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Inside, he surveyed the ballroom and spotted Lady Heath, an eccentric but pleasant older lady who would sit and talk with anyone about her dogs. He headed in her direction, needing some subterfuge.

“Good evening, Lady Heath. A pleasure to see you again.” He bowed as the lady looked blankly at him.

“Oh, yes, good evening... er...” She trailed off with an expectant look.

Harry answered it. “Wroth, madam, Henry Wroth at your service. We met at the Roxbury affair a fortnight past.”

Her smile was relieved. “Oh yes. Now I remember. You’ve an interest in greyhounds.”

Harry nodded, settling into the chair next to her. “Indeed I have, most particularly after our conversation. You contended they were superior to pointers. I’ve always preferred pointers myself.”

A gleam of near-mania appeared in Lady Heath’s eyes. “Far superior, sir, far superior. You must start with some young bitches of good blood...” One mention of greyhounds was enough to set her off for hours. Harry knew he would be free to monitor the entire party while paying minimal attention.

He watched Lord Doncaster navigate the room with aplomb, conversing with the Prime Minister and other prominent persons. Brandon had been keeping his eyes on Doncaster for nearly a month now, but as the Season began in earnest, it would also be Harry’s responsibility to know the man and his habits.

The earl appeared to be as he’d been described, a natural diplomat who managed to be agreeable to most everyone. His wife was obviously an asset, sophisticated and elegant, and a brilliant hostess, cordial to Tories and Whigs alike. Doncaster was rumored to be the new king’s preference for Prime Minister, should Liverpool step down, as many in London openly hoped would happen soon.

Harry wished Lord Wroth had been given an interest in politics. What he wouldn’t give to be a party to that conversation, to know if Doncaster would be more open to reform and progress than Liverpool...

That was what had drawn Harry to this assignment. Stafford had offered him the post and held out the promise of a political patron, should Harry wish to stand for the House of Commons. How Stafford had guessed that his ambitions and hopes lay in that direction, Harry didn’t know, but the lure was too strong to resist.

And ever since accepting, he had been surrounded by Members of Parliament, with policy and intrigue discussed almost within his earshot, but it was more maddening than anything else. He’d been explicitly told that Wroth was not to be a political creature. He couldn’t call attention to himself by spouting opinions and suggestions, and rarely had a reason to linger close enough to eavesdrop. With a silent sigh, he turned his gaze elsewhere.

Lord Crane, his other responsibility tonight, was at once harder and easier to watch. Harder, because of his prickly, impatient nature. Crane was a brilliant legal mind whose body had begun to fail, and it made him irritable and somewhat unpredictable. Easier, because Harry had already been watching Crane, in the guise of his private secretary, for a few weeks and had a reasonable sense of his habits. Through lecturing the Foreign Secretary, Crane was now expounding on something to Lord Sidmouth, hammering one fist into his palm as he spoke.

Harry watched them for a while, his erstwhile employer and his real one, and wondered what they spoke of so passionately. Perhaps it was the question of Queen Caroline, who was threatening to return to England to be crowned now that her estranged husband was King George IV. This was a particular passion of Lord Crane’s, who thought the king a fool for trying to divorce his wife, even though Crane thought the queen was a vain, shallow woman. Harry took some small amusement at Sidmouth being lectured so before moving on, reassured that Crane’s infirmity would keep him where he was.

He saw Mariah Dunmore again. He couldn’t help noticing that she spent a great deal of time in close conversation with a tall brunette. Harry wondered who she was and what the two of them talked about with such intensity. He wondered if they talked of his odd introduction to Lady Mariah. He wondered if she was offended or intrigued by his secretive manner. He wondered if she had dismissed it—and him—from her mind the instant he left.

But it wasn’t his job to know, and it was dangerous for him even to wonder, so he forced himself to look away.

He murmured some vague but encouraging reply to Lady Heath, who had paused for breath. He spied Doncaster across the dance floor, just behind his daughter. Again Harry’s eyes snagged on Lady Mariah, watching the way the candlelight gleamed on her dark hair and the way her breasts swelled against her bodice as she curtsied to her partner. She raised her face to the fellow and smiled. She was flirting with him. A challenge shone in those clear gray eyes, as if she were daring the man to be impertinent to her. Or perhaps she merely found him as interesting as she had hoped a London gentleman would be. No doubt there were several who could catch her interest if they chose to try, gentlemen of suitable rank and fortune who could speak to her openly and dance with her in front of all society. If anyone recognized her taste for a little adventure and her desire to be viewed as a woman... Harry reined in his thoughts and turned his eyes away yet again.

Doncaster was leading out his wife to join the dancers, but Lord Crane was no longer speaking to Sidmouth. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen. Instantly, Harry sprang to alertness, his muscles tensing even though he didn’t move. Where the devil was Crane?

It took him several seconds to locate the viscount. Crane’s jerking limp was distinctive, but he was moving behind a large group of people and was screened from Harry’s vision for a while. Only when he had the stooped figure firmly in sight did he relax, but only for a moment. Crane was heading for the door.

“Beg pardon, Lady Heath,” he said, cutting into her exposition on the importance of proper weaning. “I must excuse myself.” He tugged at his waistcoat and groped for his cane.

“Of course, of course! But don’t neglect the bloodlines, Lord Wroth, or you shall be very sorry. Your litters shall be no better than any mongrel litter.” She nodded decisively.

Harry made a hasty bow. “Excellent advice, madam. I shall bear it in mind.” He hobbled through the crowd as quickly as he could in his cramped shoes, keeping one eye fixed on Lord Crane. The old man was leaving at a good pace; Harry wondered what had set him off. Normally, Crane didn’t do anything quickly.

Still, he wasn’t terribly sorry. Once he saw Crane safely through his own front door, he would be free to shed the trappings of Lord Wroth and go to bed. Doncaster would still be under Brandon’s watchful eye. His own work tonight was almost done.

A footman was bringing Crane his hat and cloak in the hall. Harry motioned to another servant to fetch his things, but Crane turned toward the door, obligingly held open by yet another footman. Knowing all too well what a clean target Crane’s thin figure would make on the broad front steps, Harry snapped sharply at the servant to hurry. When the man finally appeared with his hat, he had to remind himself not to snatch it away and race after Crane. He paused in the doorway and searched the street until he located the viscount.

Crane had not waited for his driver to draw near. He was walking to his carriage, some ways down the street. Harry hurried down the steps, gritting his teeth with each step. Damned shoes, he thought, but pushed onward. Crane was only a few yards ahead of him now, almost to his carriage. Crane’s footman was opening the door, setting the step in place, and Harry’s heart started to slow to a more regular rhythm.

Then a man emerged from a crowd of servants nearby, and the back of Harry’s neck prickled. The coachmen and footmen of the guests were wont to wait about outside a ball, enjoying a mug of ale and dancing to the music that drifted through the open windows, forming a crowd that could all too easily conceal an assailant, an assassin, a common thief with a knife. Harry couldn’t tell which class this fellow belonged to, but it didn’t matter. He quickened his step, glancing around for any possible accomplices lurking nearby, and closed his hand around the hilt of the dagger under his coat.

The man lurched toward Crane, groping for his shoulder and almost sending the old man off his feet. Crane’s voice rose in indignation as he struggled under the man’s hold. Harry gripped his walking cane and measured the remaining distance. Even now he was not supposed to reveal himself to Crane, so this had to be done quickly.

He wedged the end of his cane between the man’s boots and twisted, affecting a stumbling sidestep at the same moment. With a yelp the man tripped and sprawled on his back, then let out a feeble groan but didn’t move.

“Oh dear,” said Harry in Wroth’s voice. He stooped over the felled man to hide his face, his hand still on his dagger. “My apologies, sir. The cobbles are slippery tonight.”

Crane’s coachman had come running and was hovering beside his employer. “Are you injured, my lord?”