Death Wears a Mask by Ashley Weaver Page B

do. Despite our initial and publicly embarrassing meeting, the impression I had formed of him at the ball had been one of a retiring, private man. If he was inclined to end his life, I would have expected it to be done at his own residence, not in the house of a man he barely knew—and during the middle of a masquerade ball at that.
    â€œMilo, do you think it odd…”
    â€œNo,” he said, cutting me off, as he handed me a nightgown he had retrieved from my bureau. “And you shouldn’t either. I know perfectly well what kind of schemes that brain of yours is concocting, and no good can come of them.”
    I frowned at him, but he ignored me.
    â€œI’m going to sleep in the guest bedroom so I don’t bump your ankle in the night,” he said, as he tied the belt of the black dressing gown he had put on over his nightclothes. “Do you need anything else?”
    There were so many things I wanted to say, but instead I shook my head. “I’m fine, thank you.”
    â€œVery well. Good night, darling.”
    He dropped a kiss on my lips and departed the room, leaving me feeling dissatisfied and unsettled about the entire evening.
    *   *   *
    THE FEELING OF dissatisfaction had not waned as the gray light of early morning began to filter through my curtains. Despite the hour at which I had gone to bed, I found I could not go back to sleep. I lay abed for what seemed like hours, willing myself to rest, but at last I gave it up and rose, pulling on a negligee over my nightgown.
    I hobbled from my bed to the black velvet chaise lounge and propped up my foot. It was quite sore this morning, but the swelling seemed to have gone down somewhat. I hoped to be up and walking again by the next day at the latest, doctor’s orders or no.
    I was surprised when the door opened and Milo came in carrying a tray. He was almost never awake at this hour. I wondered if this was a sign of an attempted truce on his part.
    â€œI’ve intercepted Winnelda and brought your breakfast,” he said.
    â€œBless you for that. I’ll tell her all about the ball later,” I said. “After I’ve had some coffee.”
    â€œHow’s your ankle this morning?”
    â€œA bit better, thank you,” I answered.
    â€œGlad to hear it.” He set the tray on the table. “She’s made you toast and jam, which, though not especially substantial, might be for the best. I’m still not sure I’d trust the girl to do more than boil water. And I thought you might be interested in this.” He handed me a copy of The Times .
    I had been hoping to avoid the papers, but I knew I would have to face them eventually. The events of last night were only more fodder for the gossip machines. Like it or not, I had become part of another scandal.
    I took the paper from Milo and unfolded it. The headline was there in bold letters, and it was worse than I had expected: SUICIDE AT LORD DUNMORE’S BALL: DEAD MAN BELIEVED TO BE JEWEL THIEF .
    â€œJewel thief!” I exclaimed. “What on earth…”
    â€œRead on,” Milo said, reaching to pour coffee from the pot into my cup.
    I read aloud. “Last evening, the ball held at the home of the Viscount Dunmore was the scene of an unexpected tragedy when Mr. James Harker, nephew of Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd Barrington, shot himself in one of Lord Dunmore’s upstairs rooms. A later examination of the body revealed the presence of several sapphires, believed to be from a bracelet belonging to the deceased’s aunt, Mrs. Barrington.”
    I gasped and looked up at Milo as he complacently stirred sugar into my coffee.
    â€œMrs. Barrington’s bracelet?”
    â€œIt appears so. I told you the young man’s sins would come to light.”
    My eyes scanned the article. “Mrs. Barrington revealed that bracelet appeared to be the one she had been wearing earlier in the evening. She also divulged that