There was a brief clasp of hands, a murmur of apology, a smile too polite.
Graham saw the transfer. Eleanor’s fingers closed, then the token vanished into her reticule. She didn’t look back, but Graham knew she was counting seconds.
He strode casually across the room, fighting the urge to run, and intercepted her at the balcony. For a moment they stood with their backs to the city, looking down on the glittering predators below. Fog beaded on the stone and tasted of coal smoke and rain.
“I have it,” Eleanor murmured.
Graham nodded. “Anyone suspect?”
“I would wager, only the ones who were paid to,” she replied, offering a bright, triumphant smile. “Mordaunt is coming.”
Graham followed her gaze.
Lady Mordaunt had left her circle and was ascending the stairs, flanked by two loyal sycophants. She moved as if she meant to be seen doing it.
Graham’s hand drifted toward his coat.
Eleanor caught his wrist.
The touch was brief, through glove and cuff, yet it went straight through him, an aftershock from last night’s lovemaking.
“Let her come,” Eleanor said. “That was always the plan.”
His jaw flexed, but he held.
Lady Mordaunt swept onto the balcony and paused, reorienting herself so the light caught her to advantage. Her mask amplified her eyes, bright, assessing.
“Lord Rathbourne,” she purred. “Miss Hargrove. I am so pleased you could attend my little soirée.”
“The pleasure is ours,” Eleanor replied, every inch the society lady.
Mordaunt’s gaze slid to Eleanor’s reticule. “One hates to see a young lady taken advantage of by so many eager men. Allow me to guide you through the remainder of the evening.”
“Only if you promise to introduce me to the most interesting among us,” Eleanor said.
Mordaunt’s smile did not break, but a fine tension showed at the corner of her mouth. Her gaze shifted to Graham. “And you, Lord Sinclair…will you keep the wolves from our door?”
“It is, after all, my specialty,” Graham said, ice in his tone.
For a moment, the three of them stood in perfect stillness, each calculating the next move.
Then Mordaunt’s laughter lifted, light as lace. “Come, my dear. There are so few who understand the necessity of good company.” She offered her arm.
Eleanor spared Graham a single glance, something softer than was proper, and let herself be swept away.
Graham remained on the balcony, watching the room fracture and recombine below. He did not like leaving her with Mordaunt. But he liked it less that the courier had not left. A black domino mask drifted toward the servants’ corridor—too quickly, too cleanly.
Graham followed. He slipped from the balcony and down the stairs, melting into the crowd with practiced ease. By the time he reached the side passage, the domino mask had vanished.
A door swung closed at the far end.
Graham found the knife at his hip, his fingers closing around the hilt. He opened the door and stepped into a servants’ corridor lit by a single lamp.
Empty.
Too empty.
A footstep sounded behind him, soft and controlled.
