Page 67 of Battle Lines

ChapterTwenty-Three

EZRA

The last place I wanted to be was the fucking Masquerade at the Waltham Corners. I didn’t want to deal with the Reeds or anyone else. Hell, I didn’t even know if Adam would fucking be here. Still, my father called to remind me that he expected me to make an appearance. King had left his messages as well. I didn’t bother to listen to his. I just deleted them.

Then, when he asked me if I’d gotten his messages, I could tell him honestly—no, I hadn’t. Fucking asshole. Why was I the one still trapped working for him when Adam had cut his ties and kept them cut and Liam cut his—yes, I was aware the king had ordered Liam to kill Adam. They faked his death.

Dicks.

They faked his death and Adam dropped off the face of the Earth, leaving me behind to mop up the mess. Then Lainey vanished on me. My stomach dropped at the thought of her. Then and now. I reached forward for a drink, then swore as I sat back. The car wasn’t the typical limo and didn’t come as well stocked. I should have just driven myself, but I didn’t want there to be an excuse with a valet or anyone else holding my car.

“We’re almost there, sir,” the driver told me and I scowled out the window. “Did you want me to wait?”

“Yes,” I told him. “Keep the car warm, and don’t disappear. I don’t plan to stay long.”

“Yes, sir.”

I’d picked up the phone a half-dozen times this week to call Lainey and to call Adam. I’d put it down every single time. Adam was too preoccupied with his new project and all his new secrets to have time for me. I’d woken up in his apartment to find him gone, with a note pinned to my chest that just said he wasn’t sure he would be back before dinner.

If then.

I could have waited, but he hadn’t even said where he was going. So I sent myself home. The hangover was not the best way to deal with my father, but at least it gave me another reason for a terrible mood. Then that fucking dinner.

The long drive was dark, but as the car crept around the bend, Waltham Corners appeared in all of its blazing glory. Lights burned along the perimeter. There were old-style torches and footmen everywhere. Some guests were still arriving. Look at that, I was fashionably late after all.

Checking my outfit, I smoothed down the lapels then picked up the Casanova mask to slip on. The red and gold with the white checkered pattern that filled portions of the disguise offset against the other, just distracted the eye. It left almost nothing of my face revealed.

The driver pulled up to the steps and a footman opened the door. They were done up in full Venetian dress circa 17th century. Over the top didn’t cover it, but I slid out without a word and eyed the others on the steps leading up to the house. Amongst the footmen were the occasional guest. A couple out for a walk. Another pair having cigarettes. One man who was clearly not there for partying but definitely appeared armed and like he was watching for someone else.

From the foppish to the dangerous, the party brought them all out. Sucking in a deep breath, I promised myself a few drinks after I put on an appearance. I just had to be seen by a select few. Then I could leave. Maybe I could find some thighs to bury myself in between, but it would most likely be a bottle.

Or five.

My tastes had grown very select of late, and it was driving me insane. At the top of the stairs, another pair of footmen stood at the doors. I pulled out my invitation and presented it to one. I didn’t wait for him to check his list or say anything. If he wanted a word, he could follow me.

The ballroom was located on one side of the house, and guests were able to enter directly via a foyer that opened to the ballroom itself. While there were stairs leading up from outside, the steps inside were deep wine-red carpet and six deep. The ballroom, with its gold filigree accents and paintings everywhere, had an Italian flavor to it. But the replicas were just that—replicas.

Excellent work, but not the real thing.

The throng inside was impressive. While not quite wall-to-wall people, there were literally hundreds. The costumes ranged from the truly period classics to the more formal black tie and simple gown, but the masks? They were out in full force. Even the waiters sported them, though theirs were far simpler.

Snaking two glasses of champagne from a waiter as I passed him, I drained the first one and set it on another waiter’s tray while I sampled the next. I barely tasted the golden bubbly as I studied the room. There were three levels to any party. The outer ring, where the most basic of guests would linger. These were the newcomers, the new blood, the ones who didn’t quite know where they fit in.

The second ring would filter in closer to the band and the dance floor. Younger members of the families could be found here. The year’s debutantes and their escorts. Wives tended to linger here, when they didn’t want to be involved in the more business-oriented inner ring. The middle ring was social.

The inner? That was where the money flowed and the select few controlled everything. In this case, it would be where Harper Reed and his brothers would be holding court. It would also be where my father would be working, glad-handing his way into what deals he could navigate while stealing others away.

Now that we knew the king’s identity, I had no illusions about where he would be either. The son of a bitch had been in the thick of it for years; we’d just never known it was him. Julius King, a man who hovered on the fringes of our world, a part of everything and yet seemingly drifting in and out. Everyone knew him, yet no one could pin him.

It stung to realize how much of our lives he’d been a front-row witness to while pulling our strings. I’d never been fond of being a puppet. I hated it now. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one jerking me around.

I sipped the champagne to give myself something to do more than anything else. It was late enough that people were eating, drinking, flirting, dancing, and there—right down toward the center of it all, they were immersed in their private court.

Draining the second flute, I debated hitting the bar and then dismissed it. I didn’t want to be here. I set the now-empty glass on a table and headed into the heart of it all. I ignored the dancing, studying the various groups as I circled. I picked out Harper Reed in no time. He wouldn’t bother with the more period dress. The black tie and cloak, as was his white mask, were suitably dramatic. It had a hint of royalty to it.

I supposed it would have been too prosaic if he went for the devil with horns. Moving in a slow circuit, I tracked the various voices I heard and let them wash over me. My father was talking with another man that I didn’t recognize. I made a point of drifting into Father’s line of sight. He nodded to me, and I checked off that box.

That was one who’d seen me. The next was to find King. Let him see me. Maybe one of the Reeds. Jason, if I had my pick. Hamilton was an asshole to his own family, much less anyone else. Harper was worse. It didn’t matter. King proved a little more elusive. I had no idea what mask and outfit he would have chosen. Damn masquerades pretty much making everything doubly hard.

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