Page 35 of Peculiar Engagements

Harriet couldn’t remain with him for long. Yves’ mother was bound to look for her eventually, and so when the house started filling up with clients, Yves snuck Harriet out the side door with the ruby earrings and a book of salacious drawings that they didn’t sell in the country.

“You’ll come to the ball?” Yves asked. “It should be grand. I’ll be blindfolded for most of the dancing.”

“I don’t have a dress for that kind of ball,” Harriet said. “Pearl does, but she’d be too much of a mouse to go. I’ll try to convince your mother to let you be in the meantime. You might want to talk to her eventually, though.”

Yves sighed. “You know how she is.”

“Yes, I do.” Harriet squeezed Yves’ hand in farewell. “And I don’t think anything would have happened between Charon and I.”

“You’re just being nice,” Yves said.

“I don’t know about that.” Harriet gave Yves a searching look. “It’s a funny thing, Yves. All that flirting, primping, and hinting I did? It didn’t even matter. It seemed like all Charon wanted to talk about was you.”

Seven

Consideringthat he’d only had two weeks to plan a ball that would attract most of the nobles in Staria, Laurent had outdone himself. The ballroom belonged to the Duke de Mortain, King Adrien’s husband, and Laurent’s hired workers had spent days transforming the severe, muted room into a sparkling flower garden. It was as though someone had lifted a country fair out of a field and dropped it onto the dance floor, then sprinkled crystals everywhere for good measure. It was precisely the sort of atmosphere Yves adored, and Charon stood in the servants’ entrance with his arms crossed tight over his chest, taking in the way light from hundreds of candles glimmered over the floor and along the walls.

Most of the courtesans in the Pleasure District were already there, hoping to ensnare a client or two out from under Yves. Nearly every noble was in attendance as well, save for King Adrien. Isiodore de Mortain, the king’s consort, stood off to the side, watching the gathered nobles carefully. As the previous king’s spymaster, he’d no doubt been informed of Sabre’s plan for the ball. Nearly every servant there was in Sabre’s employ, trained to listen to the attending nobles and report on anysuspicious behavior. Charon doubted anyone would confess to kidnapping, torture, and murder at a party, but the nobility didn’t have a reputation for discretion.

“Would you look at that?” Laurent said. He was standing next to Charon, dressed in ostentatious black velvet with amethysts on his cuffs, and he adjusted them with a wicked smile. “All these people, and here you are without a mask.”

“I don’t need one,” Charon said.

“We can’t have you standing out,” Laurent said, ignoring Charon’s pointed look at his own lack of a mask. “It’s a good thing I thought to have a suit and mask brought in. With a cloak—Yves prefers them, you know. He thinks they look dashing.”

“Won’t he be blindfolded?” Charon noted the swirling capes of the suitors lining up in the center of the dance floor. Even some of the suitors Yves hadn’t chosen were wearing them, and courtesans were eyeing them from the shadows with a calculating hunger.

“The suit’s in the room where I’m keeping Sabre,” Laurent said. “You don’t want to be underdressed.”

“I don’t need to be here,” Charon said. “There are enough people to ensure Yves’ safety.” He didn’t think he could stand an entire ball watching Yves dance with adoring suitors. Some dominants in the crowd may have been masochists, but Charon wasn’t one.

Laurent shot him a hard look, all artifice gone. “Then leave.”

It was a challenge. Charon felt the cold sting of Laurent’s true dominance scraping against his own, daring him to turn around and walk out of the ballroom. Some gossips said that Laurent had softened since he married Sabre, but the flintlike core that had propelled him through the Pleasure District and into a noble title was still there. Any other dominant would have backed away or challenged him for the insult of using his dominance sopointedly, but if Laurent’s was like a sword, Charon’s was like stone, and he stared back with an unmovable patience.

The musicians by the balconies started to play, and Charon turned as a pair of curtains opened at the far end of the room. A line of scantily dressed young men appeared, draped with flowers and vines like tree nymphs in a play, and bearing Yves on their shoulders. The lights of the ballroom seemed to glow brighter for his presence, and the music slowed in Charon’s ears, going distant. Yves was grinning, a silver mask over his eyes, hair burning gold in the candlelight. He was in a sheer silver cloak, tight silver pants, and little else, and he laughed in delight as his entourage set him down in front of the line of suitors. One of them stepped forward to take his hand, and Yves bowed with a cheeky smile. He almost stumbled into his dance partner immediately and let out a startled laugh.

“The suit is with Sabre, you said?” Charon stared at Yves as he was guided through the first steps of a quadrille.

Laurent nodded. “You should have time if you hurry.”

Sabre looked up with a grin when Charon opened the door to the small parlor. Sabre was hardly dressed for the event, with nothing but a slip of fabric to cover his cock and his violet collar, and he was fastening a chain to a conspicuous hook in the wall. “Oh, Charon. Your suit’s hanging up over the mirror. You won’t be able to come back for your old things, though, so I’ll bring them by when Laurent and I are done here.”

Charon raised a brow.

Thankfully, the suit was not to Laurent’s opulent taste. It was sleek black with a hooded cloak lined with gold, and a black mask that gleamed with glass beads. It wasn’t to Charon’s taste either, or even Sabre’s. It looked like something Yves would like. Charon wondered if he should simply take the suit and toss it into the bin. Laurent’s well-meaning meddling was starting to wear thin.

“Don’t,” Sabre said. “You’re thinking of going back. Try it, just for a night.”

“You think you’re helping,” Charon said.

“Maybe.” Sabre didn’t even have the grace to look sheepish.

Charon ran his hand over the cloak. “You and Laurent think that Yves’ flirting means something it doesn’t. If his intentions were true, he would have said something. Instead, he’s dancing with his chosen suitors tonight. None of them are me, and they shouldn’t be.”

“Why?” Sabre asked. “I know you don’t speak of what happened in Arktos?—”

“And it’s good that you know better than to ask.” Charon’s dominance must have been burdensome, because Sabre made a soft sound and sank into a chair. “You can tell Laurent to stop trying.”

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