Free The Counterfeit Heiress by TASHA ALEXANDER

chairs lined up against the wall next to the door. It was a pleasant enough space, genteelly furnished and a comfortable place to wait. A great deal of rustling was coming from the far side of the room through a second door, where I presumed the studio could be found. I peeked in far enough to confirm my suspicion, and was impressed with what I saw. Light flooded in through large skylights in the ceiling, and shelves full of props lined the walls.
    “Forgive me,” a gentleman said, coming to us and offering Colin his hand. “I am James Lafayette. I am afraid I did not realize I had an appointment booked for this afternoon. Is this the clothing you wanted to wear in your picture?” He looked us up and down, and although my walking suit was fashionable, I could tell he did not think it appropriate for what he believed was the occasion.
    “It is I who must apologize. We are not here to have our picture taken,” Colin said, introducing us and giving Mr. Lafayette the required background on the reason for our visit.
    “That is something of a relief, I confess,” Mr. Lafayette said. “My fog-clearing machine has been giving a bit of trouble today, and I have only just now managed to get it nearly to cooperate.”
    “Fog-clearing machine?” I asked.
    “Essential, Lady Emily, if one is to work with electric lights in a fog-ridden city. Glasgow is the worst, if you must know. London is nothing compared to it. There now, I’m rambling, and you are here on official business. How can I help?”
    “Among the photographs of guests you took at the Devonshire House ball, do you recall a gentleman in ancient Greek dress wearing a theatrical mask?” I asked.
    “Comedy or tragedy?”
    “Tragedy.”
    “Alas, I do not,” he said. “The truth is, however, that I had so many sitters it would be virtually impossible to recall them all. Many came here, to the studio, before the night of the party, as they did not want to be rushed by a crush of others while they were posing.” He went to a box on the desk that stood near the door, opened its lid, and started flipping through the photographs inside. “I have developed many of those portraits already, but it will be some weeks before I have finished with the ones taken at the ball.”
    I stood next to him, peering over his shoulder as he searched. There were dozens of prints, each the same size, each depicting costumed individuals against backgrounds that quite well mimicked Devonshire House’s lawn and gardens with their lovely statuary. Periodically, he came to one where the false exterior had been swapped for a suitable indoor location.
    “I carried the backgrounds with me to the party as well,” he said. “Did I photograph the two of you?”
    “No, I am afraid not,” Colin said.
    “You shall have to make an appointment and return to me with your costumes,” he said.
    “That would be great fun!” I exclaimed. Colin frowned.
    “You were set up in the garden, were you not, Mr. Lafayette?”
    “Yes,” the photographer replied. “My tent was brightly lit, and the duchess’s guests could choose whether to pose inside or out, if you will. I had Turkish carpets and a variety of pieces of furniture and walls we could use to create the right scene for each.” He continued going through the box of pictures until he reached the end. “I am afraid there are no masked Greeks here.”
    “Not many people wore masks that night,” I said. “Do you remember anyone hiding his face?”
    Mr. Lafayette was a decent-looking man, tall enough and well put together. He pulled his eyebrows close as he considered my question. “I cannot say that I do. Most likely, if someone wearing a mask had come to me, I would have suggested that he take it off for his photograph. I would display it in the picture, of course, but it is best to see one’s subject’s face.”
    “I suspect that our Greek came to the ball without a proper invitation,” I said. “If that was the case, it is not