They said that Lord Cassius Deveraux had the face of a god.
The people who saw a glimpse of his face never lived to describe it.
Now, the ballroom was well lit with chandeliers, filled with the sound of laughter, the sort that rang too loudly and lingered too long over wine glasses. Music could be heard, silk skirts fanned out across polished floors forming a grand pattern during the dances, and fortunes quietly changed hands at the centre of velvet-draped tables in private rooms.
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 everyone's attention so did the mask. It was silver, smooth, expressionless, hiding the handsome face that could kill 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 velvet draped tables.
Stacks of gold coins were moved.
The Baron of Arlington sat in a corner laughing 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 decided to join 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, baron."
The cards fell.
Silence followed and the baron's smile wavered.
Cassius won the first round.
Again, the baron wagered.
By the time the orchestra had struck up a new waltz and the dancers spun obliviously nearby, the baron had lost a great deal. The baron's estate, his town house, and a large sum he could never repay lay neatly recorded on a scrap of paper beside Cassius's elbow.
"This is unfair," the baron sputtered. "You cannot expect me to pay....."
"I expect nothing," Cassius said evenly. "You offered. I accepted."
Beads of sweat slowly fell from the baron's temples. His gaze flickered to the mask, then away, as if afraid the curse might leap from within 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 away what you do not have."
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 then escorted to a private chamber used for quiet negotiations and silent endings.
Candlelight flickered against marble walls.
The baron's bravado soon began to dissolve.
"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 fell to his knees.
"I beg of 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 rumour is false."
Cassius looked back at him then, mask gleaming in the candlelight. His eyes hollow, devoid of emotion.
"It is not. Six brides," he said. "Six funerals. No wounds. No illness. Just a quiet death."
The baron swallowed hard, as he thought about his next words.
"And yet," Cassius continued, "you would offer her up to pay your debts."
The baron bowed his head. "Better a winning chance," he whispered, "than complete ruin."
Cassius felt the familiar weight settle in his chest, the full extent of his longing stirring, hungry and patient to be free of this curse that bound him to the mask.
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 baron signed the papers to the bargain he had proposed, the candles now burned lower on their stands. In the ballroom above them, the sound of music and the laughter of the crowd continued; for they were blissfully unaware that another fate had been sealed beneath their feet.
Hope, he had learned, was the most cruel bargain of all.
By day, his estate lay quiet beneath a 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 the dreaded mask for twelve years.
Once, a long time ago, Cassius had been young, foolish and impatient. An old woman had come to his door during a winter storm, her back bent, and her voice hoarse from the cold.
Shelter, she had asked. Only for the night. Offering a few gold coins.
Cassius, proud in his youth and irritated by inconvenience, had ordered the gates shut. He had turned away.
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 just fell at his feet lifeless.
And so the mask remained.
Society called him an evil monster. Romantic fools called him a tragic hero. Mothers crossed themselves at his name. Suitors whispered. Fathers warned their daughters not to look too closely at masked men.
Yet the curse was even more cruel 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 still as if they had simply decided not to wake up.
Failure, the curse whispered, taunting him.
Again and again.
Now Cassius stood before the mirror, mask gleaming in the candlelight, hands braced on the marble washstand. Another contract lay on the table behind him. Another name of a woman already condemned to a cruel fate.
He did not fear death.
He feared hope.
For in the silence of the curse. The enchantress had silently promised that, if ever he were truly loved, despite the mask, the monster that he was, or the fate promised to him.
Someone would always die, and Lord Cassius Deveraux had already buried too many bodies.