Chapter Two

Ellie shook her head as the scoundrel slipped into the crowd, stepping around the various groupings with ease. She tried to follow his movements, but without her spectacles, everything over six feet away became a frustrating blur, and she lost sight of him.

Daisy tapped her on the arm. "All right, tell me everything. Starting with why your cheeks are so pink. What on earth were you two discussing?"

Ellie absently touched her bottom lip with her fingertips. She could still feel the ghost of his kiss.

"Oh, umm, very little, really. I was just trying to discover his name."

"I'm not sure we're any the wiser now," Daisy said with a snort. "The Comte de Carabas ? Wasn't that the name invented by the cat in the fairy tale ‘Puss in Boots,' for his master?"

"It was!" Ellie gasped. "Although I think it was the Marquis of Carabas, in the tale. And ‘bonheur' means ‘good time' or ‘lucky' in French. Henry Goodtime?" She gave an outraged huff. "That charlatan! He gave us a fake name!"

Daisy gave a delighted laugh. "How marvelous. I do love a handsome rogue. But why ? Is he playing a game, to try to intrigue us? Or is he actually here under false pretenses? Maybe he's about to commit a crime!"

Professionally, Ellie and Daisy were two-thirds of the force behind King & Company, London's most discreet private investigation agency. Along with their friend Tess, Duchess of Wansford, they dealt with "sensitive problems" for clients, under the guise of assisting their fictional employer, Charles King.

"If he's a jewel thief, he'll have plenty of opportunities here tonight." Ellie tilted her head toward the glittering array of wealth clustered beneath the chandeliers: necklaces and tiaras on the women, pocket watches and tiepins on the men.

"He could be a card sharp," Daisy opined. "Maybe he's here to fleece the gentlemen at vingt-et-un or dice."

"I suppose we'll find out soon enough. If there's an outcry from the cardroom, or someone comes to King and Company tomorrow to report the loss of their favorite bracelet, at least we'll have a potential suspect."

Daisy gave a bawdy chuckle. "I volunteer to give him a thorough pat down to look for hidden loot."

"Very selfless," Ellie said drily. "It's a shame Tess isn't here. She might have recognized him."

"Speaking of potential new cases," Daisy said, "I was approached by a man named Bullock earlier. He said he'd heard that I knew Charles King, and asked for an introduction."

"Did you tell him to come to Lincoln's Inn Fields?"

"I did, but he insisted that he would only speak with Mr. King himself."

Ellie rolled her eyes. Some of the male clients requesting "Mr. King's" services had been extremely dismissive toward his "assistants," Ellie, Daisy, and Tess. A few had even refused to confide their business with an underling, especially if they were female.

"Then we'll have to tell him that Mr. King is too busy to accept any new clients," Ellie said firmly.

"Indeed. Life's too short to deal with ‘gentlemen' who think we're inferior, overly excitable, and too feebleminded to grasp the complexities of a criminal investigation."

Daisy's diatribe tailed off as a viscount approached, eager to accompany her in the next reel. She accepted with a smile, and Ellie glanced around to see if anyone was going to ask her to dance. Generally, she preferred to stay on the outskirts of the ballroom, happy to observe the dancing rather than take part, but "Henri Bonheur's" kiss had filled her with a strange, restless energy.

Her spirits lifted as a rather stocky, older man approached her, but they fell again when he introduced himself.

"Miss Law? I'm William Bullock, owner of the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

Ellie shook his offered hand. "Indeed, I have, Mr. Bullock. I went there to see Bonaparte's carriage when it first went on display, a few months ago."

"You and half of London." Bullock gave a contented chuckle. "That's been my most popular display to date. It's about to go on a tour of the country, so those in the provinces can see it too." His chest puffed out with pride, reminding her of a portly pigeon ruffling its feathers.

He pulled a large gold-cased pocket watch from his pocket, checked the time, then tucked it away again. "I hear you're acquainted with the investigator, Charles King?"

"That's true. I work as his legal researcher and amanuensis. He's a friend of my father's," she added, with blithe disregard for the truth. Her father had never met her "employer," for the simple reason that the latter was entirely fictional. Still, she'd long ago learned that any mention of her father inferred a measure of gravitas to the situation, and impressed men like Bullock no end.

"Ah. Good. Quite so. In that case, I was wondering of you could make an introduction between Mr. King and myself. I'd like to engage his services for a sensitive matter."

"I'm afraid Mr. King prefers to keep himself extremely private." Ellie leaned a little closer, as if to impart a great secret. "I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you, Mr. Bullock, that Mr. King is, in fact, a pseudonym to conceal his real identity."

Bullock's eyes widened.

Ellie nodded solemnly. "That's how he's achieved such great success. His anonymity is one of his greatest assets. He's free to move through society, unremarked, without people clamming up around him."

Bullock nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd as if he hoped to decipher which earl, duke, or viscount might be the infamous investigator. "Of course! That makes perfect sense."

Ellie silently congratulated herself on her brilliance.

"I'd be willing to pay handsomely for his assistance, of course," Bullock murmured. "Money is no object. I'll give five hundred pounds."

Ellie bit back a groan of disappointment. All the income from King & Co. was split evenly between herself, Daisy, and Tess. But whereas Daisy and Tess both had additional funds of their own, thanks to being the daughter of a duke, and a duchess, respectively, every penny Ellie earned was going toward her own independence. With enough money, the choice of whether she married or not would be hers, to be made for love and not for financial necessity.

It pained her to turn down what sounded like a particularly lucrative job, but since there was no way Bullock could possibly meet Mr. King, it had to be done.

"I'm afraid there can be no exceptions," she said firmly. "I'm sorry. All communication must be done through either myself, Dorothea Hamilton, or Her Grace, the Duchess of Wansford."

Bullock let out an aggravated huff. "I already tried Miss Hamilton," he admitted. "She told me the same thing."

"And if Her Grace were here this evening, she'd agree."

Bullock gave an unhappy grunt. "That's a shame. I'm an honest man, Miss Law, and I've made my fortune through honest means. I like to look a man in the eye before I do business with him, and if Charles King can't trust me to keep his secret, then—"

"—he'll be unable to take your case," Ellie finished regretfully. "Mr. King is extremely—"

"Ah! Eleanor! There you are, my sweet! I've been looking for you all evening."

Ellie turned in surprise as "Henri Bonheur" appeared from behind a nearby pillar, dimples on full display.

"But you've only just—"

He didn't let her finish. He clasped her shoulders and pressed a firm kiss to both of her cheeks, in the French manner, as if they were old friends, then turned to Bullock with a disarming smile, hand outstretched.

"Henri Bonheur, Comte de Carabas."

Bullock was not immune to his magnetic charm. He shook hands automatically. "William Bullock."

"I see you've been making the acquaintance of my associate, Miss Law."

Bullock's brows lowered in confusion. "Associate?"

Bonheur leaned in, just as Ellie had done earlier, and, much to her annoyance, she couldn't prevent herself from bending forward, too, to hear what he was about to say.

"Indeed," he said with an air of mystery. "I can see you're a man of above common intelligence, Mr. Bullock—"

Bullock's chest expanded again.

"—and it has come to my attention that you've been asking to meet Mr. King."

"I have."

Bonheur lowered his voice to a whisper. "In that case, allow me to inform you that I am the man you seek."

"What?! No!" Ellie burst out. "What are you—?"

Bonheur sent her a glance that managed to be both laughing and chiding at once. He shook his head. "Now, now, Ellie. I appreciate your sterling efforts to keep my secret, but I've decided to take Mr. Bullock, here, into my confidence."

He slapped Bullock's shoulder, and the older man visibly preened.

"I trust we can be assured of your utmost discretion in this matter?"

"Of course," Bullock blustered immediately. "Absolutely. A hundred percent. Does this mean you'll take my case? It's just a straightforward theft, not the sort of thing you usually deal with, I know, but your reputation is second to none, and I want the best."

"For five hundred pounds? Of course I'll take it. But we can't discuss it here. You may call at my office, at number seven, Lincoln's Inn Fields, tomorrow at ten o'clock sharp."

Bullock straightened and smoothed the front of his waistcoat over his belly. "Thank you, sir. Thank you. I shall see you tomorrow, then." He nodded toward Ellie, and the look he gave her was only slightly condescending. "Good evening, Miss Law."

Ellie managed to contain her ire until Bullock was out of earshot, then she whirled back to "Henri" and pinned him with a look that could have pulverized rock.

"What on earth are you playing at?" she hissed. "You are not Charles King. In fact, I very much doubt you're Henri Bonheur either. Explain yourself, sir!"