Penelope company. I am sure that you have a lot to talk about.”
She slipped away immediately, while Buckminster’s attention was still concentrated on his cuff link. Her departure was a trifle rude, she knew, but she felt sure that Penelope would not mind.
Weaving her way through the throng of people, Marianne made her way to the door. Snapping open her fan and wafting it as though the heat of the crowd was what had impelled her to leave the ballroom, she strolled along the corridor past a pair of footmen. She glanced about her in a seemingly casual way, noting to herself the locations of doors, windows and stairs. She paused as if to admire a portrait, and as she did so looked out the window, checking its accessibility from the street. Then she wandered to her right until she was out of sight of the footmen.
She made a quick check to be sure that there were no other guests or servants around, then started down the hallway, looking into each room as she passed it. Every one, she saw, was filled with expensive items, from artwork to furniture, but she was concerned only with those things that were easy to transport and just as easy to sell, such as silver vases and ornamental pieces. She was primarily interested in finding the study, for she knew that it was the most likely place for the safe to be located. Finding the safe and the best entrances and exits was always the focus of her job.
She located two drawing rooms and a music room, but no study, so she turned and made her way back down the corridor. As she neared the wide hallway that crossed this one and led back to the ballroom, her steps slowed to a seemingly aimless walk, and she once again began to ply her fan and to look up at the row of portraits as if she were studying them. She crossed the corridor, glancing down it out of the corner of her eye. She could not see that anyone, either the footmen or the two men standing outside the ballroom door conversing, was paying any attention to her.
Once across the hallway and out of sight, she resumed her investigation, opening doors and peering inside. The second door she opened was obviously the masculine retreat of the house, though it appeared to be more a smoking room than a study. There was no desk, nor were there any books, but the chairs were large and comfortable, and there was a cabinet with glasses and several decanters of whiskey and brandy atop it, as well as a narrow table holding two humidors and a rack of pipes. The drawings on the walls were hunting scenes, full of dogs and horses.
With a smile of satisfaction, Marianne reached into the room, picked up the candlestick on the table beside the door and lit it from the wall sconce in the hall. Then she slipped into the room and closed the door after her. This was the most dangerous part of her mission, as well as the most exciting. There was no good reason for her to be in her host’s smoking room, and if someone happened to come in on her, she would be hard pressed to talk her way out of the situation. She could lock the door, of course, but if someone tried to get in, that would seem even more suspicious. The best thing to do was simply to work as quickly as possible and hope that, if she did get caught, a winning smile and a quick tongue would get her out of the situation.
Heart pounding, Marianne set the candle down on the table and began to go around the room, shifting each of the hunting prints aside to examine the wall behind it. The third picture yielded the prize: a safe set into the wall. She leaned forward, examining the lock, which opened with a key rather than a combination.
“I do apologize, but I really cannot allow you to break open my host’s safe,” a masculine voice said behind her.
Marianne jumped and whirled around, her heart in her throat. Leaning negligently against the doorjamb, one eyebrow raised quizzically, was Lord Lambeth.
CHAPTER TWO
FOR A LONG MOMENT MARIANNE COULD DO nothing but stare at him, her mind skittering about wildly. Finally she managed to paste on a shaky smile and say, “My lord! You gave me quite a turn!”
“Did I?” He grinned, showing even, white teeth. Marianne had the sudden strong image of a wolf. “I would have thought that you had stronger nerves…given your profession.”
Marianne drew herself up to her fullest height and put on a haughty face, one she had copied from Lady Quartermaine. “I beg your pardon? My profession? I am afraid I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well done.” Lambeth moved away from the doorjamb and came inside, closing the door behind him. “I might almost believe you—if I hadn’t just caught you with your hand in the cookie jar.”
Marianne’s stomach tightened with dread. “What are you doing?” She realized that her voice had skidded up, showing fear, and she forced herself to lower it. “I must insist that you open that door. This is highly improper.”
He cocked one eyebrow. “I would have thought that you would prefer we discussed your larceny outside the hearing of the rest of the company. But of course, if you insist on opening the door so that all may hear…”
Lambeth started toward the door, and Marianne stepped forward quickly. “No! No, wait. You are right. Let us clear this up privately.”
He smiled in a smug way that made Marianne long to slap him, and crossed his arms. “You have an explanation? Pray, go on. I should love to hear it.”
“I see no reason why I should give you an explanation,” Marianne retorted hotly.
Her initial spurt of fear over, her normal spirit was returning. The smirk on the man’s face goaded her. He was everything she despised in the aristocracy: supercilious, arrogant, utterly disdainful of everyone whom he considered beneath him—which was most of the world.
“Other than the fact that I should turn you over to our host for rifling through his smoking chamber?”
“Don’t be absurd! I was simply looking around. There is no harm in that, surely.”
“What about the safe?” He nodded toward the picture, still askew, with the safe behind it.
“Safe?” Marianne could think of nothing to do except brazen it out.
His mouth twitched. “Yes. Safe. The one behind that picture. The one you were breaking into.”
“I was doing no such thing!” She put on an expression of utmost indignation. “The picture was crooked, and I straightened it.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “You are a bold one. I’ll give you that. But I have you dead to rights, and you know it.” He strolled toward her. “This was a deadly dull party, but it certainly got livelier once you arrived.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Marianne took a step backward. She found his closeness disconcerting. She disliked him thoroughly; he was her enemy. Yet his smile created the oddest sensation in the pit of her stomach. And when he came near, she could see that his eyes were clear and gold, the color of sherry, darkened by the row of thick lashes around them. She found herself staring into them, unable to look away.
His gaze was knowing and amused, as if he sensed what she was feeling. “Yes, it is. Most young women bore me.”
“I am not a young woman,” she pointed out. “I am a widow.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, of course. What a thing to say!” He was so close now that she could feel the heat of his body. Marianne took another step back but came up against the liquor cabinet and could move no farther. She braced her hands on the cabinet on either side of her and tried
