They said that Lord Cassius Deveraux had the face of a god.
The one who had a glimpse of his face never lived to describe it.
The ballroom was well lit with chandeliers and laughter, the sort that rang too loudly and lingered too long over wine and brandy glasses. Music drifted through the marble halls, silk skirts fanned out across polished floors, and fortunes quietly changed hands at the centre of velvet-draped tables.
Lord Cassius Deveraux sat at the gaming tables, feeling bored. He sat with the fools who dared to gamble their fortunes away with hopes of winning more.
He always did. It was better than dancing with an innocent woman.
His presence drew the eye even more than the mask. It was silver, smooth, expressionless, hiding the ruin that lay in anyone who looked upon him. Men pretended not to stare. Women looked once and never again. The mask was not theatrical; it was final. It announced itself as an invitation to one's death.
Cards slid across the green felt.
Stacks of gold coins were moved.
The Baron of Arlington laughed as he wagered again and again, his cheeks were flushed, his confidence was strung up high by brandy and pride. He had been winning all evening. That was until Cassius joined the table.
"Another round," the baron declared, tossing down his stake. "Care to tempt luck, my lord?"
Cassius's gloved hand moved with certainty. "Luck and I are well acquainted."
The cards fell.
Silence followed.
The baron's smile wavered.
Again, Cassius won.
Again, the baron wagered.
By the time the orchestra struck up a new tune for the waltz and the dancers spun obliviously nearby, the baron's estate, his town house, and a sum he could never repay lay neatly recorded on a scrap of paper beside Cassius's elbow.
"This is absurd," the baron sputtered. "You cannot expect....."
"I expect nothing," Cassius said evenly. "You offered. I accepted."
Sweat formed at the baron's temples. His gaze flickered to the mask, then away, as if afraid the curse might leap from it and grab him by the throat.
"I will pay up," he insisted. "I swear it. Just give me time."
Cassius stood up ready to leave.
The movement alone quieted the table. "You will pay tonight."
The baron laughed weakly. "That is not possible."
Cassius leaned closer, his voice low. "You should not have gambled what you cannot lose."
The guards arrived before the baron could protest further. There were murmurs and complaints of cheating, of unnatural luck, but none dared accuse the masked lord openly.
Much to their horror and Cassius's satisfaction.
The baron was escorted to a private chamber used for quiet negotiations and quieter endings.
Candles flickered against damp walls.
The baron's bravado dissolved.
"Please give me time, you have ruined me" the baron whispered again.
Cassius removed his gloves one finger at a time. "You ruined yourself."
The baron dropped to his knees.
"I beg you," he pleaded. "I have a daughter."
Cassius's movements stilled.
The words echoed more loudly than the pleas before them.
"A daughter," Cassius repeated.
"Yes," the baron said quickly, hope flaring. "Young. Beautiful. Well-born. I would give her to you. Her hand. Her fortune. Everything."
The guards stiffened.
Cassius said nothing.
The baron lifted his head, desperation brimming in his voice. "Marriage breaks curses, does it not? That is what they say. Love, devotion, surely even yours can be undone."
Cassius turned away.
"They also say," he said softly, "that my wives die at sunrise."
The baron's face drained of colour.
"I...I am certain that is a false rumour."
Cassius looked back at him then, mask gleaming in the candlelight. "It is not. Six brides," he said. "Six funerals. No wounds. No illness. Just a quiet death."
The baron swallowed hard.
"And yet," Cassius continued, "you would offer her up to pay your debts."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, the baron bowed his head. "Better a winning chance," he whispered, "than complete ruin."
Cassius felt the familiar weight settle in his chest, the curse stirring, hungry and patient.
Another name.
Another life balanced on hope.
"Very well," Cassius said at last. "Your debt will be forgiven."
The baron collapsed with relief.
"But understand this," Cassius added. "She must choose me freely. I will not coerce her. I will not reveal my face. And if she cannot love me, truly love me, she will die."
The baron looked up, horror warring with gratitude.
"You agree?"
The baron nodded.
What kind of father bargains with death? Cassius wondered.
What kind of monster accepts? He thought savagely.
Cassius turned away as the papers were drawn up, the candles burning lower. Somewhere above them, music swelled and laughter continued, blissfully unaware that another fate had been sealed beneath its feet.
Hope, he had learned, was the most cruel wager of all.
By day, his estate lay quiet beneath a perpetual veil of mist, its windows shuttered, its gates closed to all but the most necessary of servants. By night, a single lamp burned in the uppermost chamber, where Cassius kept vigil alone, the silver mask fastened tightly against his skin.
He had worn it for twelve years.
Once, long ago, before the curse had befallen him, Cassius had been young, foolish and impatient. An old woman had come to his door during a winter storm, her back bent, her voice thin with the cold.
Shelter, she had asked. Only for the night.
Cassius, proud in his youth and irritated by inconvenience, had ordered the gates shut. He had turned away as her staff slipped in the snow.
By dawn, she was gone.
By dusk, she returned, no longer bent, no longer frail, her eyes bright with something sharp and ancient.
You will never be looked upon with love again, she had said. For your face shall bring death, and your heart shall bring despair.
The first man who saw Cassius unmasked did not live long enough to scream.
The second did not even fall.
And so the mask remained.
Society called him monstrous. Romantic fools called him tragic. Mothers crossed themselves at his name. Suitors whispered. Wives warned their daughters not to look too closely at masked men.
Yet the curse was crueller still.
Cassius could wed. The enchantress had allowed that mercy.
But love, true love must be freely given.
Each bride was treated with gentleness. Each was protected from his face, his secret, his shadowed truth. And each morning after the wedding night, they were found cold in their beds, untouched, unmarked, their hearts stilled as if they had simply decided not to wake.
Failure, the curse whispered.
Again and again.
Now Cassius stood before the mirror, mask gleaming dully in the candlelight, hands braced on the marble washstand. Another contract lay on the table behind him. Another name. Another hope already condemned.
He did not fear death.
He feared hope.
For somewhere in the silence of the curse lay the final truth, one the enchantress had never spoken aloud:
If ever he were truly loved, despite the mask, despite the monster, despite the fate promised to him.
Someone else would die and Lord Cassius Deveraux had already buried too many bodies.