Chapter 6

Simon stepped off the dance floor after a turn with Grace, leading her to the side with a grin in her direction.

"See?" he asked archly. "I have not forgotten all the steps, as you surmised I would."

"It was mother who thought the army would break you of proper etiquette, not I," Grace teased. "And nothing will convince her to forgive you for not wearing your uniform at the first ball of the Season. She had her heart set on seeing her brave son in his captain's uniform."

"My service to the crown is not the sort that sits well in the public eye," Simon explained in a low voice. "The less I draw attention to myself, the better."

A young man in a plain navy mask walked up to Grace, interrupting their conversation with a deep bow and introduction. "Miss Lyndon, I presume?" he asked.

Grace's expression was hidden by her mask, but Simon could hear the surprise in her voice. "I've gone to a bit of trouble to hide that fact, good sir."

"I have my sources," the gentleman said, a smile showing beneath his own mask. "May I have this next dance?"

Grace glanced quickly at Simon, and then shrugged. He could sense her excitement. This was her first exposure to being the belle of any ball, and he delighted to see how much she enjoyed it. "That would be my pleasure," she said, taking the proffered hand and following the gentleman back to the dance floor.

Simon leaned against a nearby pillar, preparing to sit the next dance out, but before he could fully settle in, he caught sight of a familiar figure making her way across the ballroom towards him. Amelia Lafleche.

But she wouldn't be Miss Lafleche anymore, would she? If he remembered correctly, she'd been married and widowed since they last met. She was the dowager viscountess of something or other, although he could not for the life of him remember what.

She strode to him with purpose and elegance, as she did everything. She wore a scarlet gown trimmed in black, a brazen affair for a woman only six months into mourning, but then she was a Frenchwoman at heart. Even having lived for years in England and with the blood of a British mother in her veins, her French father still influenced her more than London ever could.

Her jet-black hair was pulled back in a tight arrangement that showed off a broad brow, slender neck, and ruby lips. Her mask was tiny, concealing her identity not at all, a mere strip of black lace over her eyes alone.

He thought of the last time he'd seen her, of the insults that she had thrown at him and the discomfort he'd endured. He turned to escape. She was too close, clearly intent on asking him to the next dance… he stepped in front of the woman standing nearest to him, a girl in a pale pink gown with a white mask covering most of her face.

"My lady?" he asked, a little breathless. "Will you honor me with this next dance?"

The girl seemed taken aback, although it was hard to tell behind the mask, but recovered quickly and extended her hand. "My pleasure, sir."

There was something about her that was vaguely familiar, but Simon pushed the thought from his mind as he led her onto the floor. After all, it was ridiculous to say a young London debutant seemed familiar. They were all cut from the same polite, elegant cloth. They all spoke in the same fashion, hid the same giggles behind fans, and danced with the same grace.

He saw a flash of frustration in Amelia's eyes as he made his way to the dance floor. Then the music was beginning, and Simon's partner was his sole focus.

He bowed; she curtsied. He stepped through the familiar motions of the dance; she followed suit.

"Lady Ellory has outdone herself tonight," the mystery girl said, by way of casual conversation.

"Indeed, this place is as beautiful as I remember," he answered.

"You speak as though you have been absent it for some time," the girl pointed out. "Have you been away?"

"I have," he acknowledged. "On the Continent, for a time."

"Where?"

He could not very well tell a stranger that he had been in a strategic location in France wooing French noblemen for the purpose of spying on them, and so he told her he had been in Italy, on a tour.

"I should very much like to go to Italy one day," she said, her voice a little wistful. "I have heard it is quite beautiful, and the art is worth the trip alone."

"Yes," he murmured. Having never actually been to Italy, for art or otherwise, he had little else to add. "Beautiful."

"What are your favorite haunts in London, now that you have returned?" she asked, after a few more turns through the dance.

"I am not a man of the city, myself," he admitted, "though I grew up here. I find the open fields and rolling hills more to my liking. Therefore, I must admit that my favorite parts of the city are those that most resemble the country."

"The parks," she said, understanding.

"Yes," he admitted. "Hyde Park is lovely at this time of year."

She fell silent at this, as though the reference to Hyde Park made her ill at ease for some reason. The dance proceeded for some time before Simon could think of something to resurrect the conversation.

"I hear there is an opera of particular beauty that recently came to town, a French piece about a king disguised as a peasant. Are you fond of the opera?"

"I have never been," she said, "although it would be a good opportunity to practice my French."

"Are you proficient?" he asked.

"A person who is proficient would not need to practice," she said, a smile curving her lips ever so slightly. "But no, I am not. I only recently began learning, in the last few years, and my tutor is not a native speaker. No doubt my accent would be deemed offensive by someone from France. And you?"

Simon shook his head and lied through his teeth. "I speak it only when necessary, and with no real degree of skill."

"It is fortunate, then, that neither of us are required to use the language on a daily basis," she said.

"Indeed." He hid a smile.

The dance drew to a close, and Simon took care to lead his companion to the side of the ballroom opposite Amelia so he would have time to choose another partner before his past caught up with him. The woman he'd danced with curtsied and slipped away without further conversation.

Simon looked for another partner but found someone else instead. In the corner, standing by one of the marble pillars, was a man with pinched features and thin lips. The man was unmasked, although no one would have noticed as he was hiding in the shadows. No one except Simon, who knew that face well.

He looked around to be certain he wasn't noticed and met the man's gaze. The man nodded towards the veranda, and disappeared as quickly as he had come, putting a mask in place as he did so.

The signal was familiar enough, although Simon did not expect to find a government agent here, only a few days after he arrived back in his homeland. He followed the man at a discreet distance, waiting until the next movement of the dance to slip out onto the veranda himself. The gentleman, masked as a tiger, was standing alone on the veranda in the deep shadow of an ivy-covered wall.

"I thought you'd never see me," he said gruffly, as Simon approached.

"I had not expected to see you," Simon pointed out.

"You know how they trained us. Always expect the unexpected."

Simon didn't know the man's real name. He went by the name Quixote in all the circles Simon ran in, and was referred to thusly in intelligence meetings as well.

"Do you have something for me?" he asked.

"Directions," Quixote said in a low voice, his eyes darting from side to side beneath the mask to be certain they were not overheard. "You are to keep a wary eye out while you are here in England, for there is word of a dangerous spy leaking our information to the French. There have been two separate cases of ambush where the perpetrators would not have known our movements if not for a man on the inside."

"You and I know a little something of that," Simon said drily. It was no surprise. If England had spies like him crawling through the halls of French noblemen, then it stood to reason that French spies would be operating in the realm of high English society as well.

"Keep an ear to the ground," Quixote warned. "And tell us if you learn anything. I will find you on occasion, and you can pass over whatever information you have gathered. If there is something more pressing you need to say, use this address." He held out his wrist, on which an address was scrawled in thin charcoal.

Simon read the address, committed it to memory as he had been taught, and watched as Quixote spat on his own skin and wiped the evidence away.

"And one more thing," the informant added. "I have some intelligence about where Napoleon is planning to strike next. I need you to deliver it to our mutual contact in the governing offices. I can no longer go near him without raising suspicion, I'm afraid."

Simon knew of the man at once, and nodded. "Tell me and I will relay the information at once."

Quixote whispered the name, then stepped back into the shadows. "Until we meet again, Captain."

He slipped behind the ivy wall, disappearing as though he had never been there.

Simon paused a minute on the veranda before returning to the ball. He ran through the address, the information about Napoleon, and the finer details of his conversation with Quixote. It was important to remember every detail. In cases like this, a small slip-up could mean the lives of Englishmen, whether in France or there in the home country.

When he was satisfied that the contents of the conversation were safely preserved, he turned back to return to the ball but caught sight of Amelia lingering beside the veranda door. Likely she had seen him slip out and was waiting to pounce on his return. He turned towards the gardens instead. It was a cool night, and the open air would be a refreshing change from the press of humanity inside the ballroom.

He was unsurprised to find the garden dark. Lady Ellory was not the sort of person to draw her guests out into nature when she could control the atmosphere indoors more easily. The only light was from the full moon, which filled the garden with a silver glow.

The hedges of the garden had been carefully curated into a maze of sorts, small but high-walled, with the benefit of providing privacy for all the intrigues and gossip that seemed to follow Lady Ellory like the train of a gown.

He followed the maze inwards, passing only a few turns before he found himself in the center. It was quiet there, the music from the ballroom muffled and indistinct in the distance, the moon illuminating a tree in the very center of the garden, a stone bench… and a woman.

The presence of another person took him aback so immediately that Simon froze for a moment, motionless. This gave him the unintended benefit of observing the woman unnoticed for a few seconds.

The first thing he noticed was the pink dress, but no sooner had he registered that this was the same woman from his last dance then he doubted himself. There was nothing at all about this creature that resembled the girl of propriety and elegance that he had seen inside.

Here, she had kicked off her shoes and was dancing barefoot across the cool lush grass, her arms outstretched, and her head flung back. He saw that her mask had been discarded along with her shoes, and her hair was looking a little disheveled, with pieces tumbling free from her coiffed updo.

She was dancing not as a woman in a proper ballroom would dance, but more with the fluid motions and silent gestures of a druid or enchantress weaving a spell over the garden, obviously considering herself completely alone.

It wasn't until she turned to face him during one of the spins, with the moonlight shining full on her face, that he recognized her. She was completely different from the girl he'd bid goodbye to five years before, dazzling and breathtaking in a way he would not have been able to imagine even in his wildest dreams, and yet there was something unmistakable about that face.

Without thinking, he gasped and said her name, the word breaking the magic in garden

"Bella?"