The Mask of Night Read Online Free PDF

a face covered by a black mask and a gaping wound in his chest that had oozed blood all over his gold tunic.
    Lucinda put her hand to her mouth. “Who is he?” she asked in a hoarse voice.
    “I’m not sure. I don’t recognize the costume.” Mélanie gripped the dead man's arm to hold him steady and leaned over to untie the mask. The string was damp and slippery. It took her several seconds to untangle the knot. At last the strings came loose. She lifted the mask to see high cheekbones, dark brows and hair, ice blue eyes.
    Every drop of blood seemed to freeze in her veins. It was the eyes that were unmistakable, though they were beginning to cloud. She was staring down at the dead body of Julien St. Juste.
    Mélanie forced air into her lungs. “Lucy.” She gripped the younger girl’s shoulders, turning her away from the body. “I need you to get Charles and Oliver. Can you do that?”
    Lucinda gave a shaky nod, as though the crisp words steadied her.
    Mélanie squeezed her shoulders. “Good girl. Mr. Alcott, I think you should go with her.”
    “We can’t leave you alone here, Mrs. Fraser.”
    “I’ll be all right. Get Charles and Oliver. But don’t let word of what’s happened get out among the guests or we’ll have panic on our hands.”
    Mr. Alcott began to protest, but Lucinda reached for his hand. “Come on, Toby. Mélanie knows what to do.“
    Mélanie watched the young couple run across the garden and up the steps to the terrace. Then she turned back to the body in the fountain.
    The sickly-sweet stench of blood washed over her. The moonlight shone bright on the familiar features. Even in death there was something mocking in the curve of the cheekbones and mouth. Julien St. Juste, master spy, lover of Josephine Bonaparte. The man Mélanie had slept with and matched wits against on her first mission ten years ago.
    All her promises to Charles, all her good intentions about leaving her past behind her. She should have known it was folly to think she could escape. Here was her past, floating in a pool of blood, staring up at her with cold, dead eyes.
    She cast another glance round the garden. No sign of Hortense. It strained coincidence to think there was no connection between Hortense’s presence at the ball and St. Juste’s. Not to mention St. Juste’s death. What in God’s name was Hortense embroiled in? Mélanie bit back a curse. Because whatever it was, she was now embroiled in it herself.
    “Mel?” Charles’s voice echoed across the garden. Mélanie turned to see him hurrying toward her, followed by both Oliver and Isobel.
    “I’m all right.” Mélanie went to meet them. “But there’s a man in the fountain who’s very dead.”
    Oliver strode forward and went stock still, his face as white as the linen of his toga. Isobel froze a few steps behind him, staring at the corpse as though the Commendatore had just dragged her down to hell alongside Don Giovanni.
    Mélanie touched Isobel's hand. Isobel jerked as if she'd been struck.
    Charles crossed to the fountain and studied the dead man. “Do either of you recognize him?” he asked Isobel and Oliver.
    "I don't—” Oliver glanced away, then walked forward and looked down at the corpse. "No, I don't think so.” He turned to his wife. "Darling? Can you bear to look? Do you remember greeting him when he arrived?"
    Isobel moved to stand beside her husband. She stared down at the body with the determination of one trained from the cradle not to look away from unpleasantness. "No. But there were some late-comers I didn't greet. It's not unheard of for people to slip into a ball uninvited. Especially at a masquerade. But that doesn't explain—"
    Charles squeezed her hand. "We have to send to Bow Street. A runner should look at the body before we disturb the scene any further."
    Oliver's gaze snapped to Charles's face. The Prince Regent was in the ballroom, along with two royal dukes, three cabinet ministers, a half-dozen ambassadors, and God