had rescued Gianni from Prince Rafael’s palace, she would have to make a quick change in order to go create the distraction in the city square which would divert more soldiers away from the jail, so that Mateo and the others could make their escape. She would need to scramble out of the gown, put on her black shirt and vest and the infamous mask, grab her sword, and ride.
Ahead, she could see that some of the guests were costumed. She was glad she had brought along a blue satin half-mask that matched her gown. It would help her blend into the crowd, because the one thing that could throw her carefully made plans into ruin was if Prince Rafael saw her and remembered her.
Glancing around, she brushed off that worry as best she could. There were so many people present—and so many smart, stunning ladies—she was certain she could slip through the crowd unnoticed. At last, it was her turn to go in. She gave her name at the entrance. The stately old butler lifted a brow, but politely gestured her in.
She passed rows of servants who skipped forward to take the gentlemen’s hats or pointed the ladies in the direction of the lounge, but she passed them all silently, a rush of exhilaration in her veins.
Unaware she was holding her breath, she walked slowly, step by step, into Prince Rafael’s pleasure palace.
Dizzy with the music and the wonderful aromas of foods and perfumes, she felt like she was floating. She stared about her, wide-eyed and marveling.
Everything was so beautiful . It was like entering a dreamland.
The chandeliers looked like mountains of delicately carved ice. The floor below her was black and white marble, like a great chessboard. The walls were hung with red silk embroidered with golden pineapples. There was particolored confetti raining in clouds from above, and when she glanced up, she saw two girls on trapezelike swings, their slim bodies draped in gauzy trailing silk. They swung slowly over the crowd in huge arcs, back and forth, laughing and sprinkling confetti.
Around her, radiant ladies greeted each other with easy, elegant gaiety, but Dani stood alone. Tilting her head back, she looked up and up and up, past the colored rain of confetti, past the girls on swings. The ballroom lay directly under the famous soaring dome, which she had only ever glimpsed from outside at a distance. From floor to apex, the dome must have been a hundred feet high, she thought in amazement. She squinted in fascination at the distant frescoes painted on the dome and nearly gasped as she picked out the Arcadian orgy depicted, naked nymphs entwined with sporting satyrs and randy gods.
Abashed by the tauntingly obscene images—just the sort of art she would have expected from him —she moved her gaze down the sides of the dome.
Girding the bronze base of it, well obscured by shadows, she could just make out a winding gallery, a kind of narrow walkway from which the crowd could be observed. She saw a lone figure standing there—aloof and above—motionless.
She felt, rather than saw, who it was.
A quiver passed through her limbs as she sensed the menace in this place beneath all its glittering beauty. Her senses vibrated like finely tuned strings at the sight of the prince’s dark figure there above the crowd, but it brought her back to her purpose.
Where could Gianni be?
The flow of the crowd was pressing her up along the receiving line. She heard murmurings around her.
“Chloe Sinclair—isn’t she divine?”
“Look at that gown! It must cost a fortune.”
“The toast of the London stage!”
“I heard they met in Venice when he was on Grand Tour.”
The woman holding court at the end of the receiving line was a radiant, sugar-spun confection of a creature, a pink pearl here in the heart of Rafael’s magical palace. Dani was awed by Chloe Sinclair’s beauty amid her dawning realization that the woman was the prince’s mistress—his doxy, his demimondaine—and that she, of the great
Ahead, she could see that some of the guests were costumed. She was glad she had brought along a blue satin half-mask that matched her gown. It would help her blend into the crowd, because the one thing that could throw her carefully made plans into ruin was if Prince Rafael saw her and remembered her.
Glancing around, she brushed off that worry as best she could. There were so many people present—and so many smart, stunning ladies—she was certain she could slip through the crowd unnoticed. At last, it was her turn to go in. She gave her name at the entrance. The stately old butler lifted a brow, but politely gestured her in.
She passed rows of servants who skipped forward to take the gentlemen’s hats or pointed the ladies in the direction of the lounge, but she passed them all silently, a rush of exhilaration in her veins.
Unaware she was holding her breath, she walked slowly, step by step, into Prince Rafael’s pleasure palace.
Dizzy with the music and the wonderful aromas of foods and perfumes, she felt like she was floating. She stared about her, wide-eyed and marveling.
Everything was so beautiful . It was like entering a dreamland.
The chandeliers looked like mountains of delicately carved ice. The floor below her was black and white marble, like a great chessboard. The walls were hung with red silk embroidered with golden pineapples. There was particolored confetti raining in clouds from above, and when she glanced up, she saw two girls on trapezelike swings, their slim bodies draped in gauzy trailing silk. They swung slowly over the crowd in huge arcs, back and forth, laughing and sprinkling confetti.
Around her, radiant ladies greeted each other with easy, elegant gaiety, but Dani stood alone. Tilting her head back, she looked up and up and up, past the colored rain of confetti, past the girls on swings. The ballroom lay directly under the famous soaring dome, which she had only ever glimpsed from outside at a distance. From floor to apex, the dome must have been a hundred feet high, she thought in amazement. She squinted in fascination at the distant frescoes painted on the dome and nearly gasped as she picked out the Arcadian orgy depicted, naked nymphs entwined with sporting satyrs and randy gods.
Abashed by the tauntingly obscene images—just the sort of art she would have expected from him —she moved her gaze down the sides of the dome.
Girding the bronze base of it, well obscured by shadows, she could just make out a winding gallery, a kind of narrow walkway from which the crowd could be observed. She saw a lone figure standing there—aloof and above—motionless.
She felt, rather than saw, who it was.
A quiver passed through her limbs as she sensed the menace in this place beneath all its glittering beauty. Her senses vibrated like finely tuned strings at the sight of the prince’s dark figure there above the crowd, but it brought her back to her purpose.
Where could Gianni be?
The flow of the crowd was pressing her up along the receiving line. She heard murmurings around her.
“Chloe Sinclair—isn’t she divine?”
“Look at that gown! It must cost a fortune.”
“The toast of the London stage!”
“I heard they met in Venice when he was on Grand Tour.”
The woman holding court at the end of the receiving line was a radiant, sugar-spun confection of a creature, a pink pearl here in the heart of Rafael’s magical palace. Dani was awed by Chloe Sinclair’s beauty amid her dawning realization that the woman was the prince’s mistress—his doxy, his demimondaine—and that she, of the great
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