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Lady Hunter allowed herself to be hurried off.
Sabrina watched them go before switching her attention to a broad set of Scottish shoulders disappearing up the staircase to a group of private boxes.
Discarding her glass on a sideboard and ignoring the determined waves of her friends, she slipped across the room.
* * *
The thieves would undoubtedly find tonight’s gala too alluring a target to ignore.
Graeme checked the hallway behind the private boxes, his senses tuned for anything out of the ordinary. Guards were posted backstage, theater staff had been alerted, and Runners patrolled the premises. Finally, they had a real chance to bring the criminal ring tumbling to the ground.
He couldn’t afford to fail again. If he did, Aden would be forced to pull additional agents off other, more vital missions. To Graeme’s way of thinking, that would count as nothing less than abject failure.
He was bloody well tired of failing.
Graeme was also bloody well tired of the distraction posed by Lady Sabrina Bell. He had been hoping she wouldn’t be here tonight, but then he’d seen her with the Hunters. She looked like a damn angel in a sunny dress that rippled like a river of silk, highlighting every beautiful curve of her body. A crown of bright, golden curls topped her head. Her smile was even brighter, a beam of sunshine that bathed him in unfamiliar warmth.
But she’s not for you, laddie boy.
Besides, she was a royal pain in the arse, with a disapproving ninny for a father, who obviously thought Graeme not good enough for his daughter.
Spotting a door to one of the boxes that was half-open, he interrupted a gossip between two elderly ladies dripping with diamonds and pearls.
The perfect mark.
“Young man, is there something you want?” one of the women frostily asked.
Graeme adopted his bumbling routine. “Oh, I say, I have the wrong box. Sorry to bother, dear ladies.”
“Impertinent fellow,” huffed the other woman as he backed out.
He firmly closed the door, then continued along the hall, hoping to check all the boxes before the patrons returned. Aden and his men were handling the pit and galleries, and Sir Dominic was no doubt directing his hawk-like gaze over all the proceedings from his well-placed box.
As loath as Graeme was to encounter Lord Musgrave again, he needed to check in with Sir Dominic. The thieves were most likely to strike after the interval, when most of the audience would be tipsy if not downright cup-shot.
A quick patter of feet sounded behind him. “Mr. Kendrick, please wait.”
Well, that’s just damn splendid.
Reluctantly, he turned to find Sabrina poised at the top of the staircase. Her cheeks were flushed and her breasts were . . . yes, the word was heaving. Lovely breasts they were, too—a creamy swell over the frilly lace of her trim bodice. Despite his massive irritation, Graeme felt something else threaten to grow massive, and he had an instant, insane urge to pull the lass into one of the empty boxes, take her down to the carpeted floor, and rip that frilly bodice right down.
You’re a ninny.
“Lady Sabrina, you should not be wandering about—”
“But I wanted to—”
She was interrupted by a man’s appearance at the top of the stairs, behind her. When she squeaked and almost jumped out of her shoes, Graeme cursed and started forward.
“I wouldn’t, mate,” the man said. “I’ve got a nice little popper on her.”
Graeme froze, his gut congealing with fear.
Her captor was tall, with a hard, confident gaze, and was dressed in elegant evening clothes. One could easily take him for a banker or a wealthy merchant and not give him a second thought.
Sabrina, who’d gone dead white, cleared her throat. “I assume thatpopperrefers to the pistol shoved against my spine.”
Graeme took a cautious step closer. She was only ten feet away, but it might as well have been a mile. While he was very fast, he wasn’t faster than a goddamned bullet. Sweat prickled under his collar. If anything happened to her . . .
