“Oh, it’s not that. I’m myself a middling class miss, after all, and quite content to be so,” she said earnestly. “In my family, we don’t marry for money or status.”
“Your sister landed the Duke of Strathaven,” Lady Blackwood said dryly.
“Emma would have married him even if he wasn’t a duke. In fact,” Thea said with a rueful smile, “their courtship might have gone a bit smoother.”
“A family of idealists, how refreshing. Tell me, then, what are you after, Miss Kent?”
Tremont leapt into her mind. She blocked out the image.
“Deep, true, and passionate love,” she said.
“Well. That does complicate things, doesn’t it?” Lady Blackwood’s eyes sparkled within their rims of kohl. “As it happens, you are a lady after my own heart, Miss Kent, and I should like to help you. Shall I acquaint you with a few eligibleparti?”
As Thea was about to answer, awareness tingled over her nape. She glanced over her hostess’ shoulder, in the direction of the entryway. Standing by a pillar was a tall man clad in a black domino. From this distance, his hair looked tobacco brown, much darker than Tremont’s, yet there was something about him…
She blinked, and he was gone.
Well, that’s perfect, isn’t it? Not only did I imagine the attraction between Tremont and me, now I’m seeing him everywhere. If I don’t get past this ridiculous tendre, I shall turn into a madwoman.
Thea took a composing breath and smoothed her feathery skirts. “Yes, my lady. I would be most grateful for introductions.”
***
Behind the column, Gabriel cursed himself. Although he was a bit rusty at espionage, he still remembered the rules. Losing one’s focus was a sure way to botch a mission. Too much was at stake for such foolishness.
He told himself it was just the shock of seeing a swan transformed into a mythical creature of flame. Unable to help himself, he risked another glimpse around the pillar. With each of Thea’s movements, incendiary feathers fluttered, a beguiling contrast to the milky skin above her low-cut bodice, the gold-swirled curls piled atop her dainty head. Her gilded mask accentuated the delicacy of her features.
Fragile yet fiery, she was the essence of desire. Answering heat flared in him, the primal urge to claim her as his and his alone. Savagely, he locked away his needs.
You’re here for a purpose. Lives—including Freddy’s—depend upon it.
Deliberately, he took up conversation with a lady dressed as a nymph. She’d been sending him come-hither looks, and it was always best to blend in. All the while, he discreetly monitored his target for the evening: Pompeia, also known as Lady Pandora Blackwood.
She was doing the rounds, introducing Thea to various guests. Male guests. Gabriel’s teeth ground together as Thea waltzed off in the arms of some popinjay dressed like a pirate. He wanted to go over and give the blighter missing teeth to go with the damned eyepatch.
Firmly, he forced his attention back to Pompeia. Her husband was at her side again, exuding genuine affection, the poor sod. Blackwood was an upstanding gentleman, respected and admired for his actions on the battlefield. Which just went to show that even an intelligent man could be blinded by love. If Blackwood ever discovered the true viper he’d married…
The wriggling in the hidden pocket of Gabriel’s domino told him it was time. He’d scouted the field well enough. He’d put his next stratagem into play.
Excusing himself from the nymph, he took the hallway into the main foyer, where guests were still trickling in. A pair of footmen was rounding them up, one in front and one at the back to shepherd the tittering newcomers down the corridor to the ballroom. A third servant stood posted at the grand stairwell that led to the upper floors.
As the group headed toward the hallway behind Gabriel, he staggered into their midst like a soused sailor, incurring a few annoyed comments of “Watch it, man!” He slurred his apologies, picked his mark—a man whose scarlet domino matched his bloated face—and dropped the furry decoys into the man’s pocket. The harassed-looking footman holding up the rear passed him.
Ten… nine… eight…
Gabriel weaved toward the remaining footman at the stairwell.
“I say,” he mumbled in foppish, drunken accents, “where is the blasted convenience in this place? Ain’t so much as a chamber pot to be found anywhere, sirrah.”
… four… three…
“It is back toward the ballroom, my lord—”
A masculine scream rang from the hallway.
Right on cue.
“Egad, there’s mice in my pocket!”
