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!”

For a moment, the baron said nothing, but Eva smiled at him pleasantly, utterly assured that her late husband and Chalton had spent many an hour rowing on the Cam.

“Mrs. Worthington, of course.” Chalton nodded. “Delighted you could attend.” He glanced nervously at Jack.

“I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous of me to bring along a friend,” she said, smiling. “Lord Chalton, this is Mr. John Dutton from Sydney. You’ve heard of Dutton Cattle Company, naturally.”

Jack, impassive, stuck out his hand.

“Naturally,” Chalton echoed. He shook Jack’s hand weakly, and it was like watching a terrier shake hands with a wolf. “Ah, I see that Lady Addington could use more champagne. If you’ll excuse me…”

“Your reputation for hospitality is not exaggerated,” Eva trilled. “But, if I may, before you go…”

Chalton, who had been sidling away, stopped, though he looked pained to do so. “Yes?”

“I understand that John Gilling is here tonight. My brother-in-law’s cousin is a great friend of Mr. Gilling, and I’d like to pass along Stamford’s good wishes.”

“You’ll find him in the card room,” Chalton answered, then, with a quick bow, hastened away.

It would look gauche to hurry across the ballroom immediately after their host had moved on, so Eva stood calmly fanning herself and smiling serenely at the room. From the corner of her eye, she caught Jack staring at her.

“What?”

“A damn neat trick you just played there, Mrs. Worthington.” Admiration was clear in his voice and eyes. “I knew you were sly, but I didn’t know how sly.”

Oddly, it was one of the best compliments she’d ever received. But she couldn’t revel in his praise, not while they still had a job to do.

Eva steadied her nerves. They had scaled partway up the mountain, but were far from the summit. Every step brought them closer to their goal. It also meant they had farther to fall.

“We passed the card room on the way to the ballroom,” she said.

Jack held out his arm, and she took it, enjoying the feel of iron-hard muscle beneath the expensive fabric. “Time to hunt down our prey.”


CHAPTER TEN

The card room at a Society ball seemed an incongruous place for a criminal. Overstuffed men sat in overstuffed chairs, crowded around tables as they played genteel games of whist. Some silver-haired dowagers were scattered here and there like antique pearls, content with their cards and sherry. Decades had passed since those women had taken their turns upon the dance floor, and yet nothing truly had changed save for the stiffening of their joints. Greater comfort and amusement could be found here, among women their own age and men who had no interest in flirtation.