“Élise,” he whispered.
Sabrina’s heart thudded. Élise. She rolled the unfamiliar syllables across her tongue in silent repetition, committing them to memory. Who was she? Why was she here? And what, precisely, had her brother entangled himself in? She shifted forward, intent on slipping closer, just enough to catch their words with more clarity.
A firm hand closed around her wrist. Sabrina gasped and spun around, only to meet a pair of cool, green eyes glinting beneath the shadowed brim of the Duke of Lionston’s profile. His expression was unreadable, but his grip—impossibly steady—held fast.
“Sabella,” he murmured, voice pitched low, “this is neither the time nor the corridor for such… adventures.”
She tried to tug free—unsuccessfully. “Let me go,” she hissed, darting a desperate glance toward her brother. “I must hear what they are saying.”
Leander leaned in, the scent of crisp bergamot and something darker brushing her senses. “On the contrary—you must not.”
“You do not understand?—”
“I understand perfectly.” His gaze held hers, unyielding. “You are about to be discovered, and whatever game you believe yourself to be playing ends in disaster should your brother see you lurking behind statues like a common spy.”
Heat flared in her cheeks. “I am not a spy.”
“No?” His voice lowered, velvet-soft and annoyingly amused. “You are hiding in shadows, eavesdropping upon secret meetings, and creeping closer by the second. Forgive me if the distinction is too subtle for my masculine brain.”
She glared at him, furious—and worse, aware that Basil and Élise had already turned to leave the corridor. Her opportunity was slipping away.
Leander stepped between her and the retreating figures, effectively blocking her path. “If you wish to unravel whatever mystery plagues your brother,” he murmured, “you would do well to avoid ruining yourself in the attempt.”
Her breath caught—half indignation, half reluctant acknowledgment of truth. He released her wrist slowly, deliberately. “Now,” he said, offering his arm with infuriating composure, “will you allow me the honor of escorting you back to the ballroom before you cause a scandal neither of us can contain?”
Sabrina hesitated, torn between fury and frustration, but she knew a trap when she saw one—and this man would not move until she complied. With a tiny, reluctant huff, she shook her head. “No,” she told him firmly. “I will not go back to the ballroom.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” she told him. “I do not wish to and you cannot force me to do your bidding.”
Slowly, his lips tilted upward. “Perhaps not.” He leaned a little closer. “Would you like to test that theory?”
Sabrina’s mind was already racing. She had to give him the slip. Élise. French. A stranger. A secret whispered in the shadows. She could not allow this opportunity to discover the truth slip through her fingers. She had learned much but not nearly enough. That woman was the key to everything and she had to know more about her. She could not allow Leander to dictate her movements.
“There is nothing to test,” she told him, and yanked her wrist free from his grip. “I have someplace I need to be.” She met his gaze boldly. “And that place does not include you, Your Grace.”
She turned away from him and headed toward the library. She needed to think and the music of the ballroom was not going to aid her. She had a much bigger dilemma than filling her dance card. Not when her brother was entangled in something far darker than she had imagined and absolutely not when she intended to uncover every last piece of it. Leander could go to the devil. She did not need or want his interference…
Leander Ashby, the Duke of Lionston, had long ago learned that most disasters began with a woman who believed herself unnoticed. Such was the case now. He had followed Sabrina the instant she slipped from the ballroom—moving with purpose, though she undoubtedly believed her exit had gone unseen. But Leander had been watching her far too intently not to observe the moment she fled the crush of guests and the glittering chandeliers. That was the reason he had attended after all. To discover her secret and perhaps he was now about to uncover it.
He had not known she trailed her brother until she stopped abruptly and pressed herself behind a marble statue. Her pale gown blended poorly with the shadows, but it hardly mattered. Sabrina was many things—brilliant, fearless, infuriating—but subtle was not one of them.
He, on the other hand, had honed subtlety into an art.
Remaining cloaked in darkness behind a tall drapery, Leander directed his attention to the exchange unfolding between Lord Whitley and the woman he spoke with. He had called her Élise. She was exquisite in that deliberate, calculated French way—her gaze too sharp and her smiles too precise. A dangerous woman. The kind who wielded charm as a blade.
And Lord Whitley…the poor, oblivious besotted fool…was already bleeding for her.
Leander’s jaw tensed. Élise manipulated Sabrina’s brother with the ease of a master musician coaxing notes from a violin. Every touch, every lilting laugh, every seemingly innocent question—each was crafted to draw information from him. Lord Whitley, heir to one of parliaments leading lords…was eager to impress, was precisely the sort of man who would offer it willingly. He knew enough to be dangerous, and the French operative was taking advantage of his naiveté.
Leander did not yet know her orders, but he knew her type well enough. Operatives like her infiltrated, charmed, extracted… and vanished. They were exceptionally useful when employed by his side—and exceptionally troublesome when employed by the enemy. Which was why Sabrina’s presence was a bloody catastrophe waiting to happen.
If Élise sensed a watcher—if she believed her cover compromised—she might abandon Lord Whitley entirely and strike out at the nearest potential threat. She could hurt Sabrina. That was something he could not allow to happen. No, he would not permit that.
But before he could intervene, Sabrina shifted, her slippers scraping lightly against the marble floor. Not loudly. Not enough for Basil to notice. But Élise’s head tilted, feline and alert.
He had to intervene. She was too close to being discovered for his comfort. Leander stepped smoothly from the shadows, placing his hand over her wrist. Sabrina stiffened at his touch and turned toward him. At least she was out of the Frenchwoman’s view. Her eyes widened, surprise flaring, followed instantly by irritation. Of course she was irritated. Sabrina took offense at the mere suggestion that she required protection.
