“He arrived late without any introduction.” Dash had done the same. He had not seen him as he had arrived. “And he has been watching the doors for the last quarter of an hour.”
Dash’s thoughts snapped, cold and precise. “A runner?”
“Or a handler.” Lionston’s voice remained conversational. “We are being watched.”
Dash made no movement that could be called a reaction, yet his body tightened as if he had drawn a blade. Balls were an excellent cover for treachery. Music masked footsteps and laughter disguised short, urgent exchanges. A thousand people made it easy for anyone to have anonymity.
“What would Napoleon’s man want at Whitcombe House?” Dash asked, letting the question sound like idle curiosity.
Lionston shifted his gaze again, and this time they did not go to the stranger. They went to Lady Vivy Ellsworth. Dash felt the world narrow. “No,” he said softly, before he could stop himself.
Lionston’s expression remained polite, but something sharpened beneath it. “You noticed her.”
“She is impossible not to notice,” Dash replied in a clipped tone. Then, because he refused to lie even to himself, he added, “It means nothing.”
The duke’s mouth curved upward as if amused, but his gaze was anything but. “If it means nothing, that is fortunate for you. Because Avonridge has been the subject of quiet interest in certain circles.”
Dash returned his gaze to Vivy. He was careful now as he studied her not wanting Lionston to realize just how bewitched he was with her. He watched her like a man perusing a map before battle. Vivy was speaking to her sister, her smile was soft, and her shoulders were relaxed. She looked safe. She looked…untouchable by anything uglier than gossip.
The stranger near the drapes remained motionless but his attention angled in her direction with the patience of someone waiting for the right moment. Dash’s instincts, honed by years of blood and smoke, did not whisper…they screamed at him.
“How long has he been staring at them?” Dash asked.
“Since their arrival was announced,” the duke answered.
Dash flexed his fingers, once at his side. “Someone intends to make use of her.”
Lionston flickered his gaze to Dash, quick and assessing. “Do you want me to handle it?”
Dash’s answer should have been immediate. He should remain clean and detached… A man in his position did not offer himself as a shield for a duke’s daughter. A man with secrets did not step into the path where he might corrupt someone innocent. But he had already stepped into it the moment he was her again.
“No,” Dash said, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the music. “If there is danger in this room, it is my duty to remove it.” It was his duty to protect her.
Lionston’s brow lifted slightly. “Is that your duty…or your inclination?”
Dash did not dignify the question with a response. Instead, he straightened, adjusted the cuff of his coat as though preparing to be bored in a different location, and moved. He did not go directly to the drapes. Direct paths were for men who wished to be followed. He crossed behind a group of dancers, paused to exchange a brief nod with an acquaintance he could not recall the name of, and drifted toward the card tables as though he meant to lose a fortune.
The stranger flicked his gaze toward him. Dash met that gaze with the mild, indifferent stare of a peer who had never done a dangerous thing in his life. Then he turned…smoothly, almost lazily…and angled toward the Ellsworths. Because if the enemy had chosen their target, Dash would place himself in front of it.
Lady Lavinia’s mother was speaking with Lady Whitcombe near the dais. Lady Elizabeth laughed at something a young viscount said, her cheeks pink with triumph.
Lavinia stood a half-step apart—close enough to belong, distant enough to breathe. She lifted her gaze again, as if she felt him before she saw him. Her gaze found his. This time, she did not look away at once. For a heartbeat, the room fell quiet in Dash’s mind. He saw the curve of her mouth soften, the curiosity in her expression, and the faint question she did not ask because propriety forbade it.
Something in him….something he had kept locked behind iron discipline…shifted. He bowed with perfect correctness. Nothing in the gesture was intimate or warm. Merely what courtesy demanded. Lady Lavinia’s lips parted slightly, as if surprised that he would acknowledge her at all. Then she dipped into a graceful curtsy, her lashes lowered with her composure steady.
He came to a stop at a respectful distance, addressing the duchess first, because rules existed, and breaking them drew attention. “Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head.
The Duchess of Avonridge turned, her gaze cool, appraising. “Lord Ravenwood how good to see you again. It has been some time. Why have you not paid us a call since your return?”
A greeting and a warning all at once. Dash offered a faint smile that did not reach his eyes. “Please accept my apologies for neglecting my duty to you and His Grace. Organizing the estate has taken up a substantial amount of my time and I have only just began accepting invitations.”
“His Grace would appreciate a visit,” the duchess replied, her tone measured. “He might even be able to offer you some advice with your estates.”
“Then I shall take your advice and visit him posthaste.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly at that. “See that you do.”
Dash turned his attention with practiced ease to Lady Lavinia. “Lady Lavinia.”
