He must have groaned. Cassandra looked at him sharply. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Nothing except him going out of his mind. “Small bit of cramp.” He made a show of rubbing his thigh.
Verity rose from his desk and strolled over. “Do you need a hot bath? Or perhaps nanny to come and kiss it better?”
Charles ground his back teeth. “Is there something you wanted, aside from my fist in your face?” he asked the other agent. Hurst was off on his own investigation, but Verity, unfortunately, was between cases. He’d offered to help them search for the thief in the guest lists they’d gathered, an offer Charles was regretting having accepted.
Verity smirked. “I’ve found your thief.” He placed a piece of parchment down in front of Charles with a flourish. “Lord Weatherstone is holding an evening party tomorrow night. Forty of his closest friends and political confederates. Including one A. S. Muncher.”
Charles stared at the ceiling. Their thief was a right sot. He couldn’t wait to drag this bounder before a magistrate and see justice done.
“Well, what do you say, Miss Moore?” He pulled his writing instruments from his desk. “Ready to play the part of my sister once again?”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “What? Oh, yes, of course. I’ll be ready.” She dropped her gaze back to Lady Stockton’s invitation list.
Charles hesitated before writing to Lord Weatherstone. Why was Cassandra so blasted interested in that one ball? She and Lady Stockton were acquainted. Was Cassandra planning on attending? Was there someone she wanted to see? To dance with?
The nib of his pen snapped when he first pressed it to paper. Swearing under his breath, he searched his drawers for a replacement. He had no claims on the woman. She could dance with whomsoever she chose.
But the blackguard had better keep his dirty hands to himself. Cassandra was an innocent, and she was the type of woman who should remain so until marriage. If Charles had to suffer because of that, so should every other man of her acquaintance.
Verity cocked a hip on Charles’s desk. “If you’re asking Lord Weatherstone to make some additions to his guest list, Walter and I are free tomorrow night. I bet he serves a damned fine glass of wine.”
Charles forced his thoughts from Cassandra and all the positions he imagined taking her in. He had a job to do. He was a professional. And he never allowed what his heart wanted to dictate his actions if it contradicted what was right and proper.
Except for that one time last night. But that was it. The one mistake he’d allow.
“The more eyes searching for this sapskull the better.” He nodded to Verity. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He found a new nib and repaired his pen. It was a simple fix. When things broke, Charles was good at repairing them.
His attitude towards Cassandra had become broken. Confused. But Charles would fix it. Things would be as they were before. Because without structure, order, proper classifications, his world came too close to spinning out of control.
Chapter Eighteen
“Hmm, yes, of course,” Cassie murmured, keeping a pleasant smile on her face when she felt anything but. She was in a large drawing room at Lord Weatherstone’s London home in conversation with a partner ideal for her purposes. Mrs. Lynch spoke as quickly as a fox escaping its hounds and seemed more interested in getting her words out than listening to anything Cassie had to say in reply.
Leaving Cassie free to monitor the comings and goings of the party.
With promises that he would be acknowledged as instrumental in apprehending the thief, Lord Weatherstone had agreed to allow the agency’s men access to his home during the party. The task had become simpler with three of the guests already members of the agency. His Grace, the Duke of Montague, the Earl of Rothchild, and the Earl of Summerset, three of the agency’s owners, hadn’t been planning on attending the party, considering the host ‘an unbearable prig,’ as Lord Summerset had called him, but were quick to modify their plans in the hopes of apprehending Lady Mary’s thief.
Agents Hurst and Verity were also on the premises. Much to their discontent, they weren’t here as invited guests, but instead helped make up the large coterie of footmen who prowled about the rooms serving guests.
Cassie thought both men looked quite fetching in their livery, despite their scowls.
Neither of them could compare to Charles, however.
“Oh, that’s very interesting.” She inserted the phrase as Mrs. Lynch drew a breath before prattling on again about some woman who was in danger of gaining a very bad reputation.
Cassie cared not. She followed every movement Charles made. Every forced smile as he was introduced to someone new. He wore a midnight blue jacket that beautifully showcased his broad shoulders. His cravat was snowy white, the knot so tight and perfectly rendered it made her fingers itch to unravel it. Unravel him. The memory of how he’d forgotten his boundaries, pressed his mouth to her flesh, let his hands learn each of her curves, had heated her nights.
It had been a pleasure she’d never known existed. One she desperately wanted to feel again. If only….
“Then of course there was that poor girl several seasons ago. Miss Lydia something.”
Cassie snapped her gaze back to the woman in front of her, her lungs freezing.
“She had been acting more and more like a hoyden as the season went on, poor thing.” Mrs. Lynch took a bite of her currant rout cake, unaware that she had finally captured Cassie’s full attention. “I don’t think her accident was punishment for her indiscretions,” she said through a full mouth. “God is more merciful than that. But you can’t help but wonder.”
