THE KING | THE NINE

The first rule of Mourden College was that money opened doors.

The second was that my family owned most of them.

By half past midnight, there was a girl on her knees beneath the grand piano, two men beating the living shit out of each other in the old billiards room, and enough cocaine circulating through Cattermole Lodge to fund a respectable criminal enterprise.

All things considered, the Red Masquerade was going rather well.

I stood on the upper gallery with a cigarette between my fingers, watching three hundred of Britain’s most privileged degenerates behave as though consequences were something invented for the working class.

A girl in black lace straddled a boy against one of the marble columns, her mask slipping sideways as she kissed him. Beyond them, two masked strangers disappeared behind the velvet curtains of the east alcove, leaving an abandoned champagne flute and a pair of expensive heels. Someone danced on the dining table while students cheered, and through the adjoining salon’s open doors, I could see a roulette wheel spinning beneath the portrait of a dead viscount.

The air was thick with perfume, cigarette smoke, sweat, and spilled champagne. Music pounded through the antique floorboards, making the chandeliers tremble.

Somewhere downstairs, a girl screamed.

This time, nobody laughed.

I watched two of our security men disappear through the billiards-room doors, then returned my attention to the ballroom.

My grandfather would have been horrified.

My father would have asked whether anyone had photographed it.

Personally, I considered the evening a success.

“Two hundred thousand.”

I glanced towards Kiran Sethi, who had appeared beside me with his telephone in one hand and an untouched whisky in the other.

“That’s what we’ve cleared downstairs,” Kiran explained, showing me the screen. “And Beck’s taking bets on whether the lad from Durham gets his teeth knocked out before two.”

I exhaled smoke towards the ceiling. “Which lad?”

Kiran slipped his telephone away. “The one who called Rafe’s sister a slag.”

I considered that.

“Tell Beck to stop taking bets.”

Kiran raised an eyebrow.

I tapped ash into a crystal dish. “It’s hardly gambling when everyone knows the outcome.”

Kiran smiled faintly. “Shall I stop Rafe?”

I glanced towards the billiards room, where one of our security men had emerged carrying a bloodstained white shirt.

“Before he kills him,” I replied. “I don’t fancy explaining another death to the college.”

Kiran’s expression barely changed. He nodded once and disappeared towards the staircase.

Mourden had always belonged to people like us. Built for us, funded by us, maintained by administrators who understood that a sufficiently large donation resolved almost any ethical dilemma.

The Nine simply had the good sense to exploit that arrangement.

Our parties had begun as relatively civilised affairs. Champagne, cards, beautiful people, the occasional bout of recreational criminality.

Then Nico suggested a masquerade.

Rafe introduced the fighting.

Beck turned the initiations into an underground blood sport.

And somewhere along the way, we’d built the most exclusive illegal social circuit in England.

Every person downstairs had begged, bribed, or fucked their way onto tonight’s guest list.

Every one of them had surrendered their telephone at the entrance.

They were free to leave whenever they pleased, of course.

Whether they left with their reputations intact was another matter entirely.

A warm hand slipped beneath my jacket.

“Max.”

Imogen Fairbrother stepped between me and the balustrade, her fingers finding my lapel. Beautiful, wealthy, and entirely too accustomed to getting what she wanted.

“You’ve been hiding up here all night,” she complained. “It’s terribly rude to invite a girl to a party and then ignore her.”

I regarded her over my cigarette. “I invited three hundred people.”

Her lips curved. “Only one of them is currently trying to get you out of that jacket.”

I glanced at the hand on my chest. “Your point?”

Imogen laughed, pressing closer until her red silk dress brushed my trousers. “Come downstairs with me.”

I took another drag. “Why?”

She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Do you always have to be such a bastard?”

I flicked ash into the dish. “Generally.”

When she reached for my tie, I caught her wrist.

“Imogen.” I lowered her hand. “I’m not interested.”

Her smile disappeared.

“God, you’re arrogant.”

I released her. “Frequently.”

I watched her leave before extinguishing my cigarette.

I wasn’t a monk. I enjoyed sex, beautiful people, and the particular satisfaction of watching someone forget whatever clever speech they’d rehearsed once I got close enough to kiss them.

But I disliked being pawed at.

And I disliked boredom even more.

Unfortunately, Mourden had become terribly fucking boring.

“You’re going to die alone, you know.”

Nico Whitcombe dropped into the chair beside mine, looking thoroughly disreputable. His shirt hung open at the throat, lipstick stained his neck, and his masquerade mask dangled from two fingers.

I glanced at his collar. “Busy evening?”

Nico grinned, reaching for an abandoned bottle of champagne. “Jealous?”

I leaned against the balustrade. “Deeply.”

He drank directly from the bottle. “Imogen looked murderous.”

“She’ll recover,” I replied, watching her disappear into the crowd.

Nico stretched his legs beneath the table. “She told me you’re emotionally constipated.”

I gave a faint smile. “Then she’s more perceptive than I gave her credit for.”

He laughed, then glanced towards the ballroom.

His smile vanished.

“Well, fuck me.”

I followed his gaze.

And saw the mask.

White porcelain.

A narrow black border.

Nine silver marks arranged along the left temple.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

The crowd continued writhing beneath the chandeliers, oblivious. Music pounded. A champagne bottle shattered near the roulette table.

But my attention had narrowed to a single figure among the masked guests.

You.

Wearing a mask that should have been locked inside a cabinet beneath Gresham House.

A mask that had belonged to Thomas Pritchard.

A mask I’d personally ordered sealed away after his death.

My fingers tightened around the balustrade.

Nico slowly lowered his champagne. “Max.”

I kept my eyes on you. “I see it.”

Nico leaned forward, his expression tightening. “Tell me that’s a fucking replica.”

I studied the delicate markings.

The tiny imperfection along the right edge.

I remembered every detail.

Including the last time I’d seen Thomas wearing it.

That particular evening had ended rather badly for him.

I lowered my cigarette. “It’s real.”

Nico went still.

Below us, someone threw a fistful of banknotes into the air. Students screamed and scrambled for them.

I turned slightly towards him. “Get Jude.”

Nico was already reaching for his telephone.

I looked back towards you.

Three hundred guests. Nine men who controlled practically every social institution within Mourden. Private security, locked entrances, invitation lists assembled over weeks.

And you’d walked straight into the middle of it wearing the one object guaranteed to make The Nine lose their fucking composure.

There were easier ways to commit suicide.

I felt something unfamiliar stir beneath my irritation.

Interest.

Real interest.

God, it had been a while.

Nico ended his call. “Jude’s coming. Rafe wants to shut the doors.”

I shook my head. “No.”

Nico looked at me sharply. “Maxim, that mask was in—”

I cut him off, tightening my grip on the balustrade. “I know where it was.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “Then whoever’s wearing it knows about Thomas.”

I watched you through the shifting crowd. “Perhaps.”

Nico turned towards me. “And you’re just going to stand there?”

I faced him fully.

Nico shut his mouth.

“Keep the party going,” I instructed, straightening my jacket. “Nobody touches that person. Nobody asks questions until I say so.”

He glanced downstairs. “And Rafe?”

I adjusted my cuff. “If he interferes, I’ll break his fucking hand myself.”

Nico studied my expression for a moment before nodding.

That settled it.

I headed downstairs.

The heat struck first. Cattermole Lodge was entirely unsuited to housing several hundred intoxicated aristocrats beneath one roof.

Bodies pressed together beneath red lights. Masks glittered. Silk dragged against velvet. A couple stumbled laughing from the library, the man’s shirt half untucked and the woman’s lipstick smeared across his jaw.

People moved aside as I approached.

Not dramatically. Nobody announced my arrival.

They simply recognised me.

That was the beautiful thing about power.

People learned to get out of its way.

Rafe appeared near the staircase, his knuckles split and his jaw set.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he demanded, falling into step beside me.

I adjusted my cuff. “To introduce myself.”

Rafe followed my gaze, his expression hardening. “You’re joking.”

I stopped briefly to look at him. “Do I look amused?”

He nodded towards you. “That’s Pritchard’s mask.”

I gave him a dry look. “Very good. Perhaps they’ll give you a degree after all.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “Whoever that is shouldn’t be here.”

I stopped walking.

When Rafe turned towards me, I smiled.

“Listen carefully,” I said, keeping my voice low. “If you put so much as a finger on that person without my permission, you’ll spend the rest of the term wishing you’d transferred to Durham.”

Rafe glanced over my shoulder. “You’re making a mistake.”

I slipped a hand into my trouser pocket. “Then I’ll enjoy making it.”

I stepped around him.

And then I was standing in front of you.

Up close, the mask was worse.

Not because of what it represented.

Because somebody had taken the trouble to wear it beautifully.

White porcelain framed your eyes, narrow black ribbons disappearing around your head. Red light caught the silver markings, briefly turning them the colour of fresh blood.

My gaze travelled over you before returning to the mask.

I took my time.

There was something deliciously provocative about someone having the nerve to enter my party wearing a dead man’s secrets.

And I’d always had an unfortunate weakness for trouble that came looking for me.

“Well,” I murmured, slipping a hand into my pocket. “Aren’t you a pretty little fucking problem.”

A woman brushed against my back, laughing drunkenly. I ignored her.

I tilted my head, studying the porcelain. “Do you have any idea how many people have spent the last month begging for an invitation tonight?”

I moved closer, lowering my voice beneath the music.

“Members of Parliament’s children. Heirs to fortunes you couldn’t spend in three lifetimes. People who would sell their own mothers for the privilege of drinking my champagne.”

My mouth curved.

“And then there’s you.”

I glanced at the silver markings.

“You’ve managed to arrive wearing something that should be six feet underground.”

I let the words settle.

“That’s either extraordinarily brave or spectacularly stupid.”

Behind you, Jude appeared at the edge of the crowd.

He didn’t approach.

Clever boy.

I tilted my head.

“Which is it?”

A slower, heavier song rolled through the ballroom. Couples drew together beneath the chandeliers. Somewhere nearby, a man’s hand disappeared beneath his partner’s dress, eliciting a breathless laugh.

I scarcely noticed.

“See, here’s my problem,” I continued, lowering my voice. “That mask belonged to someone I knew.”

I reached towards the silver detailing, stopping just short of touching it.

“Someone who died.”

My expression cooled as I lowered my hand.

“And somebody has gone to considerable trouble to put it on your face.”

I slipped my hand back into my pocket.

“Now, I could have you escorted downstairs. There’s a room beneath this house with very thick walls, and I’m reasonably certain Rafe would enjoy introducing you to it.”

I paused, studying your eyes.

“Or we could do something considerably more interesting.”

The words came out softer than intended.

I wasn’t entirely certain whether I meant questioning or seduction.

That irritated me.

But there was something intoxicating about the possibility that you knew more about Thomas Pritchard’s death than you should.

The police had ruled it an accident. Mourden accepted their findings. Thomas’s family received a substantial settlement, and the entire unpleasant business had been put to rest two years ago.

As far as the world was concerned, that was the end of it.

I intended to keep it that way.

Certain details about that night would never appear in a police report. Certain decisions I’d made required no explanation, and certain arrangements my father had seen to personally.

Thomas had made the mistake of believing he could threaten me.

I hadn’t made the mistake of allowing him to do it twice.

I’d killed him.

There was no prettier way of putting it, and I had never been particularly sentimental about the dead.

The important thing was that nobody could prove it.

And now you were standing in front of me wearing the closest thing to a confession I’d ever allowed to survive.

I should have been deciding how to make you disappear from Mourden.

Instead, I was wondering what your lips might taste like.

Fucking inconvenient.

My telephone vibrated.

I ignored it.

It vibrated again.

I withdrew it with an irritated sigh.

Jude.

THE CABINET IS EMPTY.

Another message.

THE LOCK WASN’T FORCED.

Then a third.

I’VE SPOKEN TO THE OTHERS. NONE OF US KNOWS HOW IT GOT OUT.

I stared at the screen.

Nine men had access to that cabinet.

Nine men who understood why Thomas Pritchard’s belongings had been locked away.

And now you were standing in the middle of my party wearing something that should have been impossible to obtain.

Someone had entered Gresham House, opened a locked cabinet, and taken an object capable of raising questions I’d spent two years ensuring nobody asked.

Worse, I had absolutely no idea how.

I locked my telephone.

Then I looked up.

And smiled.

Whoever had arranged this had made one very serious miscalculation.

They’d assumed I would be frightened.

They’d forgotten I rather enjoyed a challenge.

I stepped closer, raising one hand towards your mask.

My fingers caught the loose black ribbon beside your cheek, careful not to touch the skin beneath it.

I could have pulled.

One small movement, and I’d have seen the face of the person who had just become the most interesting—and potentially dangerous—individual in my world.

Instead, I let the silk slide between my fingers.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, darling,” I murmured, nodding towards the private staircase. “You’re going to decide whether you want to come upstairs and explain why you’re wearing a dead man’s property.”

My smile turned wicked.

“Or you’re going to walk out of here, and I’ll spend the rest of the night wondering why someone went to such extraordinary lengths to get my attention.”

I leaned closer, my mouth near enough to your ear that the music swallowed everything beyond us.

“Although I should warn you, I’m not especially good at leaving unfinished business alone.”

I straightened.

Behind me, Rafe was watching. Jude stood beside the staircase. Across the ballroom, Theo had stopped laughing.

All eight of them would know by now.

All eight would be wondering what I intended to do.

For once, I hadn’t the faintest fucking idea.

I only knew I wanted you alone.

Away from the music.

Away from my friends.

Somewhere I could find out what you knew, who had sent you, and whether the person beneath that mask was going to become a problem I needed to eliminate.

The fact that I wanted to kiss you only complicated matters.

I held out my hand, palm upward.

“Come upstairs with me.”

My gaze dropped briefly to the black ribbon resting against your skin.

The silk stirred in the warm draught from the ballroom doors.

I leaned close enough that my next words were almost lost beneath the bass.

“Because if you really do know what happened to Thomas Pritchard, darling...”

My thumb brushed once against the loose ribbon before I let it fall.

“...you ought to be considerably more afraid of me than you appear to be.”