like a hawk does a field in search of prey, making Moira wonder who he saw and what he suspected, but she couldn’t tear her attention away from him long enough to follow his gaze.
Sensing her watching him, he turned to face her. She didn’t look away, but smiled as if he were a welcome visitor in her house. A scowl crossed his face, especially when she began to thread her way through the guests towards him. Her heart beat as fast as an out-of-control carriage the entire time she moved, afraid he’d stride away from her as quickly as he’d ridden off this afternoon. She wouldn’t blame him if he cut her, but it didn’t make the possible slight, and the disappointment it would bring, any easier to endure. She craved another taste of the hint of adventure he’d offered her this morning and at the same time recognised how silly she was for pursuing it. This was real treason with potential consequences, not some scintillating crime story in the papers. Still, she didn’t stop, but approached him with confidence, refusing to question or alter her decision.
He didn’t bolt off in the other direction, but moved down the stairs, one firm hand on the railing, watching her the entire time until he was at the bottom and she was before him.
‘Mr Dyer, I’m glad to see you tonight.’ He didn’t smell of cologne or shaving soap, but the more potent scent of sweat and leather, the same one which had enveloped her during their misguided and brief engagement. Her husband had never smelled this raw, not even in the midst of his exertions. She snapped open her fan and waved it in front of her face, more to revive rather than to cool herself.
‘Are you?’ Mr Dyer challenged, his self-assurance nearly shaking hers.
‘I am.’ She adjusted one of her diamond earrings, turning to watch the crowd instead of him, but keenly aware of him beside her. ‘I’ve given a great deal of thought to what you and I discussed this morning, and this afternoon, and I’ve decided to offer my assistance by making whatever necessary introductions you need tonight. I may not know very many people here, but I know a few.’
She traced the heavy necklace pulling at the back of her neck while she waited for his response.
He didn’t smile in grateful relief, but eyed her with a strange curiosity which made her shift in her slippers. ‘What brought about this change of heart?’
She pitied the people he’d interrogated in the past. He was being kind to her and already she felt herself shrinking. ‘I’ve had more time to consider the situation and I realised you were right. This is larger than me or Freddy. I love England and I won’t see her, and with it Freddy and Nicholas’s legacies, destroyed.’
Five years ago there might have been more to her offer, but whatever intimacy they’d enjoyed had been snapped like a frayed rope pulled too hard. It couldn’t be knotted together again and she shouldn’t wish it to be. He had his duties and she had hers. Helping him was the only place where they intersected.
* * *
Bart noticed how Moira’s fingers trembled while she adjusted her necklace, the play of her fingers so near the swell of her firm breasts as startling as her offer to help him. After Rotten Row, he’d written her off, intending to come here and find some way to manage things himself. He hadn’t expected her to change her mind and he should accept her help, but he hesitated. Her offer was sincere, but he doubted the veracity of Lady Rexford’s sudden change of heart. She’d do him no good if she crumpled every time the aunt opened her mouth and he had more important business here tonight then fending off disapproving relations. If he wanted to do that he’d attend his parents’ soirée. ‘Won’t your aunt object?’
‘Yes, but it and so many other things are not her decision but mine.’ She settled her shoulders with admirable seriousness, the movement making the diamonds sparkle.
Her defiance revealed a strength of will he hadn’t witnessed in her before, one he hoped she continued to develop. He sensed her happiness relied on her doing so. It shouldn’t matter to him if it did, but by volunteering to help him she was coming under his protection and he was never one to give up on any person in his service, and he needed her. With none of his former clients in attendance, she was, at the moment, the best person to help him. ‘Thank you, Moira.’
She started at his use of her given name. He hadn’t intended to be informal with her, but it’d slipped out, her name as natural on his tongue tonight as when he’d proposed to her. He flexed his hands at his sides, refusing to dig up the past. It had no bearing on the present situation.
‘You’re welcome, Bart.’ She adjusted a comb in the tangle of blonde curls arranged high above her neck. ‘Now, who would you like to meet?’
‘The Comte de Troyen.’ Bart nodded at a dark-haired man with a long face and the longer nose of the Hapsburgs standing by the window with Prince Frederick. ‘He came over during the Peace of Amiens and is good friends with the Prince.’
‘You think he’s one of them?’
Her arm brushed Bart’s when she shifted on her feet to get a better view of the Frenchman. The charge arching between them was unmistakable. He didn’t flinch, but it threatened to rock him off balance as hard as when Mr Flint had first told him of the plot. He drew on the steadfastness of purpose he used in the court to keep opposing counsel from rattling him to put aside his personal feelings and focus on the Comte.
‘His friendship with His Highness gives him ease of access to sensitive information and he has the strongest connection to France.’
‘Most of the people here have deep connections to France.’ Moira levelled her fan at a group of elderly men and women chatting near the dance floor. ‘Mr de Rue’s father was the Chevalier de Rue. Lady Mortley’s father was the Comte de Boulogne. Lady Wortley’s parents were the Duc and Duchesse d’Oiseau. All of these people had aristocratic parents or grandparents who fled to England after the revolution and married their children to earls and dukes.’
‘What about Lord Camberline’s grandparents?’
‘They weren’t lucky enough to escape and were guillotined in France, but not before they spirited Lady Camberline to England to be raised by Lady Elmsworth. She was an old goat of a countess who used to give me the chills whenever Mother had her in for tea.’
Bart studied the clutch of ageing aristocrats. He rarely spent time in society or paid much mind to who did what unless it was pertinent to one of his trials or investigations. It left him at a loss and he didn’t like being without information. It was the reason he’d first approached Lord Fallworth and why he was grateful, if not surprised, to have his sister beside him, the creaminess of her smooth skin heightened by the candlelight. ‘Those are connections but they’re older ones, before Napoleon came to power. The Comte was in France until the Peace of Amiens and when Napoleon restored many of the old aristocrats’ titles and lands, the Comte de Troyen’s were returned to him as well, and no one knows why.’
‘Maybe Napoleon was trying to lure the Comte back to France to help bridge the gulf between the old guard and the new regime. I understand the Comte was an accomplished French statesman at one time. It’s how he survived the Reign of Terror.’ She touched her fan to her delicate chin. ‘It seems to me neither his title nor lands are much good to him in England. With the blockade, not even letters can get through, much less any payments.’
‘Given what I’ve seen of smugglers, it isn’t difficult to slip things through the blockade. If I knew why Napoleon restored his lands, it might answer a great deal to either his innocence or guilt, but the Comte is adept at keeping his business to himself, making him one of the more difficult men for me to investigate. The members of the Rouge
