“Something cheaper, more likely,” Miranda muttered. She’d always confided everything to Jane, her dearest friend since childhood, just as her mother had been best friends with Jane’s stunning mother. But it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t breathed a word about her midnight rendezvous with Lucien de Malheur, and she wasn’t quite sure why. She hesitated for another moment. If the Carrimores had lowered their standards enough to invite her, then she had little doubt they’d invited Lucien de Malheur, as well. And since he seemed to have forgotten her existence her best chance might be simply to arrive at a place he was likely to be. She was used to being ignored by the ton. She wasn’t going to accept being ignored by a fellow outcast like the Scorpion, not if she could help it.

“I’ll do it. As long as we leave before any planned unmasking. People will be incensed if they find out they’ve been polite to a shameless whore.”

“Stop it! You’re no such thing! This isn’t like you, Miranda. You know it’s going to be fun. Like old times. No one will have any idea who we are, and we can behave very badly indeed.”

“I think most people will attest to the fact that I’ve behaved badly enough for one lifetime, precious,” she said wryly.

“Oh, I don’t mean that,” Jane said in a dismissive voice. “I was thinking more along the lines of going places we shouldn’t go, ignoring people we don’t want to see. I’m about to be trapped in a dutiful marriage when there are so many places I want to visit, things I want to do. Grant me this much, Miranda.”

“You should have been born a sailor, love.” It was too tempting, what with the promise of a cape and mask to disguise even her gender if she so chose. And the sadness had momentarily left Jane’s eyes, which were sparkling now with excitement. “When is this going to be?” she asked, wondering if she could come up with a sudden trip out to the countryside. That would be the wise thing to do, remove herself from temptation. But then, when had she ever been wise?

“Didn’t you read the invitation? In three days. We got our invitation weeks ago—yours must have been delayed.”

“Or it took them that long to make up their minds whether to invite me,” Miranda said. Or had someone talked them into it? Someone powerful and mysterious who seemed to have disappeared out of her life as suddenly as he had entered it.

“I can arrange for the dominos and masks,” Jane said eagerly.

It would be a mistake, as surely as attending Lucien de Malheur’s salon had been a mistake. And she was going to do it anyway—and to hell with all the old biddies who’d be horrified at who was lurking beneath the domino. “Get me a red one,” she said firmly. And the last bit of shadow left Jane’s warm brown eyes.

It was the evening of the Duke and Duchess of Carrimore’s ball and Miranda was angry. Not that she was willing to admit it—after all, why should she care about the likes of Lucien de Malheur? He’d rescued her from a disaster with her carriage, invited her to a musical evening, spent hours alone with her, talking to her, his acid wit and his eccentric charm beguiling her until she half fancied herself attracted to him. And then nothing.

At one point she thought he might have left town, but she’d overheard two stout matrons discussing the latest scandal concerning his appearance at the opera and a certain dancer, and Miranda couldn’t acquit him of the unspeakable crime of simply forgetting about her. He’d been polite, he’d done his duty, but he must have found her deadly dull. Tant pis. She had no interest in entertaining the likes of him. All she wanted was the quiet of their Dorset home near the high cliffs. It wasn’t as if she was running away. Clearly there was nothing to run from.

Jane was almost feverish with excitement when she arrived at the house wearing a pale blue domino, the scarlet one Miranda had requested over one arm. The street outside the Carrimore mansion was thronged with carriages, and by the time Jane’s hired hackney carriage brought them to the front portico Miranda was regretting her impulsive decision. It was too late to do anything; the footmen were already opening the door and letting down the steps, and Miranda pulled her hood up over her head, made certain her loo mask was carefully in place and followed her friend into the brightly lit gaiety.

But her bad mood had begun to lift as she heard the sound of music floating down the stairs from the second-floor ballroom. It had been so very long since she’d danced, and she’d always loved dancing. Tonight she wouldn’t have to worry about who was good ton or bad, who was a proper partner and who was a bad hat. Since she’d come, she’d enjoy herself, and stop worrying about it.

She met Jane’s mischievous eyes. Her friend was almost her old self, the wicked behavior stripping away the layers of restraint Mr. Bothwell had heaped upon her. If Miranda had been around she could have done something to forestall the match, but it had been made in the drawing rooms where Miranda was no longer welcome, and it was too late. Jane would never cry off.

A moment later Jane had disappeared, swung into the arms of a dashing young man in uniform, a half mask over his handsome face, and Miranda wanted to laugh at her startled expression. And then she did laugh, as an older gentleman bowed before her, and she moved into his arms smoothly, sailing onto the crowded dance floor for the first time in years.

It was glorious, it was breathtaking, and she felt as if she were flying. Her hood fell back as she whirled around the floor, but it didn’t matter. With her plain brown hair sedately dressed and the loo mask firmly in place no one would have any idea who she was. She could dance, she could flirt, she could laugh and pretend there wasn’t a cloud of shame hanging over her head. A cloud of shame she refused to give in to.

The Carrimores were casual: no one solicited dances ahead of time, and Miranda moved from one partner to another, her feet flying on the polished wood floor. She danced until she could dance no more. Dinner was announced, people were pairing up and heading into the heavy-laden tables, but Miranda backed away. Her loo mask covered a good two-thirds of her face—there was no way she could eat without getting food on its silk, and the brighter lights of the dining room might be dangerous.

She faded back into the shadows, pulling her hood back over her head. She’d been silly to ask for a scarlet cape, but it was hardly as gaudy as some of the other outfits that night. She glanced over to the row of dowagers who sat against the wall, most of them unmasked, watching their charges with disapproval.

These were the ladies who despised her the most, and it gave Miranda a certain pleasure to join their ranks, keeping her disguise firmly in place. They nodded a tentative greeting in her direction, clearly not sure about anyone who wore a red domino, and she nodded back, sinking gracefully into one of the small, straight-backed chairs that creaked dangerously beneath some of the other women’s bulk, grateful to rest her feet. She sat back, listening to their malicious gossip, trying to catch a glimpse of Jane to see if she still danced or had gone in for supper. As long as she sat with the dowagers no one would try to entice her into the dining room, and it was safer that way. Even though all her exercise had worked up an appetite.

But the dowagers began to annoy her as they found fault with everyone they could recognize, and with their attempts to draw her into their disdain, and eventually Miranda rose, drifting farther into the shadows, away from everyone. The room was too warm, and she longed for the cool night air, but there was no terrace outside the Carrimore ballroom, and no place to escape to. She simply moved back into the deepest shadows, where her bright red domino turned black in the absence of light, and found a delicate table and chair. If Jane remembered she might sneak a cake or something that Miranda could devour when no one was looking. In the meantime she would simply wait.

She didn’t hear him approach, but then, the room was noisy, filled with the orchestra playing at top volume, the chatter of voices trying to drown out the music, the sounds of feet on the dance floor, the clink of glasses.

One moment she was blessedly, peacefully alone.

In the next, she wasn’t.

“Did you tire of dancing, Lady Miranda?”

There was no mistaking Lucien de Malheur’s sinuous voice. It came as such a surprise she jerked her head up, then wished to God she hadn’t. It would have been so much better if she’d simply ignored him, but it was already too late for that. So she blundered her way through it. “Lord Rochdale,” she murmured with cool courtesy. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t you? The Carrimores are known for their open hospitality. Even a damaged rogue like me is included.”

“As well as damaged goods like me,” she said in a sweet voice. “Don’t let me keep you, my lord. I’m certain you have more important things to attend to.”

He grew very still, looking down at her. “I seem to have offended the lady. Pray, what did I do to earn your ire?”

She could hardly tell him, not without sounding ridiculous. “Not a thing,” she said breezily.

She didn’t like the smile that played around his mouth. He hadn’t bothered with a loo mask, which would have covered a great deal of his scarred face. Instead he was dressed in the height of elegance, all black and silver, and the walking stick he carried had a huge ruby on the top of it. “I rejoice to hear it. May I join you?”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Are you indeed?” There was a note in his voice she couldn’t quite recognize.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “The person who accompanied me.”

“Ah.” He sank into the chair opposite her anyway. “You wouldn’t deprive a cripple of a moment of rest, would you? Even though I couldn’t indulge in the riotous dancing I find my leg is paining me damnably.”

“You’re hardly a cripple,” she said, not interested in playing his games.

He ignored her statement. “So tell me, my child, are you awaiting a man or a woman? Who brought you to this party, because I’m certain you wouldn’t have come on your own.”