Connor needn’t have worried about people not turning up, already nearly every table was full, and more guests stood in groups in the centre of the room. The ballroom should have felt smaller, with all these tables, and people and decorations, but somehow it didn’t. It was as though the magnitude of the place was only amplified by it being used for its original purpose.
The men mainly wore suits, the women, evening gowns in all shades. Isla’s head spun at the kaleidoscope of colours and shapes. She picked out a man in a velvet tuxedo and plain black leather band of a mask, and a woman beside him in an ivory dress, clutching a smooth, white mask on a stick. Beyond them, a woman with cascading red hair and an emerald green mask embellished with peacock feathers was engaged in a conversation with a man in a grey suit and bird mask.
Heads turned as Isla stepped into the ballroom, but she pretended not to notice. After all, she could be anybody.
“May I take your coat?”
Isla slipped the wrap from her shoulders and handed it to the young lad, dressed in his finest standing beside the terrace doors. She watched him cross the ballroom with her wrap draped over his arm until he was swallowed by the crowd.
“Champagne?” A waiter carrying a silver tray of drinks came to a standstill beside her.
“Thank you.” Isla took a flute, resisting the urge to knock it back in one. The bubbles fizzed over her tongue, and the butterflies in her stomach settled to a gentle flutter, as the other guests turned back to their conversations, and the waiter moved on.
She was nobody, after all. At least not to these people. What about to Ethan? Isla thought about going in search of him, of apologising for her part in all this, of trying to persuade him to join the party, but she’d need more than one glass of champagne for that.
On the other side of the room, Isla spotted a familiar figure. Even in a navy suit with an electric-blue mask around his eyes, Ryder was unmistakable. She lifted her hand in a half-wave, but he hadn’t seen her. Isla wound her way across the ballroom, setting her empty glass down, and picking up another along the way, but by the time she got to where Ryder had been standing, he was no longer there. Isla twirled around in confusion. Where had he gone?
“Looking for someone?”
Isla stopped spinning and came face-to-face with a tall figure wearing an ivory Bauta mask and black tricorne. She felt her face blanche at the sight of the hideously over-emphasised features, the pointed nose and jutting, mouthless chin, and had to remind herself that it was a masked ball, and she too, was in disguise.
“I thought I saw someone I knew,” Isla said, finally finding her voice. “But I seem to have lost sight of him.”
“Well, his loss is my gain, it seems.” The bauta’s voice was muffled by his mask. “Who are you here with?”
Isla was about to reply that she was alone but stopped herself at the last second. She had the distinct feeling that would be a mistake.
“Connor MacRae invited me,” she said.
“Did he now?” The bauta sounded amused. “I wouldn’t have thought you were his type.”
“It’s not like that,” Isla said quickly, trying to quash the rumours she could already imagine spreading across the ballroom. “I’ve been doing some work here at the castle.”
The bauta turned as a waiter walked by, and plucked a glass from the passing tray. His pale mask lifted slightly with the twist of his head, revealing a strip of smooth-shaven skin, but little else.
“What about you?” Isla asked.
He turned back to her. “Oh, I’m here for business, not pleasure.” Something about the way he emphasised the word ‘pleasure’ made Isla’s skin crawl. “Still, who’s to say it can’t be both?” He clinked his glass to hers with startling force.
Isla didn’t drink. She was rapidly trying to come up with an excuse to move on when he spoke again.
“So, Ethan MacRae hasn’t changed as much as they say, then?”
The sound of Ethan’s name jolted Isla back to the conversation. “I’m sorry?”
“Well, if his brother still keeps pretty young things like you around for him, I’m not sure the accident was as transformative as people say.”
Isla blinked several times. “I...what?”
“Come on, you must know what I’m talking about, surely?” The bauta drank without lifting his mask, thanks to the oversized chin.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” she said.
He made a sceptical noise. “If you say so. But you wouldn’t need to look far to see the string of other women Ethan MacRae has left heartbroken, or worse.”
“I’m an antique dealer,” Isla said, but her voice shook. “And I’m not sure what you’re suggesting.”
“Aren’t you?”
“There you are!” A man’s voice exclaimed from behind her. Isla turned and found herself looking at the phantom-of-the-opera. His dark hair was slicked back, and the uncovered half of his mouth was curved into a smile. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” The phantom nodded up at the bauta. “If you’ll excuse us?”
The bauta raised his glass. “Of course.”
Isla was about to argue that she wasn’t anyone’s to excuse or permit, but something in the uncovered eye of the phantom urged her to play along, so she accepted the offer of his arm, and allowed herself to be led away.
“I’m sorry,” the phantom said, dropping his arm to his side, releasing her. “I couldn’t think how else to get you away without pretending to know you. Not without causing a scene anyway.”
“But, how did you...” Isla trailed off
“Know that you wanted rescuing?” The phantom finished her question for her. “Well, you looked like you’d rather be anywhere else on earth, and knowing who you were talking to, no one could blame you. I was right, wasn’t I? You weren’t enjoying yourself?”
Isla shook her head quickly. Too quickly. Between the heat of the ballroom, the champagne, and that conversation she was suddenly feeling a little faint.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, unconvincingly.
“Can you believe this place?” He lifted his drink and gestured around them, at the increasingly crowded ballroom.
Isla shook her head, slower this time. She couldn’t believe it. It hardly seemed possible this was the same castle she’d spent the last few weeks working in. She almost felt as though she’d slipped back in time, and was experiencing Rosehill as it once had been, long before she or Ethan, had stepped foot in the place.
“So, how do you know the MacRae’s?” The phantom asked, still smiling.
“Oh...I...worked with Ethan MacRae,” Isla blustered. She took a sip of her drink. “You?”
“I’m a cousin.”
Isla found herself grateful again for the mask, hoping it hid her surprise.
“Art Campbell.” He held out his hand, and Isla shook it.
“Isla Belmont.”
“What a beautiful name.” He smiled.
“From a guy named ‘Art’, I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not,” Isla teased.
He chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. “Aye, well. What can I say? Arthur makes me sound about eighty.”
“And yet you don’t look a day over seventy-five.”
Art laughed again, and Isla felt some of her tension easing.
“I’m thirty-six, I’ll have you know. The oldest of the cousins maybe, but not quite drawing my pension yet.”
“You grew up with Connor and Ethan, then?”
Art took a swig of his champagne. “Aye. Good lads. Although I’ve not seen Ethan in years. No one has.”
Isla had. But she didn’t say that. A waiter passed by and Isla took a flute from his tray.
“A crying shame what happened to him. My ma cried for weeks. Their ma is her sister, you see. It rocked the whole family.”
“I can imagine,” Isla murmured into her glass. But she couldn’t, not really. Or was it that she didn’t want to?
Art seemed
to sense her discomfort. He set his empty glass down on the table beside them. “Still, here we are. And this is his place, as I understand it. So it can’t all be bad.”
Isla returned his smile. “No, I suppose not.” She threw a glance over her shoulder, but thankfully there wasn’t a tricorne in sight.
“Who was that man?” Isla asked.
The unmasked side of Art’s face clouded. “No one of any consequence, as much as he’d like to think otherwise. A business associate of Connor’s, and...not a very nice person.”
“I gathered that much. He was saying something about Ethan leaving women broken-hearted, or worse...”
Art’s exposed eye widened. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. But I would say that you shouldn’t believe everything you hear tonight. People love nothing more than to speculate on the lives of others, particularly when that person isn’t around to contradict their theories.”
“Crawford.” A man in a tuxedo and plain black mask approached. “Someone wants to speak with you.”
Isla waited for Art to correct him, or for him to realise his mistake, but Art only nodded. “I’ll be right there.” He turned to Isla.
“Crawford?” she repeated.
He waved his hand dismissively. “A nickname. My apologies, for the interruption. It was lovely to meet you Isla.”
Isla nodded and watched as he slipped between the crowd of bodies, and disappeared from view, leaving her alone in the crowded ballroom once more. Not that she remained alone for long. Isla had barely finished the champagne she was holding when a woman in a fuchsia-pink gown holding a dazzling jewelled mask across her eyes sidled up beside her.
“I thought for a minute there, I might have to kill you.”
Isla almost dropped her champagne flute, as she whirled around. “I beg your pardon?”
The woman laughed raucously and lowered her mask. She was perhaps ten years older than Isla, with masses of white-blonde hair piled precariously on top of her head in a way that reminded Isla of Marie Antoinette. Isla wasn’t sure if the effect was deliberate, but decided it best not to ask. The woman winked at her conspiratorily.
“Joking of course, but when I saw you chatting away there to Crawford, not thirty seconds after arriving, I thought well I’ll be damned, if she lands him before I’ve had cake, I’ll have to stab her with one of my hairpins.” The woman laughed again.
Isla blinked. “You mean Art?”
The woman’s eyebrows darted up. “First name terms I see. Yes, that’s precisely who I mean. Still, not to worry, he’s run off now hasn’t he, so you’re safe.” She winked again.
Between the winking and the laughing, Isla was beginning to wonder if the woman really was joking about stabbing her. The lady doth protest too much methinks…
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Isla said. “You misunderstand. I didn’t- I wasn’t. That is, I hadn’t realised he was spoken for. Besides-”
“Spoken for? Oh no,” the woman shook her head emphatically, and Isla watched her hair wobble. “The Baron of Crawford isn’t spoken for. That’s why I was so worried when you captured his attention there.”
Isla stared at her dazedly. “I’m sorry, did you say Baron?” Maybe she really had been transported back in time.
But a second, older woman in a smart, black twinset and pearls had joined the would-be Marie Antoinette and began speaking to her in hushed whispers. Isla looked away and pretended not to be listening, which was easier before she heard Ethan’s name hissed emphatically. She glanced sideways at the two women, and the older woman caught Isla’s eye through her black velvet mask.
“We haven’t met.” She stepped forward. “Alicia du Pont. And this is my daughter, Jenny.”
Isla nodded at them both politely. “Isla Belmont.”
“Rumour has it you work here?”
Isla nodded. “I did, although not any more.”
“Oh? Why is that?” Mrs du Pont’s voice had lowered, and a flicker of warning flashed in Isla’s mind. Both women leaned towards her now, positively straining for gossip.
“My work is complete,” Isla said simply, with a shrug.
“Oh.” The du Pont women both rocked back on their heels, with blatant disappointment. “We only wondered, because...well...perhaps we shouldn’t say.”
No, you shouldn’t, Isla thought sharply. But she knew that they would. And whatever gossip they were spreading, better that it be to her than anyone else. She braced herself. “Please, go on.”
Mother and daughter exchanged looks.
“There’s been trouble,” Jenny whispered excitedly. “In the past. The MacRae brothers…the younger one particularly. Well, I’m sure you must have heard....”
Isla shook her head. Jenny’s pale eyebrows raised and she held up her glittering pink mask as though it were a shield to the rest of the room. “Well, no one knows the full story of course.”
Of course, but why let that get in the way of gossip? Anger flared in Isla but she tried to keep her expression neutral.
“It was not long after the brothers took over the business,” Alicia du Pont began. “I remember because of course there was the gala…”
Jenny nodded. “So we’re talking, what- five years ago? Six?”
Isla’s stomach flipped. Ethan’s accident had been five years ago.
“In the space of a year, he went from being the life and soul of a party to not being at the party at all. And when he did make an appearance, there was something almost...haunted about him. He had this look in his eyes, almost as if he knew…”
“Knew what?” Isla couldn’t stop herself from asking.
Jenny waved a fuchsia-gloved hand. “What was about to happen, of course.”
“So, when the news hit, that Ethan MacRae had driven his car over an embankment, there were those who weren’t as shocked as they could have been if you see what I’m saying?”
Isla’s hand tightened around the stem of her champagne glass and she feared it might snap under the strain. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “I don’t.”
The du Pont women looked at her as though she was stupid.
“Not everyone believes it was an accident,” Jenny answered. She lifted the garish pink mask to her face.
“And that poor girl,” Alicia du Pont murmured.
But Isla was no longer listening. She couldn’t. “If you’ll excuse me a minute,” she murmured, not waiting for a reply. “I need to use the bathroom.” She needed to get out of there.
Isla slipped away through the crowd, moving towards the ballroom doors in a sort of daze. It couldn’t be true...could it?
Isla stepped out into the dark corridor, relishing the cool draught that raised goosebumps over her arms. Air, that was what she needed. She stepped into the cloakroom, determined to retrieve her wrap, and walk the grounds of Rosehill until the fresh air cleared the champagne haze from her mind.
“Leaving so soon?”
Isla’s heart leapt into her throat, at the realisation she wasn’t alone in the cloakroom. She pressed a hand against her chest, feeling her heart bray against her palm.
“You scared me,” she said, turning to see who had followed her.
Isla’s heart kicked up another notch. Not that she had any idea who it was, beneath the full-face jester-mask. Five black points fanned out from the top of the mask, adorned with bells. The face was white, black and gold, with full red lips, painted into a wicked smile.
Isla barely suppressed a shudder.
“The party’s just getting started.” It was a man’s voice, low, almost familiar, but there was something off about it, about him. He was wearing a long black cape, obscuring his clothes beneath. “Can’t I persuade you to stay?” The jester took a step forward, and Isla fought the urge to flee.
“I wasn’t leaving,” she said as calmly as she could. “Just getting some air.”
“Glad to hear it. I wouldn’t want you to miss anything.”
“Well, if you’ll excuse me
.” Isla took the widest possible berth around him on her way to the door, but the cloakroom was narrow, and before she could pass him a gloved hand shot from beneath his cape, grasping her by the wrist. Isla gasped, her pulse thrumming beneath his grip.
“You know you really are very beautiful.”
Frozen in fear, Isla stared into the jester’s eyes, trying to make out who was beneath the mask. She had the strangest sense of deja-vu, as though she’d been here, seen this, done it all before...but all she could bring to mind was the marionette with its carved, painted face, jeering out at her from the nursery cupboard.
“It’s a shame you’re wasting yourself on someone who can’t appreciate your finer points.” The jester continued, grasping her chin between a leather-gloved finger and thumb.
What? He couldn’t possibly mean Ethan- no one knew what had happened between them. But who else could he be talking about?
Isla struggled, trying to wrench her face away from his touch. He released her suddenly, and she tumbled backwards into the cloakroom wall, her skull impacting the stone with a thwack. The pain pierced Isla’s polite facade.
“What the hell?” she gasped, bringing one hand up to the back of her head. “Who do you think you are?”
The jester stepped forward, and Isla pressed her back into the cold wall.
“Who do you think I am?”
Was this some kind of sick game? “I have no idea,” Isla’s voice shook with a mix of fear and rage. “But whoever you are, don’t touch me ever again.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t. I don’t enjoy sloppy seconds.”
Even with the fear in her chest and pain in her head, Isla felt a flash of fury at his insinuation. Who the hell was this guy, and how did he know about her and Ethan?
“But remember this, Isla. I warned you.”
Warned her about what? He hadn’t warned her of anything. And how did he know her name? But before she could question him, the jester swept from the cloakroom. It took Isla a few seconds to gather her wits, then she darted out into the corridor after him.
Thirty Three
Isla followed the echoes of his footsteps into the entrance hall and saw the dark flash of cape disappearing beneath one of the arches. She darted forwards, before grinding to a halt in the middle of the hallway. What was she doing?
Out of Sight Page 24