to support his lifestyle, but who was rumoured to be penniless. That last alone made her suspicious.
But it would not be easy to pierce that carefully constructed armour of devil-may-care. At least, not easy for any other woman. The Countess had been well schooled in the art of seduction and male manipulation. Her husband had delighted in teaching his young bride how to please him as well as keep his friends and political enemies dancing to his tune. She shuddered at the recollection.
Still, Vilandry’s lessons would stand her in good stead in this new venture of hers. And if in the end, Paul did not send her to France to help with Britain’s war effort, she would have earned enough to pay her own way.
A quick scan of the room found Mooreshead near the refreshment table idly watching the dancing. Or appearing to do so. She smiled at her companion, the estimable, plump Mrs Featherstone. As a widow, Nicky did not need a chaperone, but the elderly matron, with her grey frizzled hair and placid expression, not only added a necessary aura of respectability, she was the link to her spymaster. ‘Ma chère madame,’ she said idly, ‘why is it the English must keep their rooms so warm? I swear I am parched.’
‘Do you find it so, my dear?’ the other woman said, looking vague. A habit she cultivated to great success. Her eyes sharpened as they fell on their target and she gave a small smile. ‘Why is there never a waiter nearby when one needs one? Let me see what I can do.’ She drifted in the direction the refreshment table.
A moment or two later Mooreshead arrived in Mrs Featherstone’s wake, carrying two goblets of champagne. She smiled her thanks as he handed her a glass.
‘Countess,’ Mrs Featherstone said, ‘may I introduce Lord Mooreshead, who so kindly came to my rescue. Mooreshead, the Countess Vilandry.’
Nicky gave him a warm smile, dipping her knees and inclining her head, well aware that the advantage of his height gave him a clear view of the valley between her breasts. She felt his gaze linger there just a second too long. Any other woman might have blushed or simpered; she simply waited for his gaze to return to her face. She held out her hand. ‘My lord.’
‘Countess.’ He held her hand in a firm yet gentle grip and made a bow of exactly the correct depth.
‘Mrs Featherstone tells me you have been in town a month,’ he continued. ‘I regret my tardiness in making you welcome to London. Had I known the world was about to change, I assure you, I would not have left for anything so dull as a visit to the country.’
His voice was deep and well modulated and his eyes danced with laughter. At himself and at the world in general. Or so he would have it appear. She was once more conscious of shoulders that owed nothing to the skill of his tailor and a betraying pulse low in her belly. A woman’s appreciation for a magnificent male. A warning that she must be wary of a man who so easily aroused her feminine desires. Such female weakness could only endanger her mission. But desire was not something she feared. It was a two-edged sword she knew well how to wield and she would have no hesitation in using its blade to put an end to his disloyalty.
She inclined her head. ‘A charmingly expressed sentiment, my lord, but a gross exaggeration.’
He chuckled and placed a hand to his heart. ‘’Pon my honour, my lady, you wound me.’
‘It was not my intention.’
Mrs Featherstone touched her arm. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment, Countess? I particularly wished to have words with a friend of mine this evening and she arrived a few moments ago. I fear I may lose her in this crush.’
A planned excuse to leave her alone with her mark. ‘Of course,’ Nicky said. ‘I shall be well entertained by his lordship in your absence.’
‘I shall do my best,’ Mooreshead responded and bowed as her companion departed. A moment later, his charming smile held sensual promise. ‘In the interests of my duty to entertain, may I request your hand for this next dance, Countess?’
The urge to give in to the obvious strength of will in those piercing blue eyes, his absolute confidence she would not refuse, was an irresistible pull. A delicate touch, she reminded herself. Too eager and he would grow wary. Or bored. She gave a regretful sigh. ‘Thank you, but, no, I am promised to another. Perhaps later?’
On cue, the young man who had sought the first dance the instant she entered the ballroom approached. He bowed and held out his arm with an expression of triumph. ‘My dance, I believe, Countess.’ His expression cooled as his eyes met those of Mooreshead. He gave a nod of his head. ‘My lord.’
‘She’s all yours,’ Mooreshead responded with the air of a man who had the right to relinquish possession. ‘I will return later for our dance. The supper dance, I believe we agreed.’
She shook her head at the way he had finessed taking her to supper, but smiled. ‘Bien sûr. Until then.’
Mooreshead bowed and sauntered away
Well, that had been easier than she’d expected. Almost too easy.
She would have to be careful not to rush her fences and make him overly wary. A man who walked in the dangerous world of intelligence would not be easily fooled.
* * *
Fascination with a female. It happened occasionally. Even to a man as jaded as him. It was her boldness he liked. And the intelligence behind the seductive knowing in her cornflower-blue eyes with the starburst of grey in their centres. They were eyes that seemed older than her years.
Even so, under other circumstances, he would have sheared off at the obvious ploy by the Featherstone woman. It might be a coincidence that the countess had clearly decided to inveigle her way into his company at the same moment Gabe had been warned of treachery afoot. It might also be a coincidence that her appearance coincided with new orders from France. But when both occurred at one and the same time? Coincidence it was not.
The gauntlet had been tossed at his feet. He couldn’t afford not to pick it up with matters at such a crucial stage. How annoying that despite himself, he was interested in her. As a woman. He huffed out a breath and forced himself to think logically. He needed to know why she’d been sent. What it was they suspected. He strolled around the ballroom, speaking casually to those acquaintances who would spare him a word, garnering the latest on dit. The life blood of the ton. Apparently little was known about the Countess Vilandry apart from the fact they all thought her divine.
She was the fashion. Her style admired by men and women alike. No doubt about it, the countess warranted a closer inspection.
His groin tightened at the thought of the pleasure such closeness might bring.
Inwardly, he froze. Not for years had he had such a visceral response to a woman. He certainly never let them get close. Marianne had cured him of any wish to open his heart. So why was this one different?
Something sharp and unwelcome twisted in his chest. The emptiness of his self-imposed isolation? The knowledge that there wasn’t a woman alive who would want him? Was that why he was attracted to her? Because she was a creature of lies and darkness, like him?
He mentally cursed and shook off the shadows of the past. The task was simple. Find out if she was the one Armande had warned of and, if so, eliminate the problem.
With the supper dance still a good hour away, he wandered into the card room, passing the minutes until
