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“You must have another.”

“Aye, but Greaves’ll dock my pay if I lose this one,” he snapped back. “Have a heart, Poll.”

“Ooh!” Impatiently she tossed aside some petticoats and stockings. She could hear the clock ticking, and every second sounded like a warning note. Cook liked Tom, but she would only forgive so much, if Polly didn’t return. Madame might be a demanding mistress, but she paid well, and Polly wasn’t about to lose her post over any man, not even Tom.

“I can’t find it. I’ll be missed, I can’t stay to look.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” he said.

His flat tone prodded her temper, but he was still bent over, and she couldn’t help eyeing his backside. “Here, Tommy, I can’t help it. Have a look yourself—it can’t have gone far—and sneak back out when you’re done. But don’t let Madame catch you, or I’ll get the sack, and then you’d have to support me.” She flashed him a coy smile and a wink as she said it, to indicate she was teasing—somewhat.

It worked. Tom’s mouth curved wickedly. “You’re a good one, Polly.”

She giggled and hurried off, already imagining it.

* * *

In the dressing room, Tom remained crouched beside the chaise until her footsteps died away completely. Then he got to his feet, crossed to the door she had exited, and turned the key in the lock before darting to the other door, to Madame’s bedchamber. He pressed one ear to the panel for a moment, then eased it open.

There was a lamp burning, so he saw at once the room was deserted. Silently he went in, closing the dressing room door with a soft click.

It was an extravagantly luxurious room. He spared it barely a moment’s inspection. He went to the writing desk by the window and slid open each drawer in succession, sifting quickly and quietly through the contents. He examined some items for a few moments, but returned everything to its place. He ran his hands under the bed, behind the headboard, and even under the mattress.

At the chest opposite the bed he pulled open each drawer, his hands skimming through the unmentionables they contained, disturbing each item just enough to ascertain its ordinary nature. When he had rifled the entire chest, he slid the last drawer quietly home, his brow creased.

He stood in the center of the room, hands on hips, thinking. The clock ticked remorselessly onward. With a thought he went to the fireplace and examined it, but no secret compartment opened under his questing hands. He frowned, scanning the room. Where? He didn’t have time...

And then he saw the jewel case, left on the table. It was too obvious... and yet... He crossed the room and flipped open the lid. Inside lay a stunning emerald and diamond necklace with matching ear bobs, on a bed of pale green silk. Somebody important at the government, indeed. He scooped out the jewels and lifted the silk, and then he let out a breath of relief—and triumph.

He didn’t read the whole of the cramped writing covering the slip of paper, just a few words to assure himself this was his object. He took care to replace the silk and the jewelry in the same arrangement as before, and left the case on the table. Everything was exactly as he had found it, he assured himself before he slipped silently back into the dressing room and began to strip.

Off came his long footman’s coat, with the more elegant evening coat concealed beneath it, the tails pinned up at the shoulders. Keeping one eye on the door, he pulled off his wig and swiftly unbuttoned the old-fashioned waistcoat and tossed it aside, revealing another, far more fashionable short waistcoat. He slipped the buckles off his shoes and retied his footman’s stock into a simple but fashionable cravat. From one pocket he pulled a small piece of oilcloth, which held a bit of pomade darkened with boot blacking. He rubbed the pomade between his fingers, then ran his hands through his hair, twisting the front into a wild mass of waves and smoothing down the back.

He paused a moment to study his work in Madame’s looking glass as he shrugged on the evening jacket, tails unpinned. Rather smart, he thought with a smirk as he flicked one of his new curls to the side. In two minutes he’d banished all traces of footman and become a modern young gentleman of the ton, just like any of the young bucks singing with Madame downstairs.

Now, though, he had to hurry. He bundled up the discarded footman’s livery, including the queue wig and the supposedly missing gloves, knotting the sleeves around it. He opened the window, taking a cautious glance out into the darkness below. The room overlooked the small back garden, near the gate into Greaves’s garden, and at this time of night it was dark and deserted. He heaved the footman’s clothing toward the gate and had the window closed again almost before it landed.

Checking once more to make certain the stolen paper was safe in his waistcoat pocket, he crossed the room and cracked open the door. A maid was hurrying toward the servants’ stair, away from him. He watched her disappear around the corner before he stepped into the corridor. Tugging on a pair of evening gloves, he strolled leisurely toward the stairs and down to the party.

The parlor was a truly impressive crush, guests spilling out into the hall and into the dining room. Someone was still playing the pianoforte very badly, and several people were singing. He wound his way through the crowd, nodding politely to anyone who looked his way.

“Ponsonby!” A drunken fellow stumbled into him, slinging one arm around Tom’s neck. “By Jove, good man, I thought thought you’d gone. Fled. To Devonshire?”

“Devonshire?” Tom drawled without blinking an eye. “Never. You’re thinking of Somerset, of course.”

The other man blinked, his eyes bloodshot and puzzled in his flushed round face. “Not Somerset. You went to Devonshire.”

Tom scoffed. “I did not. There’s nothing to do in Devonshire! Somerset, old man. Somerset.”

He blinked owlishly. “But... I was certain...”

“Well, well, honest mistake. Happens to all of us from time to time.”

“Right...” The man belched a blast of gin vapor. “Apologies...”

“Of course.” Tom deftly stepped out from under the arm still clinging to his shoulders. “Won’t mention it again. Have you seen Carstairs?”

“Carstairs?” His companion blinked again. “No, can’t say I have. I say, are you sure it wasn’t Devonshire?”