The lords' maid

Eva’s POV

The glass was pitted with dark age spots that bit into the silvering like tiny black teeth. It was the only mirror I possessed, wedged into the cracked plaster wall of the rented garret above the cooperage.

I leaned forward, my breath fogging the lower corner of the frame.

The face staring back at me looked almost unfamiliar. I traced the sharp curve of my cheekbones, the full lower lip, and the heavy-lidded dark eyes that carried far too much shadow for a woman of twenty-one. My natural dark waves had been washed with scented oil—the last drop of lavender I had hoarded since winter—and pinned into an intricate crown of curls that mimicked the high court ladies of the capital.

Then I looked down at the dress.

Yellow.

Bright, unapologetic gold, spun from coarse silk I had bought thread by thread with the copper coins I had earned scrubbing blood from butcher's blocks and hauling sacks on the grain farms outside Valenridge. My fingers, calloused at the tips, smoothed down the tight bodice. Every seam had been sewn by my own hand in the dark, straining my eyes by the dying embers of a tallow candle.

You look like a lady, the glass seemed to whisper.

"No," I murmured. "I look like a ghost."

Thirteen years.

Thirteen years since the Sterling crest had been stamped over my father's life, his estate, and his blood.

I was eight when the iron-shod boots burst through our oak doors. I still remembered the heavy smell of tobacco and wet velvet, the sharp crack of steel, and the sight of my father falling across his mahogany desk.

I remembered Duke Malachi Sterling's face—the smooth, arrogant curve of his jaw as he wiped my father's blood from his cuff with a lace handkerchief.

He would have killed me, too.

I had been hiding behind the grand drapery, my hands clamped over my mouth, trembling so hard that the brass rings rattled against the rod. But his wife, Duchess Cassandra, had caught his wrist.

"Not the child, Malachi. There is no honor in slaughtering a lamb."

Honor.

As if leaving an eight-year-old orphan to rot in the cold streets of Valenridge was an act of mercy.

If it hadn't been for old Silas, my father's former coachman, I would have starved before the week was out. He took me in, hid me in the countryside, and taught me how to read, write, and keep my chin high.

But Silas was already old. His lungs had grown heavy with winter sickness, and by my thirteenth year, he was gone.

I was alone.

For eight years, I worked the dirt. I took orders. I bowed my head. I learned how to move like a soldier—silent, efficient, always calculating my next move.

The farm work made me strong.

Poverty made me cold.

But it never erased who I was.

I was Eva Vance.

And tonight, for five hundred silver copper pieces—every coin I had saved over six years—I had bought a forged invitation to the Sterling Annual Masquerade.

I picked up the golden mask resting beside my cot. It was lined with soft velvet and decorated with delicate golden filigree that covered the upper half of my face. I tied the silk ribbons tightly behind my head.

"Tonight, I look upon the men who stole my life," I whispered, pulling on a pair of long, pale gloves that hid my calloused palms.

"And tomorrow, I begin to take it back."

The carriage I had hired was old and creaking, smelling faintly of damp straw and horse sweat. It rattled along the cobblestone roads of Valenridge, each jolt travelling through my bones, but I sat rigid as a spear, my back never touching the worn leather seat.

Outside the small glass window, the town gave way to the grand estates of the upper district. Lanterns illuminated the stone avenues, casting a warm amber glow over the iron gates of the Sterling Estate.

As the carriage slowed to join the long line of gilded coaches, my pulse remained steady.

An army officer had once told old Silas that panic was a luxury for those who could afford to fail.

I could not afford to fail.

The carriage door opened, and a footman in crimson livery offered his hand. I stepped down onto the gravel with smooth, deliberate grace.

Two stone guards stood beneath the towering archway, their iron chestplates gleaming in the torchlight. The senior guard—a towering man with a severe scar running down his cheek—stepped into my path, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

"Your invitation, My Lady?"

My heart beat once.

Slow.

Steady.

I reached into my velvet pouch and produced the thick cream parchment. The wax seal—a counterfeit carving I had spent three weeks perfecting—caught the torchlight.

The guard examined it carefully, running his eyes over the dark calligraphy and the noble title I had invented for this single night.

A long second passed.

Then he lowered the parchment, snapped his heels together, and bowed.

"Everything is in order. You may enter, Lady Eva."

I took the invitation back and slipped it into my cloak.

Head high.

Jaw firm.

I stepped across the threshold and into the lion's den.

The warmth of the grand ballroom struck me immediately, thick with the scent of roasted meats, expensive rosewater, and burning beeswax.

Massive crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted Gothic ceilings, scattering amber light across marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Hundreds of masked nobles moved through a sea of velvet, silk, and jewels while the orchestra played a sweeping waltz.

I stepped into the shadow of a marble pillar, keeping my spine straight and my chin lifted to the precise angle expected of a gentlewoman.

Tomorrow, at dawn, I would exchange this hand-sewn gold silk for a coarse grey dress and stiff linen cap.

It had taken months of quiet inquiry, careful patience, and copper coins slipped to desperate stewards to secure a servant's position in the West Wing of Valenridge Manor.

Entering the De Witt estate as a maid was the only way into the inner circle of the high district.

I needed to learn how the elite guarded their ledgers, where their secrets were kept, and who held the power to sway the courts.

That was the first step toward reclaiming the life stolen from me eleven years ago.

Tonight was merely preparation.

" You stand with remarkable stillness for a lady wearing so bold a colour."

The voice came from directly behind my right shoulder.

Deep.

Low.

Authoritative.

I turned slowly.

A lord stood barely a pace away, seemingly absorbing the light around him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in an expertly tailored navy wool coat trimmed with dark fur. A midnight-blue Venetian mask covered the upper half of his face, but it did little to conceal the severe line of his jaw or the thick, dark waves brushed back from his brow.

His eyes were fixed upon me.

Searching.

"Forgive me, My Lord," I said smoothly, sinking into a measured curtsy. "I was merely admiring the stonework."

"The ballroom was built to be occupied, My Lady," he replied. "It is customary for guests of the Sterling house to take to the floor rather than retreat into the masonry."

"Custom holds little obligation for those who prefer their own company."

His brow lifted.

"And I have no intention of dancing."

"None at all?"

"None, My Lord."

"A curious stance."

His gaze travelled over me.

"Most who attend such gatherings seek to be seen. You, however, look as though you are weighing the thickness of the stone walls."

My pulse quickened.

He pays far too much attention.

Before I could excuse myself, he extended a gloved hand.

"One dance, My Lady. A single turn across the floor to satisfy propriety, and I shall trouble your solitude no further."

I glanced toward the house guards stationed near the archway.

Refusing a high lord so publicly would attract precisely the attention I could not afford.

"Very well."

I placed my gloved fingers in his palm.

His grip closed around mine—firm, warm, and steady.

He led me onto the polished floor as the musicians began a slow waltz.

"I must inform you, My Lord," I murmured as his hand settled lightly at my back, "my skill upon the floor is quite limited."

"Then allow me to direct the cadence."

He moved, and I followed.

His dancing was controlled and effortless, shaped by years of formal training. Mine was careful and disciplined.

"Your frame is remarkably rigid," he observed as we turned past the centre dais. "You hold yourself as though you expect a strike."

"I simply prefer to maintain my balance."

"A sensible precaution in a room such as this."

His gaze lingered on my golden mask.

"I am Lord Lucian De Witt. To whom do I have the honour of speaking?"

The name settled like iron in my stomach.

De Witt.

The eldest son and heir of the very estate I would enter tomorrow.

"Forgive me, Lord Lucian," I replied, keeping my expression serene. "A masked ball relies upon anonymity. To offer a name would defeat its purpose."

His jaw tightened.

"I find little merit in anonymity when it hides someone who clearly has no desire to be here."

"Then perhaps you ought to seek a partner whose enthusiasm matches your station."

Before he could answer, a steward's voice rang through the ballroom.

"Announcing the arrival of Lord Leo of the House of De Witt!"

The crowd shifted as the younger De Witt brother entered.

At the edge of the ballroom, senior stewards began checking guest rolls to record late arrivals.

My stomach tightened.

If Lucian brought me toward them, my forged invitation could be scrutinised.

"I must step away."

I withdrew my hand.

"Wait—"

His fingers caught the edge of my silk sleeve.

"The waltz is not concluded."

"Forgive me, My Lord."

I stepped backward into the passing couples.

"You have my thanks for the dance."

Then I turned and walked away.

I slipped through the side doors and into the cold rain.

The moment I reached the terrace, I tore off my velvet mask and clutched it against my chest. Rain soaked the hem of my golden dress as I hurried down the stone steps.

I did not look back until the carriage door slammed shut behind me.

Tomorrow morning, I would enter the servant gates of Valenridge Manor.

And Lord Lucian De Witt would have no reason to suspect that the quiet maid scrubbing his floors was the same woman who had refused him her name.