Lady Wicked by Sabrina Vance

Chapter One
     
    London, 1816
     
    Amelia fingered the stiff card of the
invitation, smiling. Lord Hamilton’s Masquerade ball was the
highlight of the social calendar with only a select slice of
society invited. She had been on the guest list the past two years
but even then she didn’t know what to expect.
    This year Lord Hamilton had promised the most
exquisite, most exciting evening his guests could possibly have.
That, of course, was not hard to believe. The finest wines flowed
at each one of the handsome Lord’s parties; there was the best in
entertainment, and the most delicious food. Society would gossip
about the ball for weeks beforehand, clamouring for a rare
invitation. Of course, the gossip would continue for weeks after
too, in hushed voices by the favoured few who had been there, and
repeated and embellished by the fevered imaginations of those who
had not.
    Amelia had been somewhat surprised the first
year she had been invited to the Masquerade. She had kept a low
profile as befitted a single young woman of that time. Though
without family, she had considerable funds. It was that which
enabled her to enter society graciously, without making any great
waves. That had been her intention. Already, she was considered a
great beauty, but one with pleasant manners, good breeding and that
crucial several thousand a year.
    Her past was something of a secret. Through
the rumour mill Amelia had seeded her own tragic background: rich
parents who had died on the continent and left their beloved
daughter everything. It wasn’t too far from the truth. Well, only
by a few hundred years, and who was counting?
    Everything Amelia did was designed to not
draw attention to her, so that when the time came that she had to
move on, she would do so quietly, without fanfare, enabling her to
re-invent herself in some new city, moving on again when her lack
of aging would point her out as something other.
    Lately, she had been thinking the New World
of would be where she would settle next, once the early pioneers
had done the hard work. America sounded like a terrifically
exciting place after her years travelling through Europe.
    Living quietly was dull, but necessary, and
it was part of what made her love the Masquerade so much. Some
would call what happened on Hamilton’s estate, beyond the long
driveway and the closed doors of his mansion, debauched. Amelia
considered it the most freeing night of her life, the only time
when a nineteenth century woman could be truly free, without
repercussions.
    The beauty of the Masquerade was the masks
that Hamilton insisted all the guests wore. It was a given that
each mask would be beautifully crafted, paired with the finest
costumes that would ensure every guest was a true enigma. They were
encouraged, nay, it was demanded, that they become a different
persona that night, and allow that persona to do what they liked…
to whomever they liked.
    So on one night a year, Amelia became Lady
Wicked.
    Reaching for the costume laid across her bed,
Amelia fingered the fine material of her costume. The silk had been
sent from Paris, created into the exquisite dress by her favourite
London dressmaker who had sewn delicate bands of lace around the
low cut neck, adding ribbons to the neat capped sleeves. Dispensing
with society’s rules on colours, Amelia had selected a deep
midnight blue, with gloves to match.
    The most important piece of her costume,
however, was her mask. It was a delicate gold, perfectly fitted to
mask her upper face and trimmed in black brocade with jewels
pressed to the edges. She would wear it with a ribbon, tied it over
her long near-black hair. Compared to the feathers, lace, filigree
metals and grotesque casts, her mask would be a simple thing but it
was exactly what she wanted. It was just enough to fit the rules,
enough to blend in without attracting too much attention from the
other revelers.
    Her mind drifted to what Lord Hamilton would
wear. The first year she had