can imagine why our Marquess would be of use to you, Le Comte, but that French slattern? Why are you so intent on bringing these two together?”
Still surveying the ballroom floor, Le Comte’s thin mouth tightened at her venomous tone. “It’s not for you to know, Susannah, alas.” His tone was dismissive.
“Condescension has always been your strong suit, although increasingly, I find that you don’t always apply it wisely, Monsieur.”
Reluctantly, Le Comte turned to her with an assessing glance. “I wouldn’t become overly involved, Susannah.”
“You mean with your plans or with the Marquess?”
“Either—because if you do, you will be interfering in something of the utmost importance to me. And that wouldn’t be prudent, would it now?”
Not easily dissuaded, Susannah raised her now empty glass to her lips, showing sharp, white teeth. “It all depends on your definition of prudent. What I do know is this—that you and the Marquess are after the same thing, and I’m not talking about that shriveled pianist. She’s simply a convenient pawn.” She tilted her glass in imitation of a toast, suddenly confident. “This situation has everything to do with that episode concerning Blackburn’s brother which didn’t turn out well for either of you, as I recall.”
Le Comte’s response was sharp. “I wouldn’t believe every bit of information you pick up on your travels.”
“Indeed, pillow talk is a wonderful thing. That’s something else you taught me, Le Comte, remember?”
Only Susannah knew that the almost imperceptible tic below the Frenchman’s left eye signaled his intense displeasure with her. “I’m warning you, Susannah. Leave off. This is a race to the finish involving only the Marquess of Blackburn and myself.”
Susannah smiled slyly. “And may the best man win, naturally.”
“I shall prevail.” Le Comte dismissed her with a wave of his gloved hand and a curt nod. “Very soon you will see your Marquess following my every command slavishly.”
Susannah raised her perfectly plucked brows in astonishment. “Come now, I find that difficult to believe. Blackburn is his own man if nothing else.”
“That’s a luxury he will soon discover that he can ill afford.” He fixed the lithe figure of Devon Caravelle in his crosshairs. “I’ll give the Marquess three days. After which, if he and I can’t come to an understanding, he will find himself reprising that unfortunate business with his brother. Except this time, it will be our lovely pianist who will serve as the sacrificial lamb.”
Le Comte gave a small nod to a passing trio of acquaintances before adding cavalierly, “That should keep you happy, Lady Treadwell, non?”
“He is looking at us.”
Blackburn gazed down at the woman he held in his arms, a woman who was playing a dangerously unwise game with him.
“That’s the least of your problems right now, Mademoiselle.” He executed a required bow before taking Devon Caravelle back into his arms. The high curve of her breasts rose out of a layer of exasperating silver ruching, her fine profile turned deliberately away from him.
“Why don’t you just waltz me right out of this room and into Newgate, then?” she challenged coolly.
A short silence. “I won’t ask you again for the Eroica, Devon.”
She lifted her chin. Bravado was all she had left. “What good would I be to you imprisoned or dead? You need me, Blackburn.”
His expression was grim. “I wouldn’t make that mistake.” He was a man who’d never needed anyone in his life.
“You threatened me.” She returned his bow with a low dip. “My goal was simply to secure your cooperation in deciphering the score.”
“Your definition of cooperation is a curious one. I didn’t think opiates, violence, and a prison cell exactly constitute persuasion.”
“I have no control over the behavior of Le Comte’s men.”
“I’m pointing out that you set the tone of our association.”
“Which gives you the right to threaten me with hanging?” Her voice was ragged. Glancing up at him from beneath a sweep of thick eyelashes for the benefit of onlookers, she made certain that her words belied her flirtatious expression. “You are asking me to take on a deception of monstrously dangerous proportions—with no guarantees.”
“I never offer guarantees when there’s enough money involved to mitigate the dangers.”
Devon looked as fragile as blown glass and yet he suspected he was holding finely tempered metal in his arms, a woman fully capable of bartering what was left of her integrity, of selling herself to the highest bidder. His hand tightened on her waist, reminding himself that, in the end, he was hardly any better.
“There are no guarantees for me either, Mademoiselle, not that you should give that thought any consideration,” he said as his hand joined hers briefly. He felt the cold fingers through the fine silk of her gloves. “Your loyalties, if you have any, are hardly transparent, and it’s probably not particularly auspicious for me to be dealing with a woman who plays the roles of mistress, pianist, and spy with such remarkable ease. You are without doubt an unusual woman.”
“I won’t take that as a compliment.”
“None intended.”
“And I’m not an agent—no matter what you’ve been led to believe.”
Not for the first time, Blackburn resisted the inexplicable urge to pull Devon closer. Too tempting, too erotic, the connection between them a lightning rod. His hand brushed her shoulder, the silkiness a potent reminder.
“Is Le Comte still looking our way?” she interrupted his thoughts, whirling into his arms and then away again.
Blackburn glanced across the room where the Frenchman was holding court, bowing gallantly over Susannah’s small plump fingers, so different from Devon Caravelle’s slim, talented hand. Blackburn noted the strange expression passing over the Frenchman’s face, one that he knew far too well.
“You’re better off taking your chances with me.” His arm tightened momentarily around her narrow back.
“You mean risking the gallows?”
He ignored her question. “What exactly is the nature of your agreement with de Maupassant? Is it money? The promise of notoriety?”
Devon turned her head sharply to look up at him, absorbing the stark lines of his face, the wide mouth above the strong jawline. She pivoted gracefully in his arms, holding herself stiffly as though more conscious than ever of a confused upsurge of unwelcome sensations, of fear and desire. Blackburn felt her invoke her steeliest reserve.
“My relationship with Le Comte has nothing to do with us.”
“He has everything to do with us,” Blackburn muttered. “He’s thrown us together quite deliberately. And he’s prepared to give you access to
