Page 6

Wroth chuckled, a hoarse, rusty sound. “And my great pleasure it is, too. But I hope you’ve not served a surfeit of punch! It tends to go to the young men’s heads, it does.”

“Indeed not,” she replied smoothly. “I quite agree with you, sir.”

He nodded his shaggy gray head. “Well done, madam, well done.”

He bowed again and hobbled away, but slowly enough to overhear the quiet exchange behind him.

“Wroth?” murmured the earl. “I thought that title died out.”

“Apparently they found an heir,” replied his wife. “A distant cousin, I believe, with some family connection to Lord Sidmouth.”

“Ah.” This satisfied the question for Doncaster. He greeted his next guest with the same cordial manner as he’d shown the unknown Lord Wroth. Lady Doncaster followed suit, the curious old man dismissed from her mind as well.

The man called Lord Wroth listened with satisfaction, and went on his way. They would hardly be so calm if they knew they had just welcomed a common spy named Harry Sinclair, in the completely fabricated guise of a recently discovered Lord Wroth, into their ballroom.

Then again, if he did his job properly, they’d never suspect anything like that.

The ballroom was a sight to behold. Long swaths of pale green silk hung from the walls, glowing in the light of dozens of fine wax candles augmenting the gas lamps. Harry had been to balls before but never seen anything quite like this. There were flowers everywhere, all white; everything in the room was either green or white, he noted, scanning the room over his spectacles. It must have cost a bloody fortune just to decorate for an evening’s entertainment.

His gaze flitted across the three sets of French windows standing open onto a wide terrace, just visible beyond the glow of the ballroom. Beyond that, he knew, lay a large garden with several gates in the surrounding wall. Guests were strolling in and out of the French windows, for it was a mild evening and the mass of guests made it very warm inside. It would be entirely possible for someone to slip around to the back of the house, go through the garden, and in the terrace doors. There was no attempt to secure the house at all. Eyebrows lowered, he trudged on.

When he had gone halfway around the room, he plopped down into a chair too near the musicians for anyone to sit and converse. He pulled out his handkerchief again and mopped his face. Within moments a footman stopped beside him. “May I fetch you a drink, sir?”

“Aye,” growled Harry. “None of that pissy champagne. Some good port.”

The footman bowed his head. “Yes, sir.” He hurried away and returned in a few minutes with a glass. As he offered the tray, he tilted it too much and sent a wave of plum-colored port sloshing onto Lord Wroth’s yellowed cuff.

“Oh, you clumsy lummox,” Harry grumbled.

The servant stepped nearer, leaning solicitously forward until his powdered wig almost brushed Harry’s cheek. “Beg pardon, sir, I do apologize.” He whisked out a cloth and dabbed at the spilled wine. “Nice to see you this evening,” he murmured. “A bit late, of course.”

Harry scowled. “Be more careful, sirrah,” he said peevishly. “That’s a waste of fine wine, and my linen also.” Then he added in a much quieter tone, dabbing at his upper lip with the handkerchief, “It takes an eternity to get this bloody suit on, you know. Care to switch jobs? I’ll give you the shoes this instant.”

The footman’s lips twitched as he rubbed a little harder at the stain. “Not at present, no. You look better gray and humped, actually.” His lips barely moved as he spoke. “All quiet here tonight.”

“That’s good to hear.” Harry leaned back, scanning the room over the other man’s bent head. Doncaster was still greeting guests, his dark head visible above the crowd. After a moment Harry located Lord Crane, a thin stooped figure who stood across the room opposite the musicians. He was talking to Lord Castlereagh, the foreign secretary, accenting his remarks with emphatic slashes of one hand. Whatever they were talking about, Castlereagh was clearly getting the sharp edge of Crane’s temper.

Harry glanced down at the man dabbing at his cuff. Alec Brandon would make a decent servant, if he ever gave up spying. He considered telling Brandon so, after the snide remark about his tardiness. He’d done well to make it here at this hour, given the constraints of old Wroth’s clothing. The coat was too tight in the sleeves and too loose in the shoulders, having been let out in back to accommodate the thick padding that gave Wroth a humped back. The shoes were too small and pinched his feet, forcing him to shuffle along with a genuinely grim expression, as any elderly man with gout might. It was a good disguise, and he was rather brilliant in it if he did say so himself, but it was bloody uncomfortable.

“Spill a little more next time, would you?” he muttered as Brandon continued working. “Go to, man, just fetch another glass,” he said loudly, pulling free. “I’m not a damned teapot to be polished all night long.”

Brandon’s eyes flashed but he merely bowed. “Yes, sir.”

Harry half closed his eyes as he surveyed the room again. There were three hundred of the most prominent people in London here tonight, and the doors stood open wide enough for a dozen radicals to storm in with powder kegs under their arms and blow the whole lot to bits. That would certainly win him no favors, if it were to happen under his nose. Harry stifled his impatience, reminding himself he was only strictly responsible for the safety of two men present.

Lord Doncaster was moving into the room, his countess on his arm. Lord Crane was still haranguing Castlereagh. All looked calm and normal, at least so far as Harry saw. He reached for his cane, prepared to circle the room to keep them both in sight.

And then he saw her.

“Your wine, sir. I do beg your pardon once more—” Brandon’s voice died abruptly. Harry tore his eyes off the woman and snatched the glass from his fellow agent’s hand, but the damage had been done.

“Have you lost your mind?” Brandon hissed between his teeth. “She’s not for you.”

“Of course not.” Harry raised his eyebrows insolently and tossed back a gulp of wine. He could still see her from the corner of his eye, dancing with a scarlet-coated officer.

“Remember it,” Brandon was saying in his ear. “Doncaster’s daughter is the prize of the season. You wouldn’t be good enough to wipe her shoes even if you were as you appear, Lord Wroth.”

Doncaster’s daughter. That would be Lady Mariah Dunmore, only child of the wealthy and influential earl. Of all the females to catch his eye... She was so far above his reach it was somewhat surprising lightning hadn’t smote him from on high just for looking at her. Harry said nothing.