The invitation arrived on a Thursday, sealed with black wax and bearing no return address.
Lord Julian Blackwood held it between two fingers and examined the handwriting. It was elegant, almost calligraphic, written in ink the colour of dried blood. The message was brief: You are invited to a masquerade. Mayfair. Friday. Midnight. Wear a mask and bring your secrets. He had written it himself. Julian was twenty-seven, heir to the Blackwood fortune, and possessor of a mind that had...
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