Her choice. He was making it clear that he would follow her lead in this. His deferring to her because of her history with Harlowe — the fact that he did not tell her what she should do — made her love him all the more.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure what the right course of action would be in this instance. “I don’t know. He and I agreed on a truce of sorts the last time we spoke. We’ll keep each other’s secrets as long as we don’t betray each other. The consequences won’t be pleasant if either of us breaks that promise.”
“So then…?”
She considered for a moment while he led her in between two other couples. “It might be best to ignore his presence.”
“There’s a chance he’ll think you a coward, which isn’t something I imagine you want. Is it?”
“No. Never.” She swallowed then admitted. “He looked straight at me so he knows I saw him. Perhaps we ought to go greet him. For pretense, if nothing else.”
The music slowed and gradually faded, bringing the dance to a close. Adrian bowed and Samantha curtseyed. Together, arm in arm, they then went in search of the man who’d turned her into a lethal government operative. A man whose willingness to sacrifice everything to acquire his goal, including her innocence, had pushed her into marrying Adrian.
A happy outcome for which she would always be grateful, no matter the trials she’d had to face at the start of her marriage.
The woman stepped through the foliage and steadied her balance to keep the drinks she carried upon a tray from falling. Her sharp gaze instantly found the man who reclined on the chaise lounge.
Keith Orwell.
He shot to his feet when he saw her, confusion tightening his expression.
How easy it had been to lure him here. The way in which to do so had started to form when she’d noted his interest in Lady Edwina. Foolish man, to think he stood a chance with a duke’s sister.
Thankfully, this worked to the woman’s advantage. Honestly, it seemed ridiculous that she would succeed at getting him alone at a ball of all places when all her previous attempts had failed. Every time she’d followed him with the hope of completing her task, he’d been accompanied by someone. Which was why this moment mattered so greatly. She had to make good use of it.
“I was asked to tell you that the lady you’re waiting for has been delayed,” she said, and took a step closer. She’d met Orwell once before, a long time ago, but she’d known he had no memory of her the moment she handed him the fake message from Lady Edwina.
Tilting her head, the woman made a mental note to search Orwell’s pockets for that message later, before she left the conservatory. There was no need to drag Lady Edwina farther into this mess by tying her name to what came next.
“Thank you for letting me know.” Orwell looked like he was preparing to resume his seat.
The woman moved closer and watched him pause. “Unfortunately you missed your host’s toast, sir. The Duke of Moorland wanted all his guests to enjoy this particular Veuve Clicquot vintage in his wife’s honor.”
She waited for his attention to fall on her tray, then asked, “Perhaps you’d like a glass now?”
Orwell hesitated, then nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”
Dipping her chin, she acknowledged his comment, then crossed to where he stood and allowed him to select the glass of his choosing. Not that it mattered. All would have the same effect. She’d made certain of it, just like she’d ensured that a knife had been carefully tucked away beneath the seat cushions on one of the nearby armchairs.
Not for the purpose of killing this time, but rather to leave a mark while further confusing those who sought to solve the case. The cravat and the torn piece of silk she’d left behind in the carriage had served a similar purpose. She’d acquired the swatch from a milliner’s shop on Bond Street. The idea was for it to suggest the woman who’d been with Stewart Warren that night had funds.
There was no need for such a thing this evening. The slash across Orwell’s neck, his cravat, and the shilling would all ensure Bow Street knew he’d been killed by the same person. While making them wonder what all of it meant.
Nothing.
Only the shilling tucked into her bodice mattered.
She watched Orwell drink his champagne without an ounce of sympathy or regret. Actions had consequences and it was time for Orwell to pay.
So she let out a slow, satisfied breath when his eyes widened.
He reached for her but she made no effort to help.
Instead, she raised her chin and waited.
Until the glass he’d been holding slipped from his grasp and shattered.
Samantha scanned the crowded ballroom and directed Adrian sideways when she saw they were headed in Lady Edwina’s direction. In response to Adrian’s questioning look she said, “The woman over there — the one wearing the green gown — is Wrengate’s sister.”
