Page 9

He pulled her a fraction closer, settling her more firmly in his hold as the tempo of the dance accelerated. The plan was to keep him at a distance until she understood him better. She had not counted on the intimacy of the waltz. Or the dizzying effect of being held so closely. He smelled of citrus and cardamom and woods and smoke.

She had endured enough awkward partners in her first three Seasons to marvel a little at how easily they moved together. For a few moments she was caught up in admiring the way he communicated how they would move together. A light touch, the pressure of his hand, the tilt of his head invited her partnership in the dance. It seemed a miracle that he heard the beat as she did. It made her more curious to know his past.

“Why did you return?” she asked as the dance ended and he tucked her arm in his.

“I inherited.” He whispered it in her ear as if he were confiding a lover’s secret. “Something to drink?” he asked. She nodded, and he slipped away. Like that the intimacy of their dance dissolved. She could see only the back of his head above the crowd as he disappeared through the doors to the refreshment room.

She turned back to find a lady in a fashionable gown of lemon-colored Turkish satin.

“Emily Radstock,” said the vision in yellow, “whatever are you wearing?”

“I’m in mourning for Chunee.” Emily said the first thing that came to mind, referring to the poor elephant brutally killed at the Exeter Change.

The lady in yellow laughed, and Emily remembered her name. Miss Sophia Throckmorton. They’d been introduced at a party not a fortnight earlier. The girl was just what a husband hunter ought to be, as bright and shiny as a new-minted coin.

“Oh, I’m glad you explained,” she said. “It’s so common for ladies who don’t take simply to give up on fashion.” Miss Throckmorton’s fan waved gently just below her magnificent bosom. “Of course, now that you have a fiancé, perhaps you are no longer a slave to appearance as we younger ladies are.”

A pair of ladies laughed at that and joined them. Kitty Beckford and her sister Clarissa. Emily made the introductions.

“Oh, Emily, I heard the news,” Kitty said. “I never imagined you would have to wait so long to find a husband.”

“Obscure title,” Miss Throckmorton observed, “but at your time of life, one does what one must. Where is he, by the way? You’d think he would be eager to be at your side every minute.”

“At least he’s very rich,” Emily said.

When Lynley did not return with the promised refreshment, his absence began to look like abandonment, or like repaying her for dressing as she had. He had whirled her about the dance floor for everyone to see, and then left her to face the consequences of her choices in fashion and fiancés.

As long as he had been at her side, her black gown had not set her so wholly apart from the other women, but on her own, she looked like a crow at a dove party. She had tried to discompose him with the gown. Instead she had driven him away. She would have to think of a better way to knock him off balance. At the moment what she wanted was escape.

When Miss Throckmorton moved on to her next victim, Emily stepped back from the little group of ladies and edged her way toward a large potted palm at the end of the musicians’ dais and slipped behind it. There she came face-to-face with one of the fiddlers, who gave her a wink and a leer, and mouthed a hello that sent a wave of spirits over her. She stepped back and collided with a door handle. She reached behind her, pulled it, and slipped into the dark space between the inner and outer doors of the ballroom.

The door closed behind her, cutting off the music and gaiety of the dancing. At once she knew she was not alone. A large gloved hand covered her mouth, and a strong arm seized her by the waist. Her heart pounded in her chest. She pulled at the hand covering her mouth, but could not budge it. A voice in her ear whispered, “Quiet, my love.” Simultaneously, her senses recognized him, his height, and the bracing blend of citrus and smoke that was Lynley.

Emily eased her grip on his arm. Why is he hiding?

At once two voices could be heard on the other side of the door. He was eavesdropping. Emily recognized the voices—Lord and Lady Ravenhurst.

“Don’t be absurd,” the lady was saying. “We can’t search our guests. We’ll insult everyone. We’ll be the laughingstock of London.”

“Pamela, you’ll ruin me. You don’t understand what’s at stake.”

“So you’ve told me a hundred times, Ravenhurst. Matters of state are too subtle for my female brain. But it’s you who fails to understand anything.”

“You can’t wish another war on England.”

“War? Hah! You think the papers in one of your little red boxes could cause a war? You’re mad as well as absurd.”

“Just don’t try to stop me, wife. Every guest must be searched. I’ve instructed the footmen. They know what to do.”

“How dare you? I must speak to them immediately. I refuse to let you embarrass me before our friends.”

“Pamela, I warn you. Obey me in this matter, or I won’t pay your gaming debts.”

There came a gasp, a ringing slap, and swift footsteps retreating. Emily didn’t move. She was pressed tight against Lynley’s body in the dark. He was perfectly still, alert, waiting.

At last a second set of heavier footsteps moved away. Lynley’s tension eased. He turned her toward him in the dark as the footsteps descended the stairs. She had thought little until now of the space between doors. It was an architectural quirk of grand London houses, these pockets of darkness the thickness of the wall’s stone blocks between the inner and outer doors of grand rooms. She had passed through them hundreds of times without a thought.

“Awkward, isn’t it?” he said. “To catch a glimpse backstage of our hosts’ unhappiness.”