Chapter Thirty-Two
The music from the quartet curled beneath the chandeliers, graceful and measured, never still in Lady Eastbury’s salon.
Guests clustered in conversational knots beneath glittering sconces, the hush of silk and the clink of porcelain weaving a pattern of civility over the tension rising beneath it all.
She moved with deliberate ease, Gabriel a quiet presence beside her.
They played the part well. A recently engaged couple basking in polite attention.
She inclined her head to those who offered congratulations, accepted compliments on her gown and smile, and allowed the glances at her shoulder to speak for themselves.
The brooch glittered high on her bodice. In any other light, it might have passed as ordinary. Here, among crystal chandeliers and social scrutiny, it sparked like flint against stone.
The hum of conversation thickened with curiosity. Smiles were too bright, laughter a note too sharp. “Every gaze in the room is focused on you,” Gabriel murmured, offering her a fresh glass of champagne.
Leticia accepted the glass but didn’t drink. “That was the idea.”
He gave the faintest nod, his gaze drifting to the periphery where footmen moved with mechanical precision. The crowd had grown, but not by much. There were only a few unfamiliar faces.
Gabriel inspected the edges of the room as if measuring the room for movement.
The posture, the stillness of some guests, the way one man near the terrace doors kept glancing at Leticia without ever approaching.
It all built a pattern. He wasn’t certain what he was looking for, only that he’d know when something slipped out of place.
One man leaned against a column near the musicians. Nondescript, but too observant. Gabriel recognized him, Barrington’s man. One of three embedded in the crowd. Leticia was being watched by more than the Order tonight.
“Anyone of concern?” she asked softly.
“Not yet,” he said. “But I don’t think we’ll have to wait long.”
Leticia turned to acknowledge Lady Marchmont, who swept over with a smile and an assessing gaze.
“My dear, your engagement is the topic of the evening,” she said. “And that brooch, how bold. It catches the light magnificently.”
Leticia offered a soft smile. “It belonged to my mother.”
“And looks as if it was meant for you,” Lady Marchmont replied, her tone kind but curious. “I daresay you’ll start a fashion.”
She moved on before Leticia could answer.
Gabriel leaned slightly closer. “That was subtle. For her.”
“She’s deciding whether I’m reckless or fashionable.”
Leticia felt the eyes. Dozens. Not all unfriendly. Not all known. Her pulse skated beneath her skin. If she faltered, even slightly, it would be noticed.
Erica emerged from a knot of people near the west wall, a flute of champagne in one hand and a smile polished to brightness.
“Letty, darling,” she sang, arriving with practiced delight. “You’re a vision. That brooch is amazing, the way it catches the light.”
Leticia met her gaze. “It was my mother’s.”
“Of course,” Erica said, voice light. “It’s just that it reminds me so much of a piece I nearly bid on at the Morton auction. But I’m sure I’m mistaken.”
Her eyes lingered a second too long. She turned to Gabriel, offering a nod. “And Lord Ashcombe. You do cut a fine figure beside her.”
“The effect is entirely hers,” he replied.
Erica laughed, too brightly. “What a charming answer.”
She drifted away, but Leticia felt the burn of her glance long after.
“She knows,” she whispered.
“She suspects,” Gabriel replied. “Or she’s testing how much you know.”
Leticia scanned the room. The footmen. The open doors to the garden. The shadows near the pianoforte.
Gabriel stiffened. “Denholm just slipped through the side corridor.”
Leticia’s heart kicked once. “Follow him?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Whoever he’s meeting is still here.”
A moment later, Lord Westcott stood near the garden doors, his gaze sweeping the room with a soldier’s wariness. He moved to Denholm’s former post near the pianoforte, nodded once, and turned back the way he came.
“That’s her husband,” Gabriel murmured. “It may be nothing.”
But Leticia had already seen the glance Westcott cast toward his wife. Protective. Sharp.
“Not a thief, then,” Gabriel said quietly. “Likely placed to watch over her.”
Leticia let out a slow breath. “So he’s a guard.”
Gabriel nodded. “And not ours. Which means someone else is also worried.”
They drifted toward the east corner, away from the press of guests. Gabriel spotted Barrington near the refreshment table and nodded once. A signal. Barrington adjusted his stance and slipped through the opposite corridor.
Leticia reached for her champagne and brought the glass to her lips, lowered it again without drinking. Her hand was steady, but there was a thrum beneath her skin, the tension of being observed, hunted, displayed.
She and Gabriel moved to the edge of the room, standing for a moment near the arched window that opened to the garden. She didn’t look out. She only let the cooler air brush against her cheek. It gave her an excuse to breathe.
Behind them, the music faltered. A glass shattered. Someone laughed to cover it.
This was the eye of the storm. From here, she could see everything, the movement, the music, the tension dressed in silk and civility. But the reflection in the glass caught her breath. Not because it showed fear. Because it didn’t.
Calm. Poised. A woman who looked as if she belonged at the center of all this. But the truth pressed beneath her skin like a pulse. She was the lure. And she had agreed to it.
What would her mother say now? Not the memory, but the imagined voice. Real enough to whisper in her mind: You’re making yourself a target.
She could almost hear the answer rise beneath it, fierce and quiet. I shall aim true.
Gabriel was here. So were Barrington and Mrs. Bainbridge.
But this moment, the risk, the decision, was hers.
If they came for her, she wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t flinch.
She would be the spark that lit their unraveling.
Whatever came tonight, exposure, betrayal, danger, she would meet it on her terms.
Leticia turned. Gabriel was already watching. He shook his head slightly. Not yet.
Professor Tresham approached, hands clasped behind his back.
“Lady Salisbury, Ashcombe,” he greeted. “A fascinating piece you wear this evening. The diamond pattern is rather reminiscent of a Prussian setting from the late eighteenth century.”
“It was my mother’s,” Leticia replied evenly.
“Ah. Sentimental value, then. Still, one might argue pieces belong in preservation, not circulation.”
Gabriel stepped forward. “Some heirlooms were meant to be worn.”
Tresham inclined his head. “Of course. I only meant to admire it. Enjoy your evening.”
He disappeared before she could respond.
“He’s deflecting,” Leticia said quietly.
“Or collecting information,” Gabriel answered just as quietly.
They began to move again, weaving back into the flow of guests. Gabriel caught sight of another familiar face, another of Barrington’s guards, subtly redirecting a footman from the western hallway. The net was drawing in.
Erica returned.
She caught Leticia just as she turned toward the refreshments.
“Letty,” she said with a sly smile. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry earlier. But I must say, you wear that piece so well. Especially given all the stories lately.”
Leticia raised an eyebrow. “Stories?”
“You were at Lady Marchmont’s masquerade. Bits of jewelry have gone missing. Odd, isn’t it? Pieces without pedigree, but suddenly sought-after.” She sipped. “Just the sort of thing that makes a soirée sparkle.”
Leticia met her eyes. “Rumors have a way of starting somewhere.”
“Yes,” Erica said sweetly. “But they never end where you expect.”
She moved on.
Leticia watched her disappear into the crowd. She exhaled slow and steady. That wasn’t a conversation. It was a warning. Erica had revealed too much in just a few words. Not to implicate herself, but to rattle Leticia’s grip.
Gabriel returned to her side. “What did she want?”
“To remind me I’m not the only one who knows the stories.”
He offered her his arm. She took it.
“We have enough,” she said. “Don’t we?”
“We have motive. We have an opportunity. But we don’t have proof.” He gently patted her hand.
“We must draw them out.”
Gabriel looked out over the crowd. “Barrington is posted at the corridor. His men are in place. The exits are covered.”
Leticia nodded. She moved toward the heart of the salon, where the candlelight was brightest. Not by accident. By choice.
And in that moment, she became something more than a woman in satin and diamonds. She stepped into the candlelight with intent. She became the center of gravity, the point every gaze tilted toward, whether they knew it or not.
Gabriel couldn’t breathe. His gaze swept instinctively to the walls, three men in position, good men, but not fast enough if someone made a move.
Leticia didn’t glance back. Didn’t look for him. She didn’t need to.
She had always been like this. Unshakable. Fierce. And for too long, he had tried to shield her from the storm, not realizing she was the storm.
If anyone reached for her, he would cross the room in a heartbeat. Protocol be damned. This was no longer about the plan.
She wasn’t his to protect. She was his to stand beside.
The quartet played on. Laughter spilled around them. And somewhere nearby, a decision was being made.
Leticia let her breath settle, slow and measured.
If the Order wanted the brooch, and if Erica was ready to make her move, it would not be in shadow. It would be here, in the light. The first move was no longer hers. But the final one might be.
The snare had been laid. And the game had begun.