but I am not in town long enough, I’m afraid.’ The news he’d just received made it imperative he leave as soon as he informed Sceptre of this latest development. Unlike agents of the Home Office, who reported to Parliament, the political arm of government, Sceptre owed its allegiance to no one but the House of Hanover. Fortunately, for the most part, the goals of these agents of security were in accord. Sceptre, however, tended to be more secretive and entirely ruthless in achieving its aims.
‘Next time you are in town, then,’ Bane said. ‘Let me know your plans in advance and I will arrange a quiet evening at home. Meanwhile, stop racketing about. You are looking quite done up.’
He laughed. ‘Surely not that bad?’
‘Not so bad others will notice.’ Bane strolled away.
The man saw too much.
Gabe sighed and glanced around the room for a suitable dance partner to help maintain his façade. One who would not immediately give him the cold shoulder. There were plenty of females who enjoyed flirting with a man of his reputed wickedness, provided he wasn’t looking for more than a dalliance.
The babble on the far side of the room intensified. The stir of the ton at some new piece of gossip, some on dit or scandal, no doubt. The crowds at the edge of the dance floor shifted like water swirling in a strong current before parting around the object of their interest.
A woman he didn’t know. She wasn’t particularly tall, or even particularly short. Her hair wasn’t brown, or chestnut or guinea gold. Strangely, it was all of them. Her features were neither classical nor pretty nor plain, because one only noticed her large cerulean-blue eyes framed by surprisingly dark lashes. Were they dyed or natural? And why would he care? She didn’t glitter or sparkle as other females did, nor did she fade into the modest obscurity of a miss new on the town. She glowed with the incandescent warmth of the pearl choker around her throat.
And the Beau Monde hovered around her like bees over clover. Sumptuously dressed women hung on her every word, while the men mentally slavered over the flesh exposed by the low-scooping gown. The lure of shoulders and high, full breasts of palest white startlingly scattered with freckles. Instinct told him she was French. Few British women would dare such a diaphanous gown of silver and dampen their petticoats with such blatant unconcern. A recent émigrée, perhaps? One who had arrived during his absence these past few months.
A woman as sensual as sin. The words reverberated in his head. Surprising. Shocking. These days, he rarely had that kind of reaction to a woman, no matter how beautiful or fashionable.
Her gaze passed over him and flicked back. An almost imperceptible lift of brows as dark as her lashes. Interest. Followed immediately by an acknowledgement of desire. The look strummed every nerve in his body, a vibration followed swiftly by heat. Things inside him shifted, as if his spine had realigned. Stunned, he froze. His body stirred as he was caught in her clear-eyed gaze. A coolly calculating glance that spun out into timelessness before it fractured into naked vulnerability. Or not. A blink and the very idea seemed absurd for such a self-contained creature.
Realisation dawned. She was the one of whom he’d been warned.
The French, then. How typical of them to suppose he couldn’t resist the wiles of a woman. Clearly, they’d let appearances deceive them into thinking he was an easy mark. Yes, he found the woman extraordinarily attractive, but so did every male in the room.
Damn it all. And if he was right, why test his loyalty at such a critical juncture? That he now had to fight a battle on yet another front was irritating to say the least. Yet, if he’d been in their shoes, he likely would have been testing his loyalty too. His role had become pivotal to their plans. If he proved a weak link in the chain, it might set the invasion back by months. He certainly didn’t want that. The more nervous they became, the harder it would be to put a stop to their ambitions once and for all.
If he told Sceptre of his suspicions about this woman, they would demand he eliminate the danger. Coldly. Brutally. Just as Marianne had been eliminated. His stomach clenched at the memory.
No. Not without proof. Suspicions were one thing, but it behove him to discover the truth of who had sent her and why. Only a fool would eliminate a danger without knowing from whence it came.
Tension tightened his muscles. A reaction to the knowledge of an upcoming skirmish. Retaining his outward easy calm, he sauntered through the ballroom, bowing and smiling, while his skin tingled and his body burned with an inner flame. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this much anticipation. Because of the way he had come alive during the space of a glance.
As he moved among his peers, he heard her name on their lips. Nicoletta, Countess Vilandry. Society’s new novelty.
He drifted towards the refreshment table, glad to see Armande was nowhere in sight. He deliberately slowed his breathing, forced himself to think logically, sifting through the bloodlines of the French nobility. Vilandry. An old name. And one now extinguished, he thought. Lack of certainty made him uneasy. Ignorance was vulnerability in this high-stakes game. But no matter what he didn’t know, his gut sensed she was the one of whom Armande had warned.
Heat leached away, followed by cold resolve. One way or another, he must delve the secret depths of the Countess Vilandry before returning to Cornwall. And quickly.
* * *
Without a doubt, Gabriel D’Arcy, Marquess of Mooreshead, would be Nicky’s most difficult challenge to date. The gauntlet in his chilly blue eyes had been unmistakably thrown down before he coolly turned away. Not a man to be trifled with carelessly, she’d been warned, despite his reputation for charm.
Something had happened during the course of that brief visual encounter. Despite her every effort, the familiar mask of the Countess Vilandry, the seductive woman she’d become to survive her marriage, had almost slipped from her grasp. Leaving Nicky Rideau, the girl she had been a long time ago, open and exposed and unprotected. Perhaps it was Mooreshead’s sheer physical beauty that had pierced her protective shield, his golden locks and masculine physique, with no sign of the corruption she’d expected to see in a man base enough to betray his country. The sweetly painful little flutter low in her belly when their eyes made contact had been a terrible shock, when she’d expected to feel nothing at all. Such a display of weakness would have earned her a slap if Vilandry had been alive to see such a beginner’s mistake. There were no emotions involved in a seduction. The woman never admired the man. She only teased and tormented.
She’d realised her mistake in an instant and drawn the Countess around her like a domino made of steel. It was too late for Nicky Rideau. She’d been buried years ago. The Countess never let her own desires run amok. And no matter how handsome or charming he proved, he would pose no threat to a woman who had learned her arts from a master. She would expose all of his secrets and find the proof of his treachery.
Failure was not an option. Not if she wanted Paul to keep his promise to provide the false papers that would get her into France. The hint she’d received that her sister might yet be alive and alone was a bruise on her heart. And the sour taste of guilt in the back of her throat.
Exposing Mooreshead would give her the opportunity to know the truth once and for all.
It would take a delicate touch to reel in a man with his reputation. She’d made it her business to unearth the gossip about him. A man of fashion. A Corinthian. A man who drove to an inch and who displayed to advantage in the pugilist ring despite his whipcord leanness and rangy height. And an incorrigible rake. A man who took nothing seriously, unless it was the cut of his
