The silk gown Clara wore felt like a gilded shroud.
Tonight, she was not Clara—the kingdom's deadliest shadow operative. Tonight, she wore her twin sister's diamond-studded mask, taking her place in the bedchamber of Duke Keith of Blackwood.
Her family owed three million gold sovereigns to the Crown. If the marriage failed to be consummated before midnight, the King's guard would drag her father to the guillotine.
The heavy mahogany doors swung open. Duke Keith stood in the doorway, his imposing silhouette framed by the winter tempest outside.
His eyes were a chilling, wolfish gray. He looked at Clara with disdain. "Remove the mask, Lady Vivienne."
Clara kept her chin high, fingers tracing the concealed stiletto inside her silk sleeve. "The vow said you marry my house, my Lord. Not my face."