Chapter 19

19

S amantha entered the Moorland ballroom with Harlowe and instantly knew without having to look that Mr. Croft wasn't present. Despite his absence from London these past few days, she'd been certain he would be. The note she'd received from Melody claimed that their hostess had told Lady Heathbrooke of his attendance.

Apparently neither the duke nor the duchess wanted Mr. Croft there. He, Lady Heathbrooke had explained when Melody pressed her, had the unfortunate ability of making most people uncomfortable. It was this very same aspect that had compelled the duke and duchess to invite him.

Confident he would decline, however, due to being in mourning, they'd not expected him to accept.

Samantha smiled politely when Harlowe introduced her to Viscount and Viscountess Stanton, Viscount and Viscountess Ottersburg, the Earl and Countess of Glendale, Baron and Baroness Midhurst, Mr. and Mrs. Hillford, and countless others.

A Mr. Julian Walker invited her to dance, after which several other gentlemen signed their names to her dance card. But the one man she'd hoped to encounter remained absent as the evening progressed.

"Don't despair," Harlowe told her when he came to give her a glass of champagne after a reel. "Even if he doesn't show, there are other ways for us to use the evening to our advantage."

"I'm already keeping a watchful eye on the men Miss Croft danced with during the Marsdale ball." Except Marsdale himself, who remained as absent as Mr. Croft.

"And?" Harlowe asked, casually taking a sip of champagne.

"None seem capable of enacting such evil." Mr. Walker and Mr. Newton had both been charming partners. As had the Duke of Moorland. She'd spoken with all three men at various intervals, both previously and this evening, and had found their company engaging.

Nigel Lawrence, on the other hand, gave her an uneasy feeling. She didn't like the way he looked at her, like she were a tasty dessert he'd like to devour. But then, he'd not shown the same sort of interest in Miss Croft. A point worth keeping in mind since she could not afford to suspect the wrong person based on her own bias.

A bit of agitation near the front of the ballroom prompted Samantha to glance in that direction.

"Looks like he made it," Harlowe said at the same time as Samantha spotted Mr. Croft.

She averted her gaze before their eyes met. The last thing she wanted was to let him think she'd been waiting for him.

Her interest in him had to be balanced somewhere between curiosity and indifference.

Perhaps she should make herself scarce for a bit, allow him to chat with other guests so it wouldn't look like she was standing about in anticipation of his notice.

"I think I'll take some fresh air on the terrace," she informed Harlowe.

"And I shall head to the gaming room for a round of cards." He clinked his glass against hers, and the two parted ways with Samantha moving smoothly toward the French doors to her left.

Ever conscious of Mr. Croft making his way through the crowded ballroom, she forced herself to look straight ahead, to ignore the temptation of glancing in his direction.

The cool night air was breezy, sweeping through the honeysuckle vines that clung to the stone fa?ade. Leaves rustled, the soft sound mingling with the muted strains of music filling the ballroom.

A few other guests stood scattered about in small groups. Samantha walked past them, choosing the solitude of the far corner. She stepped toward the balustrade, set her glass upon the edge, and took a deep breath.

Dressed in a gown sewn from soft pink silk overlaid with a creamy lace dotted by small crystal beads, she felt so very different from who she truly was. More like a princess than an agent trained to uncover secrets. She smiled at that thought. Nobody here would suspect her of being able to fight a man on equal footing, or to shoot him dead from a distance of one hundred yards.

She picked up her glass and drank, enjoying the sweet, bubbly flavor as it flowed over her tongue. Measured steps gently touching the flagstone caught her attention. She stilled as they drew nearer.

There was no need to turn and look to know who approached. She could sense him in the tightening of her stomach, the soft prick of awareness against the nape of her neck, and the heat creeping into her cheeks as excitement stole through her.

He'd sought her out and had thereby proved his interest.

All was proceeding as planned.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone else," his deep voice suggested.

She grinned, not with pretense but with unexpected amusement. Her laughter froze as that realization cemented itself within her. She shook her head, attempting to banish the curious sensation of possibly finding him charming, only to tamp down the brief emotion and reach for added control. Her job would be so much harder to do if she started to like him.

Again, the memory of him kneeling in order to place a rose at the base of the church wall where his sister was killed flickered in her mind's eye.

She shoved that aside as well and told him, "I've always hated playing the piano."

He produced a low chuckle as he came to stand beside her. "Why?"

"I'm not especially fond of sitting still."

This time he gave a full-bodied laugh – a rich rumbling sound that swept over her like a tidal wave, catching her in its thrall. He angled himself toward her and propped his hip against the balustrade. "Then why do you play?"

"Because it's expected, I suppose." It was the truth. Harlowe believed all young ladies ought to possess certain skills – refinements, he called them. He also loved the sound of music filling the house and she hadn't the heart to tell him she'd rather not play when asked.

"Do you always do what's expected, Miss Carmichael?"

Mr. Croft's voice held a hint of deep curiosity mixed with something she wouldn't have picked up had she not been paying perfect attention. It was a secretive element, as though he'd discovered something she wasn't aware of.

Concern gave her pause as she wondered what he might know. Choosing to err on the side of caution, she tilted her head as though in thought. "For the most part, I suppose."

"You've never done anything…shocking?"

Samantha's mind raced. Why would he ask that unless he'd discovered something about her? But what? She'd done an endless amount of things that would be considered shocking for any young lady to undertake.

So what was it?

Had the men she'd fought in St. Giles reported back to him somehow? Did he know of the room she'd rented near Covent Garden? Was the man she'd almost trampled while riding, one of Mr. Croft's informants?

She'd no idea, but the icy shiver stealing across her shoulders warned her he might be about to turn the tables.

Despite the frantic beat of her heart, she held herself immobile for a couple of breaths before daring to meet his gaze.

The intensity of that stare was so penetrating and seeking, it felt like it drove all the way to the depth of her soul. It made it hard for her to think.

Yet she had to. If she was to answer his question correctly, she had to muddle her way through this with calm, collected control.

"Can I trust you?" she asked, choosing to start by asking a question of her own.

Surprise flickered in his dark eyes. The soft play of light from nearby torches caused them to glow in a way that threatened to reel her in and hold her captive if she weren't careful.

A wry smile only added to his appeal. "Whatever secrets you wish to impart will be safe with me."

It was time for her to take a gamble. If word of her fighting skills and her visit to Wycliffe's had reached him, she doubted they would be having this conversation. Rather, he'd have tied her to a chair in a basement somewhere and demanded she give him an explanation.

Because that was precisely the sort of thing a man with his reputation would do.

If it was the room she rented that he'd discovered…

He'd know she was up to something and would probably choose to steer clear of her henceforth.

Yet here he was, asking questions with what appeared to be genuine interest.

Which had to mean…

"I love to ride, but maintaining balance in a sidesaddle while all those skirts are twisted around my legs is no fun at all. So I usually ride astride instead. Especially if I'm planning to go for a gallop."

The briefest hint of amazement pulled at his features before he managed to mask the response. An element of mischief replaced it. "How very improper."

She grinned, surrendering to the amusement that danced in the air. "That's only the half of it, Mr. Croft."

"Oh?" An arch of his brow challenged her to confess the rest.

Pressing her lips together, she glanced about as if nervous others might hear. She then lowered her voice and leaned a bit closer to him. "I gave up on the riding habit ages ago, choosing instead to wear breeches."

"Why, Miss Carmichael." The warmth in his voice was like melted chocolate – decadent and smooth. "I must confess, I never would have taken you for a hoyden."

An embarrassed chuckle accompanied an averted look. "I'm really not."

"Boxing, and riding while dressed in men's clothes?" He crossed his arms and swept her from head to toe with a gaze so forceful it felt like he'd physically touched her. "I beg to differ. But that's not a bad thing. On the contrary, it sets you apart from all the rest, and that makes you all the more intriguing."

Heat flooded her cheeks and something inside her – a place buried deep behind her breastbone – expanded. She tamped down the feeling with stern resolve even as her lips twitched with humor. "Not nearly as intriguing as you, I'll wager."

His eyes flashed, darkening just enough to warn her that they were no longer chatting like new acquaintances, but flirting.

Aware that she'd ventured too far from shore, she grabbed her glass and took a quick sip, then turned more fully toward him and mimicked his posture.

"It surprised me not to find you at Reed's this past week," she said, her tone light and casual.

"I was away at my country estate for most of it."

"Oh, how lovely. Is it far?" She asked the question even though she already knew the answer.

"It's a good day and a half's ride by carriage."

"Did you grow up there?" Again, a needless question for her to ask.

"Until I was ten. After that, my time was mostly spent here under my father's tutelage. Unlike Mama, he preferred London to Deerhaven. Always claimed the countryside bored him."

"How do you feel about it?"

He gave her a curious look. "I believe you might be the first person ever to ask me that."

"Forgive me. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's fine." He cleared his throat. "Honestly, I favor the peace and quiet the countryside offers. I'd actually hoped to move to a more secluded location, but now, with my sister dead and…"

His gaze shifted toward the garden, staring through the darkness with a vacant look that suggested the only thing he saw right now was a memory.

An unexpected needle-sharp pain pierced Samantha's heart. Mr. Croft appeared emotionally distraught, completely unlike the hardened criminal Kendrick and Harlowe insisted he was.

Could they be wrong?

She reminded herself that it wasn't her place to question either of them. Her task was to carry out orders. And yet, a small, irritating part of her that had sprung to life the moment they'd met couldn't stand to watch Mr. Croft suffer.

Not on account of a cruel injustice enacted against him and his lovely sister. The vigilante inside her demanded the scoundrel be found and punished, regardless of who Mr. Croft might be or what he'd done in the past.

Besides, tracking the murderer down could help forge a bond between them.

"I realize this is a sensitive subject," she whispered, "so please let me know if I'm overstepping, but I'm curious to know if Bow Street have any leads regarding your sister's killer."

"Not as far as I know," he said, speaking to the emptiness beyond the terrace.

"Have you considered looking into it yourself?" When he didn't respond, she told him, "Your sister was the fourth victim. It might make sense to start at the very beginning in order to know the murderer's original motive."

Mr. Croft's gaze slowly met hers. The earlier hints of mischief were lost behind a stern fa?ade. His change in demeanor almost made her regret having given up on the flirting, which was also the most straightforward path to her goal.

But such a course was not one she felt comfortable with on account of her inexperience. Then again, a lack of experience would in all likelihood prove an asset in this instance. Given the role she was meant to play, it would seem more genuine if she appeared a touch shy and uncertain regarding such matters.

Mr. Croft stared at her, almost as though he needed a second to bring her back into focus. Ignoring her question and the point she'd just made, he asked instead, "Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?"

His voice matched the somber mood that had settled upon them the moment he'd mentioned his sister. It filled the space between them and rather than push her away, it lured her.

Not that she would have turned him down when this was what she'd been working toward. But the pull she experienced as he stood there, grief etched in every aspect of his bearing, was nothing short of terrifying.

And yet, she faced the sympathy and the attraction he'd managed to sow somewhere deep in her conscience, reminding herself, while accepting the arm he offered, to fight it with unrelenting resolve.

They returned inside just as the orchestra struck up a waltz. He led her onto the dance floor and drew her into his arms, the confidence he exuded that of a man who'd partnered with countless women before her. His hand was firm on her waist, his steps sure and strong as he guided her into the dance with effortless movements. She could feel the power in his body, the contained energy humming beneath the surface.

Yet there was an unexpected gentleness to him as well. His touch, while possessive, was not rough. He held her close but did not crush her. And his eyes, as they gazed into hers, gradually softened, allowing her a glimpse of something that looked almost tender.

Impossible.

"There's something about you I can't understand," Mr. Croft murmured, his voice a low rumble between them. "Why haven't you married?"

The question caught her off guard, and for a moment she struggled to form a response. Averting her gaze, she watched the rest of the dancers rush by in a blur. She should have anticipated him asking this and was slightly annoyed with herself that she hadn't.

"My questionable heritage makes me something of a mongrel," she said at last.

"Mongrels have their merits," he said while turning her in a wide arc. "They tend to be smarter than purebreds and have fewer ailments. I personally prefer them."

Her gaze snapped to his and she saw that he meant it. Perhaps dancing with him had been a mistake. At this close range the man was a far more dangerous adversary than she had expected.

She'd foolishly believed herself strong and capable of resisting his charm. Yet he had the most disturbing ability to make her pulse beat faster.

"I also have a responsibility to Harlowe," she said, attempting as best she could to focus on their conversation. "He's done so much for me, I could never leave him."

"Your loyalty is admirable. Harlowe is certainly fortunate to have you." His thumb stroked gently over her waist, sending a shiver down her spine. "But every woman deserves a life of her own. A chance at love, a family to raise, and all the things that make life sweet."

His words echoed the secret longings she'd buried so deep they'd been forgotten until this moment, and for a second she imagined what such a life might be like. A home of her own, a husband who loved her, children with bright smiles and...

No.

She shook her head to clear the images. That life was not meant for her. Duty and sacrifice were the prices she would pay for the privileges she'd been given.

The music faded and she stepped away, breaking the intimacy between them.

"Thank you for the dance." A polite smile was all she dared. "If you don't mind, I think I'd like to rest for a bit. Loath as I am to admit it, the slippers I chose to wear are not very comfortable."

"Of course." Mr. Croft tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "There are some comfortable sofas in the drawing room where we can sit while we take some refreshment."

The offer was unexpected. It gave her a choice between the reprieve she'd intended to seek and the chance for them to speak at greater length. While she did feel the need for a private moment in which to collect her thoughts, she could not ignore the opportunity he provided.

Added time spent together would help strengthen the bond that was growing between them. If she turned him down, there was a chance he might not extend the offer again.

So she accompanied him from the ballroom to seek out a spot where her imaginary sore feet could find some relief.

Progress was being made this evening. Mr. Croft's interest in her was increasing. What she did not dare to consider was whether or not her interest in him was limited to her assignment.

The problem was that in order to sell her lie, she had to convince herself of it so well she began to believe it. She had to allow herself to like Mr. Croft, maybe even to fall for him, and that was a dangerous game. Though perhaps the most dangerous part of all was how easy she feared it would be.

She buried that thought and reminded herself of her purpose.

Befriend, gain access, destroy.

Affecting a limp, she leaned on him, removing the distance between them and pushing the length of her arm against his. He instantly switched position, bringing one arm around her for added support while continuing to guide her forward.

"There's a vacant sofa in the far corner," he said.

But as they walked, Samantha heard a man say, "To even suspect you of murder is the utmost of ridiculousness. I'm glad you won your case against Bow Street."