He was a tall man who called himself Baptiste.
The left half of his face was white, and the right half was black.
Whether it was natural, due to illness, or part of his costume could not be determined, as everything above his nose was covered by a fancy silver mask.
But those black eyes—unflinchingly staring into his patrons' souls—felt ominous.
Yet his words and actions were gentlemanly.
"It is an honor to receive you, Ms. De Roschillian," he said, his ardent gaze on her fair cheeks as he leaned to kiss the back of her hand.
The linked arms caught his eye, and what a surprise it was to find a thin branch of a man.
"Oh, what a delight." His eyes were smiling, yet they felt judgmental. "You have brought a companion."
Marianne, with her heels crossed, kissed Charles on the neck.
"He is my fiancé," she said, massaging around the lipstick mark almost tauntingly.
"How lovely."
