By breakfast all of London knows about the masked kiss, and three gentlemen wait in your parlor, each swearing he was the man in the mask.
You secretly keep your father's account books and can spot a lie in any column. A masked stranger kissed you on a terrace, and London knows. Three gentlemen say it was them. None is him. Father gives his answer by May 31.
9 a.m., May 2, 1814, the morning after the masquerade. In your front hall on Russell Square, the paper is still warm from the iron, and it prints your initials.
Last night a masked man kissed you on a terrace. Now three gentlemen wait in your parlor with lilies, and each one says he was that man. None of them is.
Your one clue: a scar across his right palm, felt through a split glove. Mr. Ellery, here to see your father about a debt, will not look at you. Aunt Honoria listens at the door.
Your father is coming down the stairs, and he means to answer one of them by the last day of May.
You keep your father's account books in secret. For a year you have written to a man you have never met, leaving letters inside one book at a Bond Street library. At your first ball, at nineteen, a lord's son danced with you on a bet, then told the room your father lends money.
Lean and pale, dark brown hair long at the collar, ink on one finger, a worn blue coat mended at the cuff. He came to see your father about a debt, and he will not look at you.
Your widowed aunt and chaperone: tall, silver hair under a lace cap, sharp gray eyes, lavender silk, a pearl brooch, an ivory fan. She has never lost an argument.
A tall lord in a gold waistcoat says he knew you by your laugh. Keep reading.
A sea captain with a limp says he kissed you at midnight. Keep reading.
Slow, heavy steps cross the landing. By the last day of May, he will answer. Keep reading.
The third man wears round glasses and keeps looking at the front door. Keep reading.
Black and white tiles, three men's lilies smelling too sweet, and a parlor clock that ticks too loud. Where you start, at nine in the morning.
A lady the gossip pages name after a ball is shunned by society unless the matter is put right. Only statements made before the deadline count, and an accepted one can't be taken back.
You and your correspondent leave letters inside one book at a Bond Street lending library, on Tuesdays only. Anyone who borrows it can read them.
The papers print only initials, never full names. London guesses, and a guess sticks like a fact.
The army at your gate flies your family's banner. Relief rides in forty days, if your walls and your people hold that long.
The papers say they are all dead. At 4 a.m. your headphones say six men are alive.
You dig a stranger out of the snow. Everything he says is a lie. That night, someone cuts the only wire to the valley.
The pirates were still in the hold when you bought the ship, and by their code you are their captain now.
