Rumors abounded that Madame de la Tource was a disgraced French countess; a Spanish lady who had followed her English lover home from the war; or perhaps just an actress from Shropshire putting on airs. She had burst into London society only three months ago, and quickly amassed a following among the ton’s rakes and scoundrels. She was handsome, in a bold way, her manners were almost brazen, and she threw extravagant parties which attracted the sort of people who found her attractive—and repelled those who did not. She had expensive tastes and a fiery temper, as her servants knew well.
Which meant that when Lord Greaves’s household next door acquired a striking new footman, none of Madame's maids thought twice about making eyes at him. Working for Madame didn't offer many benefits, and if a bit of fun with the neighboring servants was the only one a girl could discover, so be it.
The fellow, called Tom, was tall and fit with well-muscled calves, and he returned the maids’ interest in buckets, which vastly improved moods belowstairs at Madame’s. After a few words exchanged over the fence with Maude, a brief exchange on the street with Polly, and one heart-stopping morning when he met Betsy coming back from the shops and carried her heavy basket home, every maid in Madame’s service would have quit her post on the spot and run off with Tom, if he’d asked.
And the night Madame threw one of her wildest parties ever, Tom asked Polly for almost that very thing.
Even though she was Madame’s lady’s maid, Polly had been pressed into serving. She was in the pantry setting out tarts on a tray when Tom slipped through the kitchen door and stepped up close behind her. “Mmm. Delicious,” he whispered, nuzzling her hair.
Polly started, almost overturning the whole tray. “And a very good evening to you, sir,” she replied pertly.She put the tray aside. Tom's shoulders were ever so broad. “Got the night free, have you? Or has old Greaves taken himself off to the country?”
He shrugged, lounging against the door in the shadows. “He’s out. We’ve already polished every piece of silver in the house, and some pieces I swear the old blighter borrowed off friends, just to keep us busy. So I gave myself leave to see what’s happening over here. Bit of a to-do, ain’t it?”
Any fool could see that, with people coming and going and guests playing on the pianoforte, usually very badly. By morning the house would be a wreck, but Madame didn’t like the servants to tidy up until everyone left.
Polly wiped her hands on her apron. She was supposed to be serving those guests, having been put onto extra duties tonight like all the servants. But Tom was here, with a wicked twinkle in his eye…
“Got an invitation, have you?” she asked coyly.
His gaze drifted over her. “Thought you might extend me one.”
Polly’s heart leapt. “Oh, aye,” she breathed.
The door opened and Cook bustled in with another tray of tarts. “Take these right up—Oh!”
Tom leaned against the counter and grinned at her. He was even more handsome up close. “It’s a prime perk of working at Greaves’s, it is, just getting to smell your baking, Mrs. Brown.”
The woman actually blushed in reply. “Go on with you, young scamp,” she said gruffly, pushing one of the tarts at him. “Get those upstairs,” she told Polly, before returning to the kitchen.
Tom grinned, took a bite, and gave a low groan that made Polly’s stomach tense in excitement. He saw her reaction and gave her a wicked wink.
Madame, who had screamed at her that very morning about a broken bootlace, could go hang. Polly pulled off her apron. “I’ve been sent upstairs,” she said with a suggestive pause. “Maybe you’d care to come along? If you had a minute to spend with me, that is…”
Tom's mouth curved knowingly. "Tonight, Poll, I've got more than a minute to spend with you."
Polly abandoned her tray of tarts without a backward glance.
She spirited him up the back stairs into the only room she knew would remain undisturbed during the evening, the mistress's dressing room. Madame was downstairs, singing along to the bawdy song being very inexpertly played on the pianoforte. French countess, my arse, thought Polly with scorn—and then she didn’t think of Madame at all, thanks to Tom’s clever hands and broad shoulders and naughty whispers.
Until he stopped, and caught her hands just as she’d started unbuttoning his waistcoat."Hush," he whispered, catching her hands. “Shh, Polly.”
She paused, listening intently, and froze. From the next room—the bedchamber—came voices. Madame and a gentleman. "Bugger all," she gasped. "I'll be sack—" Tom cut her off with a hand over her mouth, and she remained silent, hardly daring to breathe. It was one thing to sneak away from her duties, and another to be caught eavesdropping on the mistress while doing it.
“Gerald, you 'ave neglected me ‘horribly,” Madame was whining. Her French accent always grew thicker when she had a man on the string, and Polly could picture her pout. "You 'ave hardly been to see me this fortnight, and I miss you…"
"Yes, yes," said the man hastily. He sounded anxious, a little impatient and out of breath. "Don't fret. Look what I've brought you."
There was a moment of silence, then a rapturous squeal. "Oh, Gerald! You darling man—"
"Yes, look," he interrupted her. He didn’t sound like a man eager to bask in her gratitude. "Look." Another moment's silence. “I can’t do it again,” he added with a touch of panic.
“Dear Gerry." Her tone turned soft and warm. "You say that every time. It is not so much, is it? And I do depend on you so, Gerry, you know how much—”
“Monique,” he gasped. "Be wary what you do with it. It's an awful risk I took…"
She laughed, a confident trill of amusement. “But for me, you would risk anything. Wouldn’t you, Gerry?Just as I would do anything for you… oui?”
Polly flushed at the guttural moan Gerry let out.
"I shouldn't," he panted. Almost pleaded. “This is… this is the last time… I can’t… Oh God, Monique… Don’t ask me again…”
“If I did,” purred Madame, “you would do it. For me, you would do anything, wouldn’t you?”
Polly's brow wrinkled in bemusement. but Tom diverted her by kissing the side of her neck. Not wanting to picture whatever Madame was doing anyway, Polly bent her head to let him. Might as well enjoy her own amour, while Madame was too busy to catch her at it.
An exclamation from the next room made them both jump. Gerald was half crying, half laughing. “Good God,” he said over and over, breathing hard. “Good God, Monique.”
She said something too quietly to overhear.
“All right,” Gerald said weakly. “Next week, if I can.”
Madame laughed. Polly knew that tone; she’d got her way, whatever it was. “Of course! I know you will not disappoint me, cheri.”
“No,” said Gerald quietly. “No.”
“Come back to the party!” Madame sounded thoroughly pleased. “Everyone will wonder where I’ve gone!”
A few moments later the tinkle of the pianoforte grew louder, then ended as the door closed behind them.
“Bloody hell,” whispered Polly in relief. “Thought I was done for. If she knew I was here—”
“She’d be one to talk,” said Tom, fingering her undone buttons. “Playing dear Gerry’s bagpipe with a whole party of guests downstairs.”
Polly choked on a laugh. “Madame would flay me alive if she found out we heard.”
“Would she, now?” He wrapped one hand around her bottom and pulled her close. “Maybe I’d kiss it and make it better.”
Polly gulped back a sigh and tried not to melt; he had such lovely hands. But if Madame was back with the party, Polly’s absence would be noticed—probably already had been. “I can’t stay away any longer.”
“No?” To her regret, he let her go at once. “And I’m back out in the cold.”
She pulled a face even as she slid from his lap and began tugging her dress back into place. "Not because I want to."
Tom leaned back and put his hands behind his head as he watched her with hot, dark eyes. “Does dear Gerry come often?”
“Every time he visits, I expect,” said Polly, and Tom laughed.
“Who is he? Some rich toff, sounds like.”
"Not the master, just the money. Sir Gerald somebody." Polly squinted in thought as she put her dress to rights. "Walton? No, Wollaston. Some fancy gent in the government.” She propped a foot on the end of the chaise and pulled up her skirt so she could retie her garter. “The Treasury, maybe? The type who thinks he’s been knighted by God himself to lord it over others. Madame’s pleased, for all that’s he’s nothing much to look at. He’s plump in the pocket, brings her jewels every time she gets peevish with him. ”
"All gents feel that way." Tom cast a smoldering look at her bared leg.
Polly felt a burst of longing and frustration. He’d undone her whole bodice, but only taken off his gloves and footman’s wig. She’d barely started unbuttoning his long waistcoat, and not even had a chance to put her hands under it. Curse Madame and panting Gerry.
“We’ve got to go,” she said again, pushing down her skirt. “I’ll be missed.”
Tom’s dark and lustful gaze shifted to her bosom. If only Madame had been a quarter hour later… As if to punctuate that thought, the clock in the bedroom chimed softly. Polly jumped. How long had it been since she left the kitchen? Mrs. Brown would cover for her, but Betsy would tattle as quick as anything.
“Tom,” she said sharply. He finally looked up to meet her eyes. “Come on. I’ve got to get back to my post.”
"All right." He rose with a sigh and plopped his powdered queue wig back on his head. He pulled on his frock coat and felt in the pockets, then looked around. "Where's my other glove?"
"I don't know," she said, checking her appearance in the mirror. How long had she been up here with him—a quarter hour? Half?
“These are new gloves. I can't lose it," he said, going down on one knee to look under the chaise. Polly hadn't yet tidied the room, and female clothing was everywhere.
“You must have another.”
“Aye, but Greaves’ll dock my pay if I lose this one,” he snapped back. “Have a heart, Poll.”
“Ooh!” Impatiently she tossed aside some petticoats and stockings. She could hear the clock ticking, and every second sounded like a warning note. Cook liked Tom, but she would only forgive so much, if Polly didn’t return. Madame might be a demanding mistress, but she paid well, and Polly wasn’t about to lose her post over any man, not even Tom.
“I can’t find it. I’ll be missed, I can’t stay to look.”
“Don’t let me keep you,” he said.
His flat tone prodded her temper, but he was still bent over, and she couldn’t help eyeing his backside. “Here, Tommy, I can’t help it. Have a look yourself—it can’t have gone far—and sneak back out when you’re done. But don’t let Madame catch you, or I’ll get the sack, and then you’d have to support me.” She flashed him a coy smile and a wink as she said it, to indicate she was teasing—somewhat.
It worked. Tom’s mouth curved wickedly. “You’re a good one, Polly.”
She giggled and hurried off, already imagining it.
In the dressing room, Tom remained crouched beside the chaise until her footsteps died away completely. Then he got to his feet, crossed to the door she had exited, and turned the key in the lock before darting to the other door, to Madame's bedchamber. He pressed one ear to the panel for a moment, then eased it open.
There was a lamp burning, so he saw at once the room was deserted. Silently he went in, closing the dressing room door with a soft click.
It was an extravagantly luxurious room. He spared it barely a moment's inspection. He went to the writing desk by the window and slid open each drawer in succession, sifting quickly and quietly through the contents. He examined some items for a few moments, but returned everything to its place. He ran his hands under the bed, behind the headboard, and even under the mattress.
At the chest opposite the bed he pulled open each drawer, his hands skimming through the unmentionables they contained, disturbing each item just enough to ascertain its ordinary nature. When he had rifled the entire chest, he slid the last drawer quietly home, his brow creased.
He stood in the center of the room, hands on hips, thinking. The clock ticked remorselessly onward. With a thought he went to the fireplace and examined it, but no secret compartment opened under his questing hands. He frowned, scanning the room. Where? He didn’t have time…
And then he saw the jewel case, left on the table. It was too obvious…and yet… He crossed the room and flipped open the lid. Inside lay a stunning emerald and diamond necklace with matching ear bobs, on a bed of pale green silk. Somebody important at the government, indeed. He scooped out the jewels and lifted the silk, and then he let out a breath of relief—and triumph.
He didn’t read the whole of the cramped writing covering the slip of paper, just a few words to assure himself this was his object. He took care to replace the silk and the jewelry in the same arrangement as before, and left the case on the table. Everything was exactly as he had found it, he assured himself before he slipped silently back into the dressing room and began to strip.
Off came his long footman's coat, with the more elegant evening coat concealed beneath it, the tails pinned up at the shoulders. Keeping one eye on the door, he pulled off his wig and swiftly unbuttoned the old-fashioned waistcoat and tossed it aside, revealing another, far more fashionable short waistcoat. He slipped the buckles off his shoes and retied his footman's stock into a simple but fashionable cravat. From one pocket he pulled a small piece of oilcloth, which held a bit of pomade darkened with boot blacking. He rubbed the pomade between his fingers, then ran his hands through his hair, twisting the front into a wild mass of waves and smoothing down the back.
He paused a moment to study his work in Madame’s looking glass as he shrugged on the evening jacket, tails unpinned. Rather smart, he thought with a smirk as he flicked one of his new curls to the side. In two minutes he'd banished all traces of footman and become a modern young gentleman of the ton, just like any of the young bucks singing with Madame downstairs.
Now, though, he had to hurry. He bundled up the discarded footman's livery, including the queue wig and the supposedly missing gloves, knotting the sleeves around it. He opened the window, taking a cautious glance out into the darkness below. The room overlooked the small back garden, near the gate into Greaves’s garden, and at this time of night it was dark and deserted.He heaved the footman's clothing toward the gate and had the window closed again almost before it landed.
Checking once more to make certain the stolen paper was safe in his waistcoat pocket, he crossed the room and cracked open the door. A maid was hurrying toward the servants’ stair, away from him. He watched her disappear around the corner before he stepped into the corridor. Tugging on a pair of evening gloves, he strolled leisurely toward the stairs and down to the party.
The parlor was a truly impressive crush, guests spilling out into the hall and into the dining room. Someone was still playing the pianoforte very badly, and several people were singing. He wound his way through the crowd, nodding politely to anyone who looked his way.
"Ponsonby!" A drunken fellow stumbled into him, slinging one arm around Tom’s neck. "By Jove, good man, I thought thought you’d gone. Fled. To Devonshire?"
"Devonshire?” Tom drawled without blinking an eye. “Never. You’re thinking of Somerset, of course.”
The other man blinked, his eyes bloodshot and puzzled in his flushed round face. "Not Somerset. You went to Devonshire.”
Tom scoffed. “I did not. There’s nothing to do in Devonshire! Somerset, old man. Somerset.”
He blinked owlishly. “But… I was certain…”
“Well, well, honest mistake. Happens to all of us from time to time.”
“Right…” The man belched a blast of gin vapor. “Apologies…”
“Of course.” Tom deftly stepped out from under the arm still clinging to his shoulders. “Won’t mention it again. Have you seen Carstairs?”
"Carstairs?" His companion blinked again. "No, can't say I have. I say, are you sure it wasn't Devonshire?"
"Quite," Tom assured him. "I must be off. Carstairs is expecting me, you see."
"Yes, yes," murmured the man in confusion, wandering off. "Thought for sure it was Devonshire…"
Tom continued on his way, lifting a glass of champagne from a harried maid’s tray. He’d chatted with her at the fence a time or two, but no flash of recognition lit her face. Thankfully he didn’t see Polly again as he sipped the wine while making his way toward the door.
He deposited his half-full glass on a table under a flower arrangement and stepped into the hall. "Fetch my things," he told one of the waiting footmen with careless arrogance.
"Yes, sir, immediately." The footman bowed and hurried away, returning a moment later with a high-crowned hat, walking stick, and evening cloak. Tom tossed the cloak around his shoulders.
“Enjoyed yourself tonight?” breathed the footman as he held out the hat.
“Well enough,” Tom murmured in reply, his lips barely moving. Not as much as dear Gerry, but he’d done his job.
The footman bowed. “Very good, sir," he said again in a normal voice. "Good evening, sir."
Tom set the hat on his head at a jaunty angle and took the stick before striding out the door, down the steps, and into the London night.
He walked for some time, through quiet, well-swept avenues twinkling with gas lights, through tidy streets of tightly closed shops, and finally into narrow, dirty streets that echoed with the invitations of prostitutes and the racket of pubs. Just short of Covent Garden, he turned into a tavern. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the smoky air before taking a seat on a bench at the end of one table.
A serving girl with a tightly laced bodice was upon him in a moment. He sent her for some ale, then leaned back and let his gaze wander about the room. A few fellow customers peered at him curiously, but most ignored him.
Within a few minutes another man, paunchy and colorless, slid onto the bench beside him. "Fine night, eh?" said the new fellow.
"The finest," Tom replied in languid tones.
His companion gave a sharp, satisfied nod. "Good work, Sinclair."
Tom the footman, who was neither a footman nor called Tom, tilted his head to look at the other man. "Did you think I wouldn't get it?"
"Never assume,” snapped Mr. Phipps. "Any trouble?"
"None."
Phipps just grunted as the girl brought the ale, leaning forward to display her overflowing bosom. Sinclair gave her a slow smile and a golden coin. She sashayed away, casting him an inviting look over one shoulder.
"Mighty free with his lordship's coin," Mr. Phipps muttered over his tankard.
Sinclair lifted one shoulder. "What are his lordship's coins for, if not to spend?"
Phipps took a long drink, then wiped the back of one hand over his mouth. Under the table he opened his hand between them. With no apparent attention, Sinclair dropped the paper from Madame's jewel case into it. "Take this," Phipps said, pushing a tightly folded note no larger than a shilling back into Sinclair's hand.
"What is it?" He palmed the note without looking at it, then lifted his ale again.
"An opportunity." Phipps slipped the paper Sinclair had given him into his own pocket. "You'll be wanting to read that soon."
"Why?"
"Word is you've got ambition."
Sinclair was watching the barmaid, who was smiling and winking at him as she wiped down a nearby table. "Every man has ambition—even you, I daresay."
Phipps gave an oily smirk. "Not like yours."
Sinclair glanced sideways at him, but said nothing.
"You should take it as a commendation," Phipps went on. "Not everyone gets a chance like that."
Sinclair just looked at him from under lowered eyelids. “What an honor.”
Phipps exhaled a snort of disgust, then gulped down the rest of his ale before shoving to his feet. With only a brief nod, he slapped a cap on his head and started to turn toward the door.
"One question," said Sinclair behind him, although without much curiosity. "Why Wollaston?"
Phipps was at his side in the blink of an eye, hands braced on the table. "Why is not your concern,” he hissed. “You do what you're told.”
“And take no notice of the fact that no one seems to mind what the Frenchwoman does with the information he gives her." Sinclair's eyes glittered before sliding away, back toward the buxom barmaid. "And it's not your neck in the noose, is it, Mr. Phipps? It's mine, if I get caught."
"You knew that from the beginning."
"Aye," agreed Sinclair after a moment, in the same emotionless voice. "I did."
Phipps swung around and stomped out the door.
Sinclair stayed where he was and drank his ale. After a while the serving girl came back, running her fingers along the collar of his evening jacket and whispering an invitation in his ear. He gave her a half-hearted smile and his last coin, then gathered his hat and walking stick and left.
Outside, he stopped beneath the first gas lamp he came to, fishing the folded note from his pocket. He held it up to the light, squinting at the cramped handwriting, reading it three times before understanding what it said.
For a moment he stood motionless, his face drawn in thought. A hackney clattered by, and he stuffed the note back into his pocket. Then he strolled off into the darkness, swinging his walking stick and quietly whistling a tune.
Chapter One
Doncaster House was a true mansion, an imposing edifice in the grandest style set in Mayfair. Tall windows glowed with candlelight and the front doors were thrown wide open to admit the throngs of elegantly attired guests climbing the steps. The air was filled with the soft strains of music from inside the house, and the jingle of harnesses and the clatter of carriage wheels outside. The guests would number in the hundreds, all of them wealthy, fashionable, and important.
One man surveyed the scene from under lowered brows as he mounted the steps, rapping his cane sharply on each tread. He had never been to Doncaster House before, and his eyes roamed over the expanse of stone and glass and wrought iron as if he were counting the window panes and pediments. Halfway up the steps he paused, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket to blot his face.
A pair of young men burst through the doors, talking and laughing in the careless, too-loud manner of men who have drunk too much. They clattered down the steps, jostling him out of the way without so much as a backward glance. He teetered on the steps for a moment before a footman hurrying in their wake came to his aid, offering his arm and a murmured solicitation. The guest nodded, leaning heavily on the footman until he got his balance back.
"Blasted scoundrels," he muttered, breathing heavily. "In my day, young men knew better than to go about too foxed to walk straight."
"Yes, sir," murmured the footman, discreetly slipping one hand under the gentleman's elbow as he helped him up the step.
"And mind, I'm not sorry to be in my dotage, if that is England's future," the old man went on. "Save for your old age now, lad, and pray they don't bring the country to complete ruin!"
"Yes, sir." The footman eased him up another step.
"If my boys had behaved that way, I'd have taken a cane to them, I would have…" His voice trailed off, and he sighed. "Eh, but they're both dead now. Gone with my dear wife nearly thirty years ago to the consumption."
"Terribly sorry, sir," said the footman, urging him up the last step.
"What, what? Not your fault." He patted the footman's arm. "There's a good lad. Write to your mother, won’t you?"
"Er—Yes, sir." The footman bowed as the old man went into the house, leaning on his cane and favoring his left leg.
Inside the house, the elderly gentleman shuffled through the bustle, handing off his cloak and hat to another footman and making his way toward the ballroom to greet his host. It was a grand ball, but he’d arrived rather late, and the receiving line had dwindled to almost naught.
"Lord Henry Wroth," a servant announced him.
The Earl of Doncaster turned toward him and bowed, tall and urbane, his dark hair threaded with silver. "Good evening, sir."
"And to you." Lord Wroth executed a shaky bow over the countess's hand. “Good evening, my lady.”
"Welcome to our home," said Lady Doncaster with a gracious smile. She was younger than her husband, quite beautiful, and exquisitely dressed. "How kind of you to come."
Wroth chuckled, a hoarse, rusty sound. "And my great pleasure it is, too. But I hope you've not served a surfeit of punch! It tends to go to the young men's heads, it does."
"Indeed not," she replied smoothly. "I quite agree with you, sir."
He nodded his shaggy gray head. "Well done, madam, well done."
He bowed again and hobbled away, but slowly enough to overhear the quiet exchange behind him.
"Wroth?" murmured the earl. "I thought that title died out."
"Apparently they found an heir," replied his wife. "A distant cousin, I believe, with some family connection to Lord Sidmouth.”
"Ah." This satisfied the question for Doncaster. He greeted his next guest with the same cordial manner as he'd shown the unknown Lord Wroth. Lady Doncaster followed suit, the curious old man dismissed from her mind as well.
The man called Lord Wroth listened with satisfaction, and went on his way. They would hardly be so calm if they knew they had just welcomed a common spy named Harry Sinclair, in the completely fabricated guise of a recently-discovered Lord Wroth, into their ballroom.
Then again, if he did his job properly, they'd never suspect anything like that.
The ballroom was a sight to behold. Long swaths of pale green silk hung from the walls, glowing in the light of dozens of fine wax candles augmenting the gas lamps. Harry had been to balls before, but never seen anything quite like this. There were flowers everywhere, all white; everything in the room was either green or white, he noted, scanning the room over his spectacles. It must have cost a bloody fortune just to decorate for an evening's entertainment.
His gaze flitted across the three sets of French windows standing open onto a wide terrace, just visible beyond the glow of the ballroom. Beyond that, he knew, lay a large garden with several gates in the surrounding wall. Guests were strolling in and out of the French windows, for it was a mild evening and the mass of guests made it very warm inside. It would be entirely possible for someone to slip around to the back of the house, go through the garden, and in the terrace doors. There was no attempt to secure the house at all. Eyebrows lowered, he trudged on.
When he had gone halfway around the room, he plopped down into a chair too near the musicians for anyone to sit and converse. He pulled out his handkerchief again and mopped his face. Within moments a footman stopped beside him. "May I fetch you a drink, sir?"
“Aye," growled Harry. “None of that pissy champagne. Some good port.”
The footman bowed his head. “Yes, sir." He hurried away and returned in a few minutes with a glass. As he offered the tray, he tilted it too much and sent a wave of plum-colored port sloshing onto Lord Wroth’s yellowed cuff.
“Oh, you clumsy lummox," Harry grumbled.
The servant stepped nearer, leaning solicitously forward until his powdered wig almost brushed Harry's cheek. “Beg pardon, sir, I do apologize." He whisked out a cloth and dabbed at the spilled wine. “Nice to see you this evening," he murmured. "A bit late, of course."
Harry scowled. “Be more careful, sirrah," he said peevishly. “That's a waste of fine wine, and my linen also." Then he added in a much quieter tone, dabbing at his upper lip with the handkerchief, “It takes an eternity to get this bloody suit on, you know. Care to switch jobs? I’ll give you the shoes this instant."
The footman's lips twitched as he rubbed a little harder at the stain. "Not at present, no. You look better gray and humped, actually.” His lips barely moved as he spoke. “All quiet here tonight."
"That's good to hear." Harry leaned back, scanning the room over the other man's bent head. Doncaster was still greeting guests, his dark head visible above the crowd. After a moment Harry located Lord Crane, a thin stooped figure who stood across the room opposite the musicians. He was talking to Lord Castlereagh, the foreign secretary, accenting his remarks with emphatic slashes of one hand. Whatever they were talking about, Castlereagh was clearly getting the sharp edge of Crane’s temper.
Harry glanced down at the man dabbing at his cuff. Alec Brandon would make a decent servant, if he ever gave up spying. He considered telling Brandon so, after the snide remark about his tardiness. He'd done well to make it here at this hour, given the constraints of old Wroth's clothing. The coat was too tight in the sleeves and too loose in the shoulders, having been let out in back to accommodate the thick padding that gave Wroth a humped back. The shoes were too small and pinched his feet, forcing him to shuffle along with a genuinely grim expression, as any elderly man with gout might. It was a good disguise, and he was rather brilliant in it if he did say so himself, but it was bloody uncomfortable.
"Spill a little more next time, would you?" he muttered as Brandon continued working. "Go to, man, just fetch another glass," he said loudly, pulling free. "I'm not a damned teapot to be polished all night long."
Brandon's eyes flashed but he merely bowed. "Yes, sir."
Harry half-closed his eyes as he surveyed the room again. There were three hundred of the most prominent people in London here tonight, and the doors stood open wide enough for a dozen radicals to storm in with powder kegs under their arms and blow the whole lot to bits. That would certainly win him no favors, if it were to happen under his nose. Harry stifled his impatience, reminding himself he was only strictly responsible for the safety of two men present.
Lord Doncaster was moving into the room, his countess on his arm. Lord Crane was still haranguing Castlereagh. All looked calm and normal, at least so far as Harry saw. He reached for his cane, prepared to circle the room to keep them both in sight.
And then he saw her.
"Your wine, sir. I do beg your pardon once more—" Brandon's voice died abruptly. Harry tore his eyes off the woman and snatched the glass from his fellow agent's hand, but the damage had been done.
"Have you lost your mind?" Brandon hissed between his teeth. "She's not for you."
"Of course not." Harry raised his eyebrows insolently and tossed back a gulp of wine. He could still see her from the corner of his eye, dancing with a scarlet-coated officer.
"Remember it," Brandon was saying in his ear. "Doncaster's daughter is the prize of the season. You wouldn't be good enough to wipe her shoes even if you were as you appear, Lord Wroth."
Doncaster's daughter. That would be Lady Mariah Dunmore, only child of the wealthy and influential earl. Of all the females to catch his eye… She was so far above his reach it was somewhat surprising lightning hadn't smote him from on high just for looking at her. Harry said nothing.
"Just keep your eyes and mind where they belong." Brandon pressed his lips together; he'd been standing next to Harry too long and they both knew it. "May I fetch you anything else, my lord?"
Harry made a dismissive gesture. He'd got the message. "No, no, leave me in peace." He raised his glass and turned his back on Brandon, shuffling away. Brandon spoke cold hard sense. A woman—any woman, let alone that woman—was not for him, not now. He was supposed to be guarding Lord Doncaster’s life, not goggling at the man’s daughter. Over the rim of the glass he looked out into the crowd, in any direction but hers.
Lord, but she was a beauty, he thought, giving in to temptation within a few minutes. He sipped his wine again, in case Brandon or anyone else was watching. From the corner of his eyes he watched her leave the dancers, escorted by her partner. The officer bowed over her hand, but Harry could see her face and knew the fellow didn't have a chance. She was smiling politely, but her eyes conveyed something else entirely. Harry was quite good at reading expressions. Her feelings were as clear to him as if she had whispered it in his ear: stop talking and go away…
Harry drank some more wine to hide a smirk. Poor fool, that captain. The officer lingered a moment while Lady Mariah turned away and spoke to someone else, then awkwardly took his leave. Harry might have felt sorry for the man, except that the captain had danced with her, held her in his arms and basked in her smile, even if it had been merely perfunctory. And Harry, who would be doing none of those things, couldn't pity that.
Of course, he was leaping to conclusions, which was precisely what he was not supposed to do.
He moved through the crowd, studying the guests from all angles without appearing to do so, always keeping one eye on his two principal marks. Brandon was correct that he would be entirely beneath Lady Mariah’s notice no matter what he wore or called himself. Even if not, she was just a beautiful young woman, nothing more, nothing less, no doubt as fickle and vain as any of the species. He had enough experience of them to know how women were, and there was no reason to think this beautiful, wealthy, well-born lady would be any different.
And yet… He caught sight of her speaking to her mother, the countess. Glossy dark braids were pinned high on her head, with little white flowers here and there. She was upset, her cheeks rosy but her mouth downturned. There wasn’t much of frail delicacy about her that he could see. There was a passion and vitality in her every movement that commanded his attention.
Oh yes, there was something different about her, at least to him.
He drifted around the room twice over the next hour, like a comet in orbit, always keeping his gaze scrupulously away from her. A few people he’d become loosely acquainted with stopped to greet him, and Harry chatted with them as long as he must. Lord Wroth couldn’t move about society without knowing anyone, after all. But when they moved away, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was much easier to do his job if he didn't have to attend to any conversation, and the conversation at these affairs was invariably pointless and dull.
Satisfied everything was secure inside the ballroom, Harry strolled toward a draped doorway he knew led to a balcony overlooking the garden. Alec Brandon had supplied him with detailed drawings of the house and grounds, and he wanted to see for himself. As he had already noted, there were more than enough places someone could sneak in and cause mischief, and it was his job to prevent anything like that. He waited until Brandon caught his eye from across the room, then gave the slightest of nods. Dabbing his face with the handkerchief again, he slipped out into the darkness of the night.
There must be something wrong with her.
It was humiliating to think so, but there didn’t seem to be another explanation. Instead of enjoying the ball, her first in London, Mariah Dunmore was simply impatient for it to be over. That had rarely happened to her before, and she didn't know what to make of it.
She was hardly unused to gatherings like this. For the last five years her father, the Earl of Doncaster, had been an emissary of the crown to various European capitals, and his wife and daughter had gone with him. Mariah had attended royal levees in Vienna, had tea with the czarina of Russia, and danced with a Spanish prince. With few exceptions, she had loved it. Even the dull people she met were interesting on some level, as they were so different to her, and she’d been almost sorry when her parents decided to return home.
But returning home meant she must have a Season, since she’d been too young to come out before they embarked on their travels. Her parents had made it clear they considered this ball her presentation to the ton. The very best of English society had been invited, the most powerful, the most influential, the most fashionable. It was, without a doubt, one of the most coveted invitations in town…and Mariah was bored almost to tears.
Her mother had assured her the gentlemen in London would be eager to meet her, and Mariah had to admit that she was curious to meet them. A mild flirtation with an Italian count could not lead to anything; a flirtation with an English earl might. Unfortunately, the Englishmen were terribly disappointing. Every man she'd met tonight had fallen over himself to flatter her and charm her. Mariah had expected that, for her mother had warned her against it. Unfortunately she had also expected that at least some of them would intrigue her, and so far not a one had even come close.
“Well, my dear, are you enjoying the evening?” Her mother smiled fondly, catching her in a rare moment of quiet.
Mariah tried to smile back. “I suppose."
Her mother’s smile faded in surprise. “What is the matter? Have you a headache?”
“No, Mama." Mariah shook her head, tapping her fan on her wrist in frustration. “But all the gentlemen are so…so…dull!" She whispered the last, almost embarrassed. She could see other young ladies smiling and chatting with the same gentlemen she found unbearably dull, and wondered again what she was missing about them.
The countess laughed and laid her hand on Mariah's arm. “We’ve spoiled you, I fear. One cannot always have the excitement of foreign capitals and political intrigue.”
“I know, Mama. But plenty of gentlemen here are interested in political intrigue. Most especially they are interested in the Aldhampton borough, and whom Papa might have in mind for it.”
Her mother gave her a sideways, thoughtful look. “You cannot expect them to see you independently of your family, Mariah. You might find it objectionable, but there are practical concerns to finding a wife, just as there are practical concerns to finding a husband.”
“Well, I’m not ready to be found, then, not that way and not by them." She looked into her mother’s sympathetic face and smiled contritely. “I’m sorry, Mama. I just wasn’t prepared to be appraised so bluntly. I can almost hear them totting up my value, as if I were a horse or a sheep at market.”
Her mother smiled in sympathy. “I know. It is hard. I, too, had a prominent father. But remember, you don’t have to marry until you are ready.”
“Thank you, Mama." Mariah breathed a sigh of relief. Of course Mama would understand.
“There.” Lady Doncaster clasped her hand. “Perhaps you need a breath of fresh air. I’ll make an excuse to the young man promised your next dance.”
Mariah sighed. “Sir Charles Fitzroy." Even the man's name sounded dull. Why had she agreed to dance with him in the first place? And how horrible was she, for wanting to avoid him just because of his name?
Her mother squeezed her hand and released her. “I shall see you in a few minutes.”
“Yes, Mama." The countess left in a whisper of silk, and Mariah slipped through the guests and onto a small balcony off the ballroom. The breeze was cool but refreshing, as was the quiet. She pulled the drape, not wanting anyone to find her, and took a deep breath, glad to have a moment’s peace at last.
If the problem really was with her, not with the gentlemen, she must figure out how to solve it. Mama said she didn’t have to choose quickly, but Mariah was old enough that people would think there was something wrong with her if she took too long. It was a little disconcerting; somehow she’d thought the answer to the question about when and whom to wed would be obvious. She would meet someone, he would be as drawn to her as she was to him, they would fall in love, he would ask for her hand, and she would accept, and then they would live happily ever after.
Only now that she had met dozens of the most eligible men in London did she realized how much her assumptions depended on chance. What if the man for her hadn’t been able to attend tonight? What if she never managed to meet him? What if there were no such man? What if she had to choose between being a spinster and marrying one of the prosy fellows who’d fawned over her tonight? Was that really to be her fate? Could she bear it, if it were?
“Blast it all," she said out loud, cross at herself for discovering she was a silly romantic—something she hadn’t considered herself before—and at the gentlemen of London for being so inconsiderately dull. “A pox on men.”
“Come now," spoke a voice from the darkness. “On all of us?”
