Her lustrous brown hair was gone, hidden beneath a garish wig the shade of boiled egg yolks. Her luminous complexion had been dulled with powder; her cheekbones flattened with artfully placed shadows. Even her mouth—God, that mouth that still had the power to drive him to distraction—was distorted by the slight, rabbit-like protrusion of false teeth. The clever trick of an overbite.
But the disguise wasn’t only in the cosmetics. It was the way she moved.
Shoulders hunched, head bowed, her posture robbed her of height and presence. Her eyes no longer showed the spark of wicked intelligence that characterized them. She wore the blank-eyed expression of a servant too long used to being invisible.
She was unrecognizable. If he hadn’t known she’d be here and hadn’t spent years learning every nuance of her body and bearing, he might have overlooked her completely.
Damn, but she was good.
Even now, disguised as dull, forgettable, and plain, he still wanted her.
Forcing himself to look away, Nathaniel adjusted his necktie and moved toward the knot of guests near the French ambassador. There were several people he needed to greet, and a few he hoped to be introduced to. Chief among them: Yelena Petrova, the flighty wife of a mid-level Russian diplomat.
Not that he had any designs on seducing her—flirtation was its own form of reconnaissance. He had done his research. The woman was well connected within the Russian diplomatic circles and had a reputation for loose lips, especially when complimented.
After greeting the ambassador and making polite conversation with a few acquaintances, Nathaniel maneuvered himself into Madame Petrova’s orbit. A mutual acquaintance—a minor attaché from the German embassy eager to ingratiate himself—obliged with the introduction.
“Madame Petrova, may I present Lord Greystone,” the man said with a flourish. “Recently returned to London from the countryside, I believe.”
Nathaniel offered a bow and the kind of smile that made women lean closer.
“Madame Petrova,” he said smoothly, lowering his voice to something warm and indulgent. “The room has grown significantly brighter since your arrival. I hope you’ll forgive me for staring.”
Yelena giggled behind her fan, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “How scandalously forward. You Englishmen are never so charming…or so bold. Have you been spending too much time with Russians, Lord Greystone?”
“Call me Nathaniel, please. And yes, I find Russian company…most invigorating,” he said with a wink.
Her feline gaze narrowed with playful suspicion. “Strange, though. I’ve been in London for three seasons now, and I don’t recall seeing you at any embassy event. I would remember.”
“As would I,” he said, offering her his arm with practiced ease. “To my regret, I’ve been living in the country and neglecting London’s entertainments. An oversight I intend to correct. Would you honor me with a dance, Madame?”
She laughed, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “If I’m to call you Nathaniel, then you must call me Yelena. I think I shall, Nathaniel. Though I warn you…Russian ladies waltz with spirit.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
As he led Yelena toward the dance floor, Nathaniel’s gaze flicked once more toward the perimeter of the room—just in time to catch the briefest flash of fire in his wife’s eyes before she lowered them again and retreated behind her tray of drinks.
Damn, she’d seen him. And she was not pleased.
Was she upset because of his flirting with Yelena? It’s not as if he’d never used flirting to obtain information before, and she knew it was a technique. As well as she knew he had never done more than flirt. But maybe that was before. Maybe she wasn’t so sure of him anymore. He swallowed a smile.
This night might turn out to be interesting after all.
The orchestra began a lilting waltz, and he swept Yelena across the parquet, her laughter rising every time he dipped closer, murmuring something calculated and just on the edge of impropriety. But even as he danced, Nathaniel kept one eye on Alice. He was overdoing the flirting. But the knowledge that his wife was seething somewhere along the sidelines made it all the more enjoyable. Let her seethe. Let her taste her own medicine.
And when the dance ended, and he caught sight of her again, the breath hitched in his throat. Her mask slipped for only a breath, but it was enough.
Gone was the dull servant’s gaze. For the briefest, most incandescent moment, her eyes burned with unmistakable fury.
Jealousy.
The realization unfurled in his chest like heat from good brandy. Delicious and dangerous.
Nathaniel turned his attention back to Madame Petrova, listening with half an ear as she prattled about the difficulties of ordering French gloves in London. But all the while, he felt Alice drawing nearer. Silent as a shadow but vibrating with tightly leashed emotion, he sensed her presence before she spoke.
Careful now, he warned himself. She wouldn’t risk the mission by creating a scene, but there were subtler punishments she could deliver. And knowing Alice, they’d sting all the more for their creativity.
With supreme effort, he pretended not to notice her until she was directly at his elbow.
