“Don’t look so nervous.” Mack chuckled. “Winnie explained why you supported my uncle’s ploy to keep her from writing about suffrage. They’ve mostly forgiven you.”
“Hope so. I’d hate to draw their wrath.”
“That won’t happen tonight. Last I heard, the only debating allowed is whether or not they need a fresh flute of champagne.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Actually, it appears as if Winnie is putting her glass down. I’ll steal her for a dance while I have the chance.”
Emil waved him off, then decided to stroll the room and find his own dance partner. He was particularly interested in any well-connected lady who could introduce him to her father. Yet as he meandered the edges of the ballroom, weaving in and out of the Roman columns, it was not a beautiful woman that caught his eye, but a shadowy form slipping through the garden entrance.
He frowned. As far as he knew, the garden was closed for the evening. What was someone doing out there, let alone using it for passage into Mack’s party? The figure crept forward, slowly revealing itself to be a tall, slender woman in an ill-fitting gown. She kept her head down as she hugged the walls and used potted plants for cover. The clumsy attempt to remain hidden was almost comical, yet strangely, no one else seemed to notice her. He followed at a distance until she darted toward a chair draped with a familiar cobalt blue shawl. She bent down, plucked something from the seat, and tucked it into her pocket before he could see what it was.
A thief. Not just that—a thief stealing from his friends.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
He still owed Mack and Winnie for past wrongs; here was his chance to make things right. He weaved through the crowd and seized her by the elbow. The woman stilled in his grip, but a coiling tension in her posture hinted she would spring away if he gave her so much as an inch.
“Return whatever it is you took, or there will be trouble.”
“Sir, it’s not what you think.” A gasp escaped her lips, high-pitched and mousy, but Emil caught something else underneath it…resentment, perhaps? He frowned at the incongruency.
“That’s what all criminals say when they’re caught.” He craned his neck above the crowd in search of Mack. “Let’s see what Mr. Donnelly thinks.”
“Oh no, please don’t bother him. He’s terribly busy tonight.”
Her voice was so breathless that he had to lean down to hear it. As he did, the aroma of delicate violets and the faint, fresh scent of raindrops washed over him. It was unexpectedly soothing, even as her tightly wound energy prickled at him. He straightened at once, bemused by his reaction.
Scanning the crowd again, he caught sight of Mack. He raised his free hand to draw his attention, then jerked a nod at the stiff woman in his grasp. Mack gave him a mystified look and said something to Winnie. She glanced up sharply and was marching toward them a moment later. Emil tugged his gaze from his friends’ surprising reaction when the woman mumbled something.
“What was that?”
“I said Thank God.”
As if that explained anything. He studied her profile—he had to, since she refused to meet his eyes. Her chin dipped just enough to appear submissive, but her jaw was clenched tight.
“Do you want to be caught?”
She shook her head, and the brief motion sent her scent curling around him once more. It was only violets, a common enough flower. But there was something else he couldn’t quite put a finger on. It was as if innocence and intoxication were tied into one. How could that be? He allowed himself a second look, if only to understand what he held in his grasp.
Her honey blonde hair was in a simple pompadour, her smallish ears were unadorned, and her modest neckline was edged with a boring scrap of lace. There was nothing remarkable about her, really. Nothing to pique his curiosity. Nothing to cause Winnie to come running to her side.
“Unhand Miss Becket at once.”
The woman in his grasp sighed in relief, her breath ruffling a purple, green, and white ribbon pinned to the front of her gown. Understanding dawned.
Ah, hell. He’d messed with the suffragists.
He looked up to find Winnie flanked by two other women, a petite blonde and an ebony-haired beauty. All three glared at him like he was scum on the heel of their boots.
“Do you know this woman?”
“Of course. She is our friend,” Winnie replied.
“A friend wouldn’t steal from your table. I caught her?—”
“Don’t presume to know anything about our friendship,” the blonde interrupted with arched brows.
