The Marquess, a man whose wardrobe consisted entirely of imported silks and spun gold, had fully committed to the bit.
He was wearing a tattered, oil-stained blacksmith's apron over a roughspun linen shirt.
His flawless, silver hair had been slicked back and tied into a messy knot, and he had used some sort of theatrical ash to darken the skin around his eyes, giving him a hollow, desperate look.
He didn't look like a Marquess.
He looked like a man who had lost his fortune and had resorted to hammering horseshoes to pay off gambling debts.
It was a terrifyingly effective transformation.
"Incredible," Lucas muttered, genuinely impressed. "You look utterly pathetic, My Lord."
"Thank you, Sir Lucas," Julian smiled grimly. "Desperation is the mother of invention."
Finally, the door to the main suite opened, and Duke Kaelus von Nacht stepped out.
The room went dead silent again, but this time, it was not out of awe. It was out of sheer, unadulterated shock.
