Graham turned.
A man stood in the passage. No mask, coat impeccable, smile familiar.
Lord Ashdown.
The forget-me-not ring gleamed when he lifted his hand in polite greeting. “Lord Rathbourne,” Ashdown said warmly, as if they were merely discussing wine. “I wondered if you might stray from the dance floor.”
Graham did not move. “You are far from the main room.”
“I like to know where the exits are,” Ashdown replied, eyes bright with false charm. “One never knows when an evening will turn unpleasant.”
Graham’s pulse went cold.
“You are hunting the courier,” Ashdown said lightly. “Or perhaps you’re hunting the lady. Hard to tell, with men like you. So many appetites.”
Graham peered at Ashdown. “Where is he?” He demanded.
Ashdown’s smile deepened. “Gone. You were meant to chase. It is what makes you predictable.”
Graham didn’t take the bait. “And Eleanor?”
Ashdown’s gaze sharpened at the name. “Safe. For now. Mordaunt is fond of her. She enjoys clever toys.”
The insult lit a clean rage behind Graham’s ribs, and he stepped forward. Grip tightening around his knife.
Ashdown’s hand moved—too fast for a gentleman, too practiced.
Graham caught the motion and struck first.
He drove Ashdown back into the wall, forearm to throat, the knife pressing close enough to promise.
Ashdown’s breath hitched, but he still smiled. “Violent,” he managed. “How very… dockside of you.”
Graham leaned in. “If you touch her, I will forget every law I’ve ever used to keep myself human.”
Ashdown’s eyes gleamed. “You already have.”
Voices approached, footsteps in the corridor, and the rustle of livery neared.
Ashdown’s smile widened. “Careful, Rathbourne. Men are watching.”
Graham released him and stepped back just as a footman rounded the corner.
Ashdown smoothed his cravat as though nothing had happened. “Ah,” he said pleasantly to the footman. “Lord Sinclair is looking for Miss Hargrove. Lady Mordaunt has taken her to the small salon behind the lilies.”
Graham’s blood turned to ice. He did not run. He moved with speed disguised as composure.
He found Eleanor exactly where Ashdown had indicated. Behind a screen of cut crystal and damp-smelling lilies, Lady Mordaunt’s hand resting lightly at Eleanor’s wrist as if in affection.
Eleanor’s smile was poised, but her eyes were not.
“Lord Rathbourne,” Mordaunt said sweetly. “You look as though you have been enjoying yourself.”
Graham’s gaze flicked to Eleanor’s reticule.
Still closed. Still intact. Good.
“Lady Mordaunt,” he said, bowing just enough to satisfy the room, “forgive me. Miss Hargrove and I must leave. A family matter.”
