Tangled Webs (2 page)

They were stuck in this life, but at least she had Nic.

The brow over Nic’s eye patch rose, and a knowing grin tipped one corner of his mouth. Wisps of black hair curled around the strings of his disguise. Damn him. He knew what he did to her.
He always played the rakish flirt when they were working. He made her blood do crazy things inside her veins, yet he reverted to acting like her friend the moment the masks came off. It frustrated
the hell out of her.

As she watched, a woman sidled up to him and he turned his attention to her. She leaned in and said something as he reached up to trace a lazy circle on her shoulder. When she leaned against his
arm, fiery jealousy exploded inside Arista. He should be paying attention to the job, not to some barely dressed woman. She pushed through the crowd, hand on the knife hidden under her dress. A
knife that Nic had given to her.

He had not yet noticed Arista getting closer. The woman held all of his attention. She wore a costume of shimmering blue satin. The bodice dipped down very low in front, and the entire costume
rippled like waves when she moved. A swan’s mask obscured the features of her face, but Arista could see the hungry gleam in her eyes as she looked up at Nic.

The woman could have been a street-corner flower girl or a princess, and every man there would still want her. The anger fell away from Arista like a discarded cloak. There was no comparison
between her and the radiant girl that held Nic’s gaze.

Arista stopped before she reached them. What was she thinking—was she going to pull her knife and demand the woman leave Nic alone? He didn’t belong to Arista. He didn’t belong
to anyone except Bones. None of them did.

The fire in her gut turned to ice.

It did no good to wish things were different. Arista knew that. And even though Nic appeared engaged with his companion, his awareness was focused solely on Arista. If she gave him the signal,
he’d abandon the woman without a single glance back.

She met his gaze and raised one eyebrow at him. Nic only grinned back at her, his finger now sliding down over the woman’s collarbone. Arista turned away, her long dark curls brushing her
back. The curls were an unfamiliar and heavy presence, even now. The wig had become a perfect accomplice to her charade, but she preferred the feel of her own much shorter hair, tucked safely under
a wool cap.

After all this time, Arista still had not gotten used to playing the role of Lady A. There was a certain vulnerability in wearing a dress—shoulders bared, breasts accentuated to the point
of indecency—that she could not get used to. Even after Becky had raised the neckline, Arista complained it was still too low. By the end of nights like these, she only wanted to retreat back
into her normal disguise. As a boy, no one bothered her, apart from an absent swipe or two from a disgruntled workman.

Lord Huntington now stood at the buffet stuffing delicate pastries into his mouth as if this were his last meal. Only a few more minutes, and their business could be started. A dull throb had
started at the base of her neck. She wanted to end the evening and go back to the quiet of her room. Absently, Arista rubbed at the source of the pain, and her knuckles brushed against the silk
scarf wound around her hair.

“You’ve been to India?” a deep voice from behind her asked.

Arista half turned her head, enough to look up, and found herself face-to-face with a highwayman. A black silk scarf obscured the lower half of his face. He had an equally black hat pulled so
low, she could only see a glimpse of his eyes, which were reflecting the flickering candlelight. It might have been a masquerade, but she could almost believe he was an
actual
outlaw.
“Excuse me?” she asked, unable to look away from him.

He fingered her scarf, his touch grazing the back of her neck. Tension coiled just under her skin. Should she stay? Run? The urge to do both overwhelmed her.

“This scarf is from India, if I’m not mistaken. I only wondered if you’d traveled there.” She found herself mesmerized by his rich voice.

“No,” she whispered. “Have you been?”

“Yes.”

His one-word answer sent a thrill of anticipation over her skin.

How often had she visited the docks and watched the ships sail in and out? How many times had she wished she were on one of them, on her way to India? The men at the docks told stories of people
who rode elephants and wore colors so bright you had to look away; of air full of the pungent aroma of spices.

The scarf in her hair had been a gift from Nalia, the Indian laundress at the orphanage, the only woman there who’d showed any kindness toward Arista. When Arista had left, Nalia had given
the scarf to her as a reminder that a whole other world existed out there. India became the refuge that Arista clung to on cold, dark nights. One day, she vowed, she would escape from London and
go.

Now she was closer than she’d ever been before. “Where did you go? What did you see?” she begged. The party around them faded as she focused on his answer. He leaned in close,
and her pulse leapt in an unfamiliar way. She took a quick step back. Her instincts had saved her more than once, but this didn’t feel unsafe. In fact, the feeling in her veins excited
her.

“We traveled to the West Indies, then to the islands, then to Fort St. George. My father owns a fleet of merchant ships, and I am working my way up to captain.” Pride shone from his
eyes as he again leaned in close, as if he were going to share a secret with her. “This next trip, I hope, will be under my command.”

“You don’t seem old enough to be a captain.”

He laughed. He had a very nice laugh. It sank under her skin and made her want to hear it again and again.

“I’m nineteen, so yes, maybe a little bit young. But I’ve been aboard ships since I could walk. I love the freedom; open ocean as far as the eye can see. Away from the rules of
society, it doesn’t matter who you are. London is stifling. I hate coming back here. Well, until now, that is.” Light danced in his eyes. Their bodies were almost pressed against each
other, so close she could feel the heat radiating from him. Distracted by his words, she hadn’t noticed right away. People never got this close without her sensing it. Arista swallowed but
didn’t move.

“That sounds so perfect,” she whispered.

More questions danced on her tongue. She wanted to know everything—what the air smelled like when no land could be seen; what kind of people he had met; what cities looked like across
thousands of miles of ocean.

“It is perfect.” His expression was so open; she kept waiting for his disguise to crack. It had to be an act. No one could be this…nice. Everyone wanted something from her.
Yet he was talking to her as if they were equals. Maybe he thought they were. People pretended to be anything they wanted at the masquerades. Arista knew for sure that the milkmaid currently
sneaking off to a dark corner with the very badly dressed king was in fact the Duchess of Harpswell. The very
married
duchess.

“Have you ever been on a ship before?” he asked, drawing her eyes back to him. All his attention was focused on her, despite the array of beautiful women eyeing him as they walked
by. A thrill of pleasure washed over her.

Arista closed her eyes for a moment, envisioning herself on a massive ship with nothing but the sea in sight. She could not even imagine the kind of freedom he spoke of. Her life had been
dictated by one man for so long, she barely even knew who she was—
really
was—anymore. She wanted that freedom more than anything, but it would never happen. Not for her.

“No, I’ve never left London.”

He stared at her intently. His fingers ran over her wrist, so softly that it might have been a whisper of fabric touching her, if not for the heat. Arista stood still, caught in his gaze. Blood
pounded through her veins. No one had ever looked at her like this.

A couple waltzing by bumped her elbow and she stumbled. He reached out and steadied her, but it was enough to break the spell he had cast. What was she doing?

She had one job tonight. She had not come to the masquerade to lose herself in wistful dreams. Or in the eyes of the most intriguing young man she’d ever met. She should not wonder which
exotic lands he had seen, nor wish to hear more about them. No, she should be meeting Lord Huntington and finishing up Bones’s business. Yet there she stood.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

Arista glanced up and saw genuine concern filling his eyes. Unable to speak just yet, she shook her head. Her hands trembled. He reached for one and tucked it against his chest. Under her
fingers, his heart thumped as quickly as hers. It was right there, on the tip of her tongue, to ask how much passage on one of his ships might cost.

Real fear stretched her nerves tight. What if Bones somehow knew what she was thinking? He wasn’t a mind reader, of course, but he had an uncanny ability to know her feelings. If he knew
how close she had come to contemplating escape, he’d kill her rather than let it happen.

“I have to go.” She desperately tugged at her hand. He let it go, but she spent several more seconds staring into his eyes. This must be what a caged bear felt when finding an open
door. The offer of freedom so close, but the threat of punishment all-consuming. From a distance, the clock began chiming the midnight hour.

“Can I see you again?” His voice was plaintive. “Tell me I can.”

Unfamiliar feelings constricted her chest. She shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She made it only a few more steps before she heard him call out.

“Your name then? Please.”

Oh God, it would be so easy to tell him that one simple thing.

Color and sound moved around her at dizzying speed. All around, bodies spun by, and she could see no way of escape. The room seemed to grow smaller around her.

“I’m Graeden Sinclair,” he said. “Grae to my friends.” He stepped back into her line of sight and reached for her hand. His gaze bore into hers and again, the urge
to tell him her real name—to ask for passage on his ship—was overwhelming.

The loss of control shook her to the core.

“I’m sorry.” Arista drew in a ragged breath, and when a wave of dancers passed by, she dove among them, putting the crowd between her and the man who had nearly destroyed her
defenses. She stood on the outskirts of the room, forcing the errant feelings back inside, where she hoped they would eventually die.

Grae.
Like his eyes. Like the thunderclouds that filled the sky before a storm.

She pressed her gloved fingers to her lips to keep from saying it out loud.

A hand appeared on her arm, and another at her back. For a moment she thought Grae had followed her, and an unexpected rush of anticipation made her skin tingle.

“You okay, gypsy? Thought I lost you there for a minute.” Nic stood in front of her, partially shielding her from the crowd. Always the protector. Always looking out for her, like
he’d promised to do so many years ago.

Arista closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Not Grae. Nic.

“You know I hate when you call me gypsy.” The words came out rough, betraying her still-fragile control. Where had the highwayman gone? She could not see him over Nic’s
shoulder, which meant he had not followed her. The bitter sting of disappointment made her close her eyes.

“Well, we still have work to do—
gypsy
. You feeling up to it?” Though Nic asked, she knew there was no choice. It didn’t matter that her composure had slipped
dangerously out of her control. She had a debt to collect. A job to do.

She cleared her throat, took a deep breath to clear her thoughts, and nodded. “Where is Lord Huntington now?”

Nic flicked his eyes toward an archway where Lord Huntington stood. Arista already knew it led to the library, just as she knew every exit in the house. The first few minutes of each job were
spent getting the feel for their surroundings. Unless they had been there before. “It’s time, then.”

They walked side by side around the edge of the room. Little by little, her composure returned. Each step took her away from what had happened on the dance floor.

Lady A had regained control once more.

Just steps away from Lord Huntington, Nic stopped her with a slight touch on her arm. She could not help the immediate comparison to how Graeden’s fingers had affected her.

Arista stared at Nic’s hand, waiting, hoping for something more, but there was only the familiar feeling of safety, not excitement.

“Really, is everything okay, gypsy?” He stared at her, his eyebrows drawn with concern. No trace of humor remained in his eyes.

For the briefest second, she had an overwhelming urge to cry. She had not cried since she was six years old, and it had been in Nic’s gangly eight-year-old arms. She’d sworn it would
never happen again. Tears were for the weak—the powerless. She was neither.

“I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Nic looked as though he wanted to say something more, but Arista turned away before he could. No more distractions.

Lord Huntington saw them coming and quickly disappeared down the hall. After they entered behind the earl, Nic checked to be sure they were not followed. He switched to bodyguard mode
seamlessly.

An enormous pair of carved-oak doors took up most of the wall at the end of the hallway. Nic pushed them open soundlessly and locked the doors behind them after they entered.

Arista’s skirts rustled in the quiet of the room.

Lord Huntington stood in front of the large mantelpiece, his back to them. Arista waited several long seconds before he turned and acknowledged her—a tiny play for control on his part. She
gave it to him. She let him think he had a choice, at least for the moment.

Lord Huntington’s mask had been carelessly tossed aside on a polished side table next to his ridiculous hat. The seams of his silk jacket were even more strained up close, and it seemed as
if the buttons would fly off at any moment. It took him three tries to clear his throat enough to speak.

“Lady A.” His voice sounded hoarse, like he’d only just started using it.