“A courier near the river. He claims he was robbed,” his compatriot explained.
Dash’s jaw tightened. “He was meeting someone and that someone will expect this message.” He tapped his coat to make sure it remained tucked into the inner pocket of his coat. He could not make the mistake of misplacing it. “I’ll see it translated. If Bonaparte’s spies think they can operate under our noses, they will soon learn otherwise.”
The other man nodded. “I will send word if I discover anything else of note.” With no further word, he vanished back into the night leaving the man to his work.
This was what Dash excelled at. He had been a trained agent for the Crown for several years before he had to return to London and the duty that his father’s death had left at his door. He should never have been the earl. That honor was to be his older brother’s—never his. But Alfred had died a little over a year ago leaving Dash the heir. His father had begged him to return sooner, but Dash had not wanted to come home. He should have. Instead, he had remained on the continent as if he did not have any obligations at home. So, when news came that his father had died, he had regretted that decision. His father had died disappointed with Dash. That was something he would never be able to rectify. It was one of the few regrets he carried.
He slinked through the shadows and headed to his next destination. He had much to do, and it started with having the missive in his pocket both translated and decoded. Then he had a ball to attend. He wasn’t looking forward to that at all. His life was duty—unyielding and consuming. There was no space in such a life for softness. None for dreams, and certainly, none for love. Love made men reckless. It made them weak. Dash had no intention of being either.
He took care of the missive first and then hailed a hackney to take him to the ball. Luckily, he did not have to change into some outlandish attire. No one expected him to appear the dandy, and he was grateful for that. When the hackney reached the street near the Whitcombe residence he rapped the roof for the carriage to stop. When the driver did as he asked, he hopped out and tossed a coin to the man and then walked the rest of the way to the house. It did not take him long to arrive at his destination and then enter the house. He did not bother stopping long enough for anyone to announce his arrival. He preferred it that way.
Golden lamplight spilled across polished floors, strands of music from violins drifted through the air, and laughter rose in glittering waves as London’s finest gathered to see and be seen. The Whitcombe Ball was the crowning event of the spring Season—and Dash despised it. He had stopped by the warehouse where the Lion Watch was housed before making his way to the ball and wished he could have stayed there. Lionston had already left before he could tell him about the note, but he had given the missive to one of their best translators to decipher. He would return later to see what it contained. For now, he had to act the earl and be a gentleman of the ton.
He attended because his position demanded he maintain the appearance of an ordinary peer. Even spies had to dance, occasionally. He stood near a marble column, watching the swirl of gowns in silks and satins, doing his best to look merely bored rather than dangerously alert.
Then she appeared—Lady Vivy Ellsworth. The Duke of Avonridge’s eldest daughter. She entered with her mother, the duchess, and her sister, Lady Elizabeth Ellsworth. Lady Vivy’s golden-brown hair swept into an elegant knot, curls framing a face far too lovely to be real. Her blue eyes sparkled with a sincerity rare in London drawing rooms, and her laughter…soft and unstudied…carried across the ballroom like a small bell. She wore a gown of frost-kissed silver-blue silk, the color shifting softly with every turn beneath the chandeliers. The bodice was delicately embroidered with opalescent beads and silver thread, forming patterns reminiscent of unfurling ivy. Short, puffed sleeves of translucent organza brushed her shoulders, and a slender satin ribbon cinched beneath her bust, tied in a perfect bow at her spine. The skirt fell in graceful, shimmering layers that caught the candlelight like moonlit water. A scattering of silvered pearls adorned the hem, glinting with each step she took. She looked as though she had stepped out of a fairy tale—luminous, and impossible to overlook.
Dash did not move. He did not blink. He had seen her before—briefly, in passing, at some forgettable gathering, though she had not been something he could ever forget. That was a moment permanently etched in his memory. She had been a mere slip of a girl then, all bright eyes and curiosity. But tonight… Tonight she was breathtaking. Elegant, poised, radiant, and entirely unaware of the effect she had on him. He had to stay away from her lest she discover the truth. That innocent girl that had fallen at his feet all those years ago was now a woman he could become lost in if he allowed it.
Her gaze skimmed the crowd in innocent interest and for the briefest heartbeat, it landed on him. Not long enough for him to believe she would seek a conversation with him and not long enough for impropriety. But long enough for recognition to flash in her gaze along with a flicker of admiration and perhaps even wonder to cross over her face.
Dash felt it like an unexpected blow. He turned away at once. He had no business noticing Lady Vivy Ellsworth and she certainly had no business noticing him. He lived a life of intrigue and secrets. Death and danger were his closest companions. He could not allow anything soft, tender or vulnerable into his life. The likes of Lady Vivy Ellsworth would never be welcome in his life.
As the orchestra swelled and Lady Vivy smiled at something her mother whispered, an unwelcome thought slipped into his mind like a crack in stone. Perhaps weakness, once denied, had begun to take root after all. Perhaps, as much as he wanted to deny it, she had always been his weakness, and he may have unwittingly stumbled onto that weakness again. It was something he could not afford to have…
Dash forced his attention back to the room with the ruthless discipline that had kept him alive in alleys far darker than this candlelit ballroom. He was well versed in what he should do that it was a habit he no longer wished to break. He observed his surroundings and assessed any dangers, but more importantly he did his best to blend in and not be noticed by anyone. It was how he had survived so long on the continent.
A pair of matrons lingered near the refreshment table and whispered behind their fans. A gentleman in an ill-fitting coat laughed too loudly, his gaze darting more than was natural. A footman moved with a fraction too much caution as he navigated between guests. Dash catalogued each detail the way other men collected compliments.
But still his awareness kept drifting to one woman, as though pulled by a tide he had not consented to enter. Lady Vivy Ellsworth floated at the edge of a small circle, her mother’s hand resting possessively on her wrist, as if the duchess feared some eager suitor might snatch her away. Vivy listened, smiled, and offered a gentle comment that made the others laugh. Not with the practiced sharpness of the beau monde, but with something unguarded and true.
True things were dangerous, as dangerous as a well-placed lie. Both could be used in different ways. But this truth could be his undoing.
“Ravenwood.”
Dash did not startle at the sound of his voice being spoken behind him. He did not even turn his head at once. The voice belonged to a man who had known him since boyhood and they both had survived long enough as spies to learn that approaching an unknown person was never wise, even at a ball. The Duke of Lionston came to stand beside him as if it were mere happenstance. He was impeccably dressed, appeared effortlessly charming, and he looked every inch the peer of the realm. Only Dash would have noticed the slight tension at the duke’s jaw and the sharpness of his glance as it swept the room.
“You have that look,” Lionston murmured, his tone quiet to prevent anyone from eavesdropping. “The one that makes widows clutch their pearls and honest men wonder if they are about to find danger.”
Dash’s mouth twitched. “I am trying to appear bored.”
“You never learned to perfect that particular art. Boredom requires leisure.” Lionston flicked his gaze, briefly—just briefly—toward the entrance. “You were at the warehouse.” The Lion Watch had been created by the duke to thwart any treason or anything else nefarious. He would want an update on Dash’s progress on his current assignment.
“I was. Our translator has the paper.” He glanced at the duke. “You were already gone by the time I arrived.”
“And what did you learn?” Lionston asked.
“That I dislike waiting,” Dash drawled.
Lionston’s smile did not waver, but his voice lowered a fraction. “So, do I. That is why I came tonight. There is something you ought to see.”
Dash angled his head, barely. “Here?”
“In this room.” The duke slid his gaze past a knot of laughing young bucks. “On the left, near the card tables. Do you see him?”
Dash drifted his gaze in that direction without haste. A gentleman stood half-shadowed by the drapes, not conversing with anyone, and he held a glass he never drank from in his hand. His posture was too still, and his attention was too fixed on the crowd’s movements, rather than any single amusement.
“I see him,” Dash said.
