The Trouble With Moonlight (30 page)

“Wait till Marcus sees me.” Portia twirled in the hallway. “He won’t think I’m so young anymore.”

Indeed he wouldn’t! Lusinda had to admit Portia looked more mature than her seventeen years. She doubted even Ramsden could tell them apart from a distance.

Eugenia appeared behind Portia. “Shouldn’t you be leaving? You don’t want to be late with so many important things to accomplish. Did you check the sky?”

With all the preparations, Lusinda had forgotten to spare a glance toward the window.

“It’s cleared considerably,” James answered for her. Surprised, Lusinda turned his way. He had seemed so nonchalant this afternoon. “There’re quite a few drifting clouds, but rather lengthy stretches of clear sky in between.”

She caught his gaze for an extended moment, noting a mild irritation that teased the corners of his eyes. Jealousy! The realization sent an unexpected jolt through her. In spite of his earlier carefree attitude, he accepted that she’d be naked during those lengthy stretches of clear moonlight but was jealous of people she might possibly encounter in her altered state. It was a novel concept that sent a pleasant tingle through her rib cage. However, lengthy stretches of moonlight would provide a better chance of success. James would have to adjust.

Lusinda strode forward and took Eugenia’s hands in hers. “Thank you for helping Portia and me to get ready. Should we drop you back at the town house on our way?”

“Yes, that might be best, though I had hoped to share a word or two with your man, sir.” She turned to Locke.

“Pickering?” His eyes widened.

“He’d be the one. Don’t worry, sir. I’ll be easy on him.”

“I’d be pleased to oblige, madam, but I’d like to have a word or two with him myself. I haven’t seen the bloke all day.” He pulled at the sleeves of his jacket. “Most inconvenient time for an unexplained absence.”

Even without assistance, James looked breathtaking, Lusinda thought, commanding in appearance and demeanor. To think she would be the lucky woman on his arm at the ball. Yes, they must manage one dance. One dance would yield a lifetime of memories. Her heart twisted. It would have to.

THERE WAS LITTLE CONVERSATION IN LOCKE’S brougham as all three of the participants silently contemplated their role in the mission ahead. Still, James and Lusinda managed to exchange several glances that spoke volumes regarding concern for the other’s safety.

Portia departed first with instructions to wait near the break in the hedge until Locke came to fetch her. She was none too pleased to be so far away from the dancing and the young men, but she agreed to wait for the sake of the family, and the rationalization that standing on the fringes of a ball was better than waiting at home. Locke was to make sure that any guards had been drawn away so she could enter unnoticed while Lusinda was off gathering moonlight.

The carriage joined a long line in front of the well-lit and festive destination. Locke hopped out, then offered a gloved hand to Lusinda to exit. Pausing to impress every detail on her memory, she was doubtful she’d ever experience anything so magnificent again. James looked so debonair with a silver-tipped walking stick tucked neatly under his arm. Music from an orchestra drifted out to the street, as well as snippets of conversation and jovial laughter. Women glided by in elaborate silks and satins, feathers and fans—and she was about to join them. It made her giddy with excitement.

If only she didn’t have to think about cracking open a safe under the very noses of all these men and women, well, then she could truly enjoy the evening. She stepped down from the carriage and accepted Locke’s escort to the crush of people at the front door waiting to be channeled through the receiving line.

As often as she had studied the plans for the Russian ambassador’s house, she was still surprised by the grandeur, yet reassured by the familiarity. She knew, for example, that the ballroom lay to the right behind a grand stairway that led to the private quarters of the house. As they entered the foyer, she noted two men in livery on the first turn landing of that very staircase, presumably stationed to discourage exploration above stairs.

Behind the receiving line, she could see lots of activity in and out of the rooms on the left side of the house. According to the architectural plans, those rooms would be the library and study. They had suspected the safe would be in one of those rooms, but she wondered if any important documents would be located in so public a venue.

As they approached the head of the line, she noticed a gruff-looking, slender man, seemingly uncomfortable in his ill-fitting formal attire, standing slightly behind the others in the official line. Locke handed his invitation to someone dressed in the crisp uniform of the foreign military. Within moments, she heard Locke’s name linked with her own announced to all and sundry.

The gruff man scowled, his gaze lingering on Locke. Then he stepped forward and whispered into the ear of the white-bearded, rotund ambassador. The ambassador nodded and quickly glanced their way, causing Lusinda to think their arrival had been anticipated, and not in an especially pleasant way. She glanced at Locke, whose careful façade failed to take note of the interest generated by their arrival. Yet he had noticed. He signified as much by a slight nod in her direction. They stepped forward. Her anxiety grew.

A stiff-backed assistant with a cordial smile on his face introduced them in heavily accented English. The sound so reminiscent of her childhood, she had to repress a smile. This was not the time to remind James of her ancestral roots.

“Your Excellency, may I present Mr. James Locke?”

The two men smiled and shook hands. Then Locke turned to her.

“Mr. Ambassador, I have the honor to present you to Miss Havershaw.”

Lusinda executed her practiced curtsy, but it went unnoticed. The gruff man had stepped forward again, murmuring into the ambassador’s ear. The ambassador’s eyes widened. He turned back to Lusinda with a broad smile and took her gloved hand in his.

“Miss Havershaw, I have heard so much about you,” he said in English laced with the low growl of a rich Russian accent. “I am delighted that you chose to join us this evening. I’m given to understand that it is a rare pleasure.”

Little warning alarms sounded in her head, while gooseflesh lifted beneath her delicate puffed sleeves. Why had the Russian ambassador heard anything about her at all? What did he know? Was there significance to his emphasis on “rare pleasure”? She glanced to Locke, but he managed to keep his reaction well hidden.

“Thank you,” she said, finding her voice. “I am honored to make your acquaintance.” She attempted to retrieve her hand from his grasp, but he held tight. A knowing smile teased his lips. After a repeated tug she managed to extricate herself. An uncomfortable shiver slipped down her spine. Something was definitely not right about his reception.

Locke placed his hand on her back, right above the confluence of fabric above her bustle, and guided her toward the ballroom entrance. Had he placed his hand on her flesh, she was sure he would feel the tumultuous pounding of her heart. She had come here to assist Locke in his mission, yet she had the distinct feeling that she had stepped into her own private lion’s den. She peeked over her shoulder and noted that the ambassador continued to watch them, in spite of another couple taking their place before him for presentation.

“What did he mean?” she hissed to Locke. “How does he know of me?”

“Not here.” Locke smiled tightly and nodded to a man off to the side. “Too many ears.”

She surveyed the brightly lit ballroom. Massive mirrors enhanced all the bright colors and gaiety to mammoth proportions. Riotous colors swirled on the dance floor, fans fluttered along the group of women standing on the sides, laughter and music made conversation difficult. Lusinda soaked it all in.

A bank of doors off to one side of the room opened onto a terrace. From her study of the architectural plans, she knew the terrace stepped down into a garden, the same garden that wrapped around the house to the gardener’s shed. It was all too real, now that she could see the stone and mortar of it.

“Miss Havershaw, how lovely to see you again.”

She turned and stood face-to-face with Marcus Ramsden. Her chest constricted, leaving her heart to thud rapidly against her rib cage.

“And how wonderful you appear tonight,” he said. “May I assume that your illness has safely passed?”

She allowed a reserved smile. “You may indeed, Mr. Ramsden.”

“Then may I be so bold as to ask for this dance, Miss Havershaw?”

Locke stiffened beside her and was about to reply when she interrupted.

“I would love to dance with you, Mr. Ramsden.” She cast a quick glance to Locke and saw his eyebrow starting to rise. “I believe Mr. Locke has other obligations, and I do not relish waiting with the wallflowers.” She nodded briefly to the side where a line of elegantly dressed young misses waited for a turn about the floor.

“Obligations?” Ramsden’s interest was clearly piqued.

“More of an arranged meeting,” Locke replied, a half smile tilting his lips. “May I anticipate the honor of claiming a dance upon my return?”

“I would be delighted,” she replied with a curtsy. Locke nodded, then crossed the ballroom to the terrace.

“Who the devil is he meeting out there?” Ramsden asked as he watched Locke’s path.

“I didn’t inquire.” Lusinda batted her eyes and feigned naïveté. “It sounds as if a new set is about to begin. Shall we?”

As they assumed their positions on the floor, she noticed Marcus signal to a man, then nod toward the terrace doors.
He’s sending someone to follow Locke’s movements!
If ever she had doubts about what she saw that last night at the Farthingtons’, this negated them.

“I’m surprised Locke allowed me to whisk you away so easily, a beautiful woman such as yourself. All the men in attendance are jealous. Look. All eyes are on us.”

On you, she silently modified. She’d noticed the women’s admiring glances, partially hidden by elaborate fans. For a traitorous snake, Marcus did cut an admirable figure on the dance floor. She forced a smile on her face to hide the distaste roiling in her stomach.

“Locke trusts you,” she said. “Implicitly.”

She watched his face for any trace of guilt and saw none. The man was as accomplished at hiding his emotions as he was at waltzing her about the dance floor.

“Locke and I have a long history together. You should trust me as well.”

He smiled as he guided her through a weak patch of moonlight filtering in through the terrace windows. It did little more than raise the fine hairs on the back of her head. A spark of disappointment flashed behind his practiced smile. She swallowed her laughter. It would take much more than a long history or even Locke’s naïve endorsement to make her trust him.

His lips tightened. He squeezed her gloved hand. “I know what you are. Let me assist you.”

“Assist me?” She lifted her brows, doubting that he was referring to their plan to rob the ambassador’s safe. “In what way do you suppose I require assistance?”

“I can keep you safe. I have connections. Your sister told me of your travels over the years. I know that you feigned a headache when I came to dinner because I was too close to the truth. Does Locke know of your abilities?”

She stopped dancing and scowled at him. “I assure you that my ailment at dinner was real, as is the headache I am currently suffering in your presence. I fear this dance has come to an end. Thank you, sir.” She curtsied and turned to move past him, but he held on to her gloved hand. The other dancers steered around them, casting inquiring looks their way.

“I’m not going to let you disappear so easily.”

“Disappear, Mr. Ramsden?” She attempted a laugh, hoping it sounded convincing. “A woman attends a ball to be seen, not to disappear.” She tried to pull her hand free again, but he held tight. Dear heaven, where was Locke? Surely he had managed to sneak Portia onto the grounds by now. She narrowed her eyes and ground out each word with all the authority she could muster. “Let me go!”

A young man, more in line with Portia’s years, approached them. “Is this man troubling you, miss?”

Lusinda feared Ramsden would prove the superior in terms of physical size and abilities should a test of skills be required, but she doubted even he would let it come to that. Trusting that Ramsden hoped to avoid a larger disturbance than they had already created, she scowled up at him. “Yes, he is.”

Ramsden released her hand and bowed slightly. “My apologies, Miss Havershaw, I had only your best interests at heart.” He nodded to the brave newcomer. “Keep an eye on her, Mr. Burnes. See that she stays out of mischief.”

Her heart sank. Could the newcomer be one of Ramsden’s associates? Had she won release from one villain only to be plagued with another? Where the devil was Locke!

Ramsden stalked off to a group of men, while Mr. Burnes fidgeted in front of her.

“I know we’ve not been properly introduced,” the young man said, “but if you would you care to finish the dance—”

“No.” She watched Ramsden disappear into a gathering of men, before turning back to her young savior. “No thank you. I appreciate your assistance in allowing me to disengage from that vile man, however.”

“Mr. Ramsden?” The young Burnes’s eyes widened. “I’ve always heard—”

“Yes, I’m sure you have.” She placed her hand to her forehead. “I wonder if you could escort me off the dance floor. After that trying experience I believe I need to sit down.”

“Of course.” He guided her to an empty chair set against the wall. “Allow me to bring you some refreshment.”

“That would be much appreciated.” She smiled, watching till her young champion had crossed the room to the crowd surrounding the punch bowl. Then she stood and left the ballroom through a hidden doorway she had recalled from her study of the house plans. The door led to a servant’s hallway that connected to the kitchen. From the kitchen she could slip into the herb garden and find her way to the gardener’s shed.