Simon held up a printed card. “Present this invitation to the butler, and you’ll be permitted entry. Be very careful not to lose it.”
Eva took the card and examined it. “This must be a valuable commodity. How did you obtain it?”
“It’s the art that appears not to be art,” the blond man answered. “
Sprezzatura,
the Italians call it.”
Marco grimaced. “Your pronunciation is abominable.” He repeated the Italian word, and even Jack had to admit it sounded like music when spoken by Marco.
“That card might get you in the door,” Simon counseled, “but once you’re inside, the rest is up to you.” He looked at Jack pointedly. “Genteel behavior is essential.”
For all Simon’s helping Jack with the fitting, it was plain that he still didn’t trust Jack. Suited him just fine. He didn’t trust Simon, either.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Here I was planning on having a belching contest in the middle of the dance floor.”
“Next time,” Eva said. She looked at the clock, and again Jack was struck by the slim curve of her throat. He hadn’t missed the swells of her breasts, either, the tops just visible at the dipping neckline of her gown. Nice handfuls they’d be, soft and full. He ached to touch them, to hold them, to tease her nipples into tight beads.
Damn it. At this rate, he’d be strutting around the ball with a cockstand all night. He needed to get control of himself and his thoughts.
“It’s just nine now,” she said. “The dancing’s already begun, which means it’s the perfect time for us to arrive.”
He was starting to know the ways of polite society, and stuck out his arm for Eva before she had to ask. What was it the gentry said? Ah, that’s right. “Shall we, my lady?”
“Oh, we shall.” She rested her hand on his arm, and smiled up at him. He felt dizzy. “Time to infiltrate the serpent’s nest.”
* * *
Eva took one step. Then another. Slowly, slowly, she and Jack ascended the stairs outside Lord Chalton’s ball. They were sandwiched between guests waiting to present their invitations to the butler. Music and light spilled out the door, combining with the chiming of flutes of champagne and equally bubbling conversation. Within minutes, she would show the butler her invitation and come up with identities for herself and Jack. She’d worked something out earlier in the day, and rehearsed it to herself in the carriage ride over, but she hoped her cover story held beneath the butler’s imperious stare. The upper servant could have her and Jack tossed out onto the curb if he so desired, invitation or no invitation.
Her pulse raced and her palms dampened her gloves as she and Jack went up another step. The woman standing in front of them continued throwing glances over her shoulder, the plumes in her hair bobbing with each movement. Compared to the splendor of the woman’s Ottoman silk and velvet gown, Eva’s ensemble was almost austere, and she stiffened beneath her regard. But it wasn’t Eva’s simple gown that kept drawing the woman’s gaze. It was Jack.
Had the plumed woman’s escort known the way she looked at Jack, he would have been mortified, if not livid. Eva herself wanted to throw her gloved fist into the woman’s face.
Yet she couldn’t blame the plumed lady’s interest. In his evening finery, Jack looked … dangerous. The severe black-and-white of his clothing, the excellent cut of his coat across his wide shoulders, and the fit of his trousers over his long, muscled legs—all of it emphasized how very wild he truly was. Evening clothes only highlighted the difference between him and all the other elegantly attired men waiting to attend the ball.
His dark hair had been tamed and slicked back, revealing the hard contours of his face—square jaw, crooked nose attesting to his life as a fighter, heavy brow. Though his lips were somewhat thin, their curves hinted at carnality.
A rough man in evening dress. She’d never seen anything more arousing.
Keep alert,
she reminded herself sharply. They were here for the mission.
Difficult to remember that when Jack kept looking at her with blatant hunger. She didn’t feel quite so plain in her simple gown when he did that.
At last, they reached the top of the stairs. The butler held out his hand, and Eva gave him the invitation.
“Your name, madam?”
Monarchs would cower at the butler’s haughty tone.
Summoning her own hauteur, she sniffed. “Mrs. Eloise Worthington, of the Northumberland Worthingtons.”
The butler glanced at Jack, who glowered back.
“And this is Mr. John Dutton,” Eva said. “The cattle magnate from Australia.”
The butler studied him. Beneath her hand, Jack’s muscles tensed as if preparing to knock the butler flat. Gently, she squeezed his arm in silent communication. They’d agreed ahead of time that he would speak as little as possible. Since he seemed comfortable with silence, he’d agreed, but she hadn’t extracted a promise from him not to hit someone.
After an excruciating pause, the butler waved toward the staircase behind him. “Supper has already been served. Dancing is in the ballroom at the top of the stairs. Good evening.”
She and Jack moved on. They crossed the threshold and stood in the vaulted foyer, where footmen relieved Jack of his coat and hat and took Eva’s wrap.
She sent Jack a meaningful glance, which he returned. They’d done it. Gotten past the first obstacle. But they hadn’t crossed the Rubicon.
He offered her his arm again, and together they ascended the curving stairs that led to the ballroom.
“Why Australia?” he said in a low voice.
“Much of that country was settled by transported convicts.” She shrugged. “It would stand to reason that someone of your physique might be their descendant.”
“If I have to talk to someone,” he pointed out, “they’ll know I’m English.”
“Most of these people have as much experience with Australia as they do Bethnal Green.”
“None,” he said.
“Exactly.” They reached the landing, and followed the trail of guests and music toward a set of wide double doors that stood open. In wordless understanding, they both paused and took a breath. Then stepped into the ballroom.
“Bloody buggering hell,” Jack breathed.
“Agreed,” Eva murmured.
While not as large as the Beckwiths’ ballroom, the chamber was still impressive in its size. White and gilt columns rose up toward a coved, equally gilded ceiling, from which hung crystal chandeliers that hurt the eye with their brilliance. The parquetry floor shone like a mirror, reflecting back the forms of men and women in their evening best. Liveried footmen bearing trays of champagne stood against the walls, as much part of the furniture as the upholstered chairs placed for wallflowers and dowagers.
Everywhere was a sea of black wool, lustrous silks, and jewelry that twinkled like the unfeeling stars. Some men wore military uniforms, drawing young girls in white like a plate of cakes. Conversation draped over the chamber. Long patrician vowels mixed with the gliding strings provided by the orchestra. A screen of potted palms had been placed at the farthest end of the chamber, discreetly concealing the musicians.
“Smell that?” Eva drew a deep breath, and Jack did the same.
“Beeswax. Sparkling wine.” He breathed in again. “Soap and starch.”
“Privilege.”
When a footman passed by with his tray of champagne, Jack grabbed two glasses. Despite his genteel gloves, the flutes looked tiny and fragile in his hands.
She sipped at her champagne and was relieved to see that Jack did the same rather than gulp it down.
“I don’t see Gilling,” she said. She’d studied a picture of him earlier to familiarize herself with his appearance. “Let’s take a turn around the room.”
They moved through the guests milling at the edges of the chamber. She made certain to nod regally at those they passed, trying to convey with only her bearing that she belonged here as much as anyone. It was like wearing someone else’s face, someone else’s body. Yet she must have been reasonably successful, for no one sneered at her, and she even received some polite nods in return. Murmurs of speculation trailed after her and Jack. In the narrowly defined world of the elite, new faces were bound to incite interest.
She saw more than a few ladies gazing at Jack avidly. Her response was an icy stare. But why should the other women’s interest bother her? She’d no claim on him. Not in the slightest. Yet it sparked a cold fury when a particularly pretty brunette in rose-hued taffeta gave Jack a look of blatant invitation.
To his credit, his gaze never lingered anywhere. Not on any thing or person. He was at all times watchful, assessing. And when a gentleman or two spent a little longer gazing at her, Jack’s glower had the men hurriedly looking away.
“What’s going on between Lazarus and Harriet?” Jack asked abruptly. “The two of ’em snipe at each other regular as the bells of St. Paul’s.”
She chuckled softly. “It’s obvious to everyone that they fancy each other, but they’re both too bullheaded to admit it.”
“Where’s the harm in it?”
“It’s not a good idea for Nemesis operatives to become romantically involved. But I also believe they’re afraid.”
“On account of that combat training you receive.”
She pursed her lips. “If either Harriet or Lazarus took the initiative and declared themselves, and was rejected … I don’t think either wants to risk that pain. So they just taunt each other and amuse the dickens out of the rest of us.”
Jack was silent for a while, but then said, “If they want each other, then to hell with the rules and to hell with getting hurt.”
She felt her brows rise. “Do you really believe that?”
He shrugged. “Life’s got a habit of slipping through your fingers, slippery as an eel, and leaving you with nothing. Maybe if we’re offered a chance at something good, we should grab it while we can.”
Unsure how to respond, she sipped at her champagne. Was he referring just to Harriet and Lazarus, or something more?
Damn it, I can’t think about that now.
“Still no sign of Gilling,” she said quietly.
“If he scuttles around the edge of the upper crust,” Jack answered, “he’ll be here. We can wait him out.”
They continued to stroll leisurely at the perimeter of the ball, watching the highest echelons of British society in the rituals of their arcane culture.
“That woman,” she murmured, “over by the punchbowl. The one in the diamonds and green satin. She’s paid off a blackmailer three times so no one finds out about the son she had before she was married.”
“Bloke standing next to the third window,” Jack said. “With the belly and bushy sideburns, looking snobbish.”
“Sir Denholm Braunton.” A baronet, she recalled, known for his particular hatred of policy intending to help the poor.
“He pays a whore twenty pounds to whip him. Or he did five years ago,” Jack added. “Maybe now the price has gone up to thirty pounds.”
She smiled darkly over the rim of her glass. “Secrets. Everyone here has them. From the blushing debutante to the venerated patriarch.” There were sexual peccadilloes, financial misdeeds, addictions, thefts.
He snorted. “Wouldn’t know it just to look at ’em. They swan around as if gold comes out their noses when they sneeze.”
They both stopped and faced the dance floor, where couples decorously spun.
“When I used to solicit donations with my parents,” she said, watching the dancers, “I’d suspected that there was another face to Society. Then I joined Nemesis, and I learned that Society has many faces. None of them real.”
“But people like us,” Jack said, “we know the truth. Who they really are.”
“They aren’t
all
bad,” she noted. “Only fallible. Like any human.”
“Fallible?”
“Capable of making mistakes.”
His expression darkened. “Aye. God knows I’ve made plenty of those.”
The opening strains of a waltz drifted out across the ballroom. Couples took their places upon the floor. Once, waltzing had been considered scandalous, something only for fast women and men of questionable morals, but now spotless debutantes clasped the hands and shoulders of irreproachable young bachelors as approving parents looked on. The waltz began, and the couples started their turns across the floor.
The sight, Eva had to admit to herself, was a pretty one, a whirl of pale silk and dark evening clothes. Dancing was part of an aristocrat’s education, and everyone moved with precision through the ballroom like an intricate mechanical device. Ladies both young and not so young beamed up at the faces of their partners, while the men were afforded the opportunity not only to put their hands upon a woman’s back, but to converse with her with a small degree of privacy. The perfect medium for courtship or flirtation.
As the couples spun by, Jack said, “The dancing we did in Bethnal Green was a bit more rowdy.”
“I can teach you later.” The moment the words left her mouth, she realized that she’d actually enjoy showing Jack how to waltz. “You’re probably a natural.” And he would be, too. Though he was large, he moved with uncommon agility.
“If it means I get to look down the front of your dress,” he said, “then I’m for it.”
“Poetry, Jack.” She affected a sigh. “Pure poetry.”
His mouth formed a hard line. “Don’t know how to say pretty, fawning words,” he said gruffly. “All I know is that I like looking at you.”
Heat fanned across her cheeks. Such simple words, given in a surly tone, yet they moved her, far more than she would have expected.
As she struggled to think of some response, a middle-aged man with a sash adorned with medals and considerable white eyebrows approached them. He looked faintly puzzled at their appearance, as well he should. He was the host of the ball.
“Lord Chalton,” Eva said, sinking into a curtsy, then offering the baron her hand. “Such an honor to receive your invitation.”
He took it and bowed, though he still looked baffled. “The honor’s mine, er…”
Eva laughed as though he were making a joke, then her laugh trickled away as if realizing that he wasn’t joking. “Mrs. Worthington,” she supplied. “Eloise Worthington. From Alnwick. Lawrence Worthington’s widow. He used to speak so fondly of you and your days together at Cambridge, winning blades together in the college boat club. Surely you haven’t forgotten!”