled in a way that I hoped would seem polite. “Oh, Monsieur, I could never call you ‘Francois’.” Celia gave me a warning glance and I corrected myself. “Not until we have gotten to know one another much better, of course. Which surely will not occur until the very end of the evening.”
Cézanne glanced at Celia, uncertain, then back at me. I smiled again to appear friendly. He half-laughed and bowed his head again. “Of course, Mademoiselle. I look forward to that.” He turned back to Celia. “Where is Jean Paul?”
I saw her quiver before she lifted her chin with an engaging smile. “Monsieur Brocard apologized, but said he had some urgent business to tend to. He promised to join us later.”
Cézanne gave her a puzzled look. “I wonder what could be more urgent. This party is rather important.”
She maintained her winning smile. “I’m afraid he didn’t tell us. But he assured me he would not leave me without a dance partner.”
I seized the opportunity to escape from Cézanne. “Perhaps you can fill in for Monsieur Brocard until he arrives,” I suggested. “I’m certain I can manage alone for a while.”
Monsieur Cézanne hesitated for only a moment, while Celia threw me a frightened glare. Then he smiled at the prospect of enjoying her company instead of mine. “Well, if you insist, Mademoiselle …”
I touched Celia’s hand to reassure her. “Don’t worry. I won’t be far. I doubt that anything much will happen before the Queen arrives.”
“Very true,” Cézanne said, offering Celia his arm.
Celia smiled into his eyes and took his arm. Then she cast a wicked look back at me as he led her away. I couldn’t help feeling amused. Cézanne didn’t seem dangerous, being far more self-controlled than Brocard had been. And Celia’s charms should keep him at bay while I scouted around. For now, she was in no more danger than the rest of us.
I surveyed the grand ballroom to find her porter. I avoided the eyes of other men who tipped their glasses to me as they caught my eye, most of them Lycanthru that I recognized as my captors at the barn. I finally spotted Celia’s porter on the far wall, waiting patiently and inconspicuously with my heavy bag of weapons. He started moving sideways to keep close to Celia as she danced with Cézanne.
Then I spotted Gerard Touraine, dressed as a server, standing behind a broad table filled with wine glasses along the opposite wall. I nearly stumbled in my heels. It seemed that Laurent had secured the best local help to serve his guests, someone the villagers would know and trust. And perhaps someone whom Laurent wanted to seize control of tonight, to secure his influence. All of La Rue Sauvage seemed to be here, most of them masked, with no idea what danger they were in.
I squinted at another server as he stacked glasses at the opposite end of the table. I could have sworn he looked just like – Pierre! He had infiltrated the royal ball as well. If he was still here when the Lycanthru attacked …
I started toward him quickly, graciously curtsying and making excuses to men who tried to engage me in conversation. I felt like an idiot, but probably came across as nothing more than a rude and distracted girl. It didn’t matter. I only wanted to warn Pierre off, if that was actually him.
A young man intercepted me. “Excuse me, Mademoiselle.”
I accidentally lowered my mask as I turned to see a server holding a bottle of champagne.
It was Jacque Denue.
The bully who had turned me over to the Lycanthru.
25.
Jacque Denue stared straight at me and my golden gown as he stood mere inches from my powdered face. I gasped and prepared to punch him before he could alert the Lycanthru that I had infiltrated Duke Laurent’s masquerade ball.
He continued to stare at me in an odd way. Not threatened or alarmed, but perplexed. “Sorry, Mademoiselle. Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
I blinked at him. He didn’t recognize me at all. I lifted the golden mask and smiled graciously through it, mimicking Celia’s syrupy manner. “Why, that’s perfectly all right, Monsieur. I suppose I’m just so excited to be here, my nerves are on edge. Do forgive me.”
He gave me the same odd glance, then a curt nod. “I saw you come in with Celia Verdante. Who’s that man with her?”
I glanced back at Celia, who laughed from across the room at something Cézanne was saying. “Why, that’s Monsieur Cézanne,” I said. “He’s my escort this evening.”
Jacque lifted his chin and sighed, sounding relieved. “So where’s her escort? … May I ask?”
I almost laughed. Jacque Denue struggled with polite manners as much as I did. “Oh, Monsieur Brocard was detained. He should arrive later this evening.”
Jacque stared coldly across the room as if I wasn’t ev
en there. Then he glanced about, looking nervous. “This might not be the safest place for her to be tonight. You might wish to take her home.”
He didn’t seem to know what the Lycanthru planned, only that the ball was swarming with them. “Oh, don’t be silly, Monsieur. This is the event of the season. Perhaps the event of our lives, with the Queen coming to visit.”
He ignored me and kept watching Celia. In a way that seemed hostile but worried. My heart swelled. In his brutish way, Jacque Denue was in love with her. “Still, if you are concerned, I would be most grateful if you would keep an eye on her,” I said. “I want to mingle with the other guests, and I would feel much better knowing a – a good man like you was watching over her. To see that no harm comes to her.”
He glared back at me.
I swallowed. I had said too much and given myself away.
He gave a curt nod. “I would be honored to, Mademoiselle.”
With that, he moved across the room. I continued to the table where Pierre stood. I glanced back to see Jacque standing near Cézanne and Celia, observing them as he served drinks to other couples. I had found the most unlikely ally. At least, so long as I maintained this disguise.
Pierre looked up from his table with a smile.
“May I offer you some champagne, Mademoiselle?” he asked.
I smiled. He had no idea who I was. Now that I was here, I felt less concern for his safety and more relief to have his company. Even if he didn’t know me. “Why, that would be lovely and divine, Monsieur.”
He smiled and turned over a finely etched wine glass. I glanced down the table at Touraine, who was close enough to hear my sugary voice. He barely glanced up at me. I smiled back, amazed that he didn’t recognize me, either.
I returned to Pierre. “What’s your name?” I asked in my sweetest, most simple-minded tone.
Red Rider Redemption (The Red Rider Saga Book 3) Page 14