Chapter 4
Nathaniel adjusted the cuffs of his evening coat as he stepped into the grand ballroom of the Russian Embassy.
He stood as the butler took his card and announced his arrival, suppressing a wince.
Would he ever get used to the pomposity of announcements?
He had held the title for nigh on six years now, yet he still felt uncomfortable being addressed as Lord Greystone.
He was far better suited to working in the shadows.
Coming and going without attracting notice.
With the announcement done, he stepped into the ballroom.
He appeared calm, but as he weaved through the throng, the old excitement of the hunt thrummed through his body.
Every person was a possibility; behind every corner, a piece of useful information could hide.
Was that the reason his heart beat faster, or was it the knowledge that soon he would see her again?
He had met with Alice and Dalton once again to discuss the strategy, but he had been unable to come up with an excuse to meet her a third time.
The details of their first foray into their mission had been discussed and agreed upon.
There was no point in rehashing the details.
Alice and he were both experts at this type of subterfuge.
The air was thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the heady mix of politics and flirtation.
An orchestra played, and couples danced on the polished parquet floor, the women twirling like colorful flowers.
Chandeliers dripped crystal light over the crush of diplomats, aristocrats, and ambitious social climbers.
His gaze swept the crowd, cataloguing familiar faces, noting the unknowns. Searching for someone in particular. And then—he saw her.
Alice.
Only it wasn’t Alice. Not the woman he knew. At least not at first glance.
Her lustrous brown hair was gone, hidden beneath a garish wig the shade of boiled egg yolks.
Her luminous complexion had been dulled with powder; her cheekbones flattened with artfully placed shadows.
Even her mouth—God, that mouth that still had the power to drive him to distraction—was distorted by the slight, rabbit-like protrusion of false teeth. The clever trick of an overbite.
But the disguise wasn’t only in the cosmetics. It was the way she moved.
Shoulders hunched, head bowed, her posture robbed her of height and presence. Her eyes no longer showed the spark of wicked intelligence that characterized them. She wore the blank-eyed expression of a servant too long used to being invisible.
She was unrecognizable. If he hadn’t known she’d be here and hadn’t spent years learning every nuance of her body and bearing, he might have overlooked her completely.
Damn, but she was good.
Even now, disguised as dull, forgettable, and plain, he still wanted her.
Forcing himself to look away, Nathaniel adjusted his necktie and moved toward the knot of guests near the French ambassador. There were several people he needed to greet, and a few he hoped to be introduced to. Chief among them: Yelena Petrova, the flighty wife of a mid-level Russian diplomat.
Not that he had any designs on seducing her—flirtation was its own form of reconnaissance. He had done his research. The woman was well connected within the Russian diplomatic circles and had a reputation for loose lips, especially when complimented.
After greeting the ambassador and making polite conversation with a few acquaintances, Nathaniel maneuvered himself into Madame Petrova’s orbit. A mutual acquaintance—a minor attaché from the German embassy eager to ingratiate himself—obliged with the introduction.
“Madame Petrova, may I present Lord Greystone,” the man said with a flourish. “Recently returned to London from the countryside, I believe.”
Nathaniel offered a bow and the kind of smile that made women lean closer.
“Madame Petrova,” he said smoothly, lowering his voice to something warm and indulgent. “The room has grown significantly brighter since your arrival. I hope you’ll forgive me for staring.”
Yelena giggled behind her fan, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “How scandalously forward. You Englishmen are never so charming…or so bold. Have you been spending too much time with Russians, Lord Greystone?”
“Call me Nathaniel, please. And yes, I find Russian company…most invigorating,” he said with a wink.
Her feline gaze narrowed with playful suspicion. “Strange, though. I’ve been in London for three seasons now, and I don’t recall seeing you at any embassy event. I would remember.”
“As would I,” he said, offering her his arm with practiced ease. “To my regret, I’ve been living in the country and neglecting London’s entertainments. An oversight I intend to correct. Would you honor me with a dance, Madame?”
She laughed, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “If I’m to call you Nathaniel, then you must call me Yelena. I think I shall, Nathaniel. Though I warn you…Russian ladies waltz with spirit.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
As he led Yelena toward the dance floor, Nathaniel’s gaze flicked once more toward the perimeter of the room—just in time to catch the briefest flash of fire in his wife’s eyes before she lowered them again and retreated behind her tray of drinks.
Damn, she’d seen him. And she was not pleased.
Was she upset because of his flirting with Yelena? It’s not as if he’d never used flirting to obtain information before, and she knew it was a technique. As well as she knew he had never done more than flirt. But maybe that was before. Maybe she wasn’t so sure of him anymore. He swallowed a smile.
This night might turn out to be interesting after all.
The orchestra began a lilting waltz, and he swept Yelena across the parquet, her laughter rising every time he dipped closer, murmuring something calculated and just on the edge of impropriety.
But even as he danced, Nathaniel kept one eye on Alice.
He was overdoing the flirting. But the knowledge that his wife was seething somewhere along the sidelines made it all the more enjoyable.
Let her seethe. Let her taste her own medicine.
And when the dance ended, and he caught sight of her again, the breath hitched in his throat. Her mask slipped for only a breath, but it was enough.
Gone was the dull servant’s gaze. For the briefest, most incandescent moment, her eyes burned with unmistakable fury.
Jealousy.
The realization unfurled in his chest like heat from good brandy. Delicious and dangerous.
Nathaniel turned his attention back to Madame Petrova, listening with half an ear as she prattled about the difficulties of ordering French gloves in London.
But all the while, he felt Alice drawing nearer.
Silent as a shadow but vibrating with tightly leashed emotion, he sensed her presence before she spoke.
Careful now, he warned himself. She wouldn’t risk the mission by creating a scene, but there were subtler punishments she could deliver. And knowing Alice, they’d sting all the more for their creativity.
With supreme effort, he pretended not to notice her until she was directly at his elbow.
Alice didn’t betray even by the flicker of an eyelash that she had noticed the instant Nathaniel entered the ballroom.
Even before the pompous butler had announced him, she had known he had arrived.
That sixth sense that connected them had not faded in the last five years.
It flared to life as soon as her husband was near.
And oddly, despite their falling out, she had felt reassured by his presence.
Contrary to what she had said in Dalton’s office, she did trust Nathaniel.
At least in this arena. They slipped into their roles effortlessly, performing like a well-trained team.
Each of them knew precisely what to do. Each was aware and always attentive to the other’s needs.
Their synchrony was like a comfortable pair of shoes…
but no. That wasn’t quite right. Because it was also exhilarating.
He energized her. Instead of dulling the excitement, their familiarity made everything more thrilling, and she felt more alive than she had felt since the last mission they undertook together, over six years ago now.
Despite everything between them, she was enjoying working again with Nathaniel. That is until he started flirting with that Russian harlot.
Alice’s gaze narrowed as she watched Nathaniel charm Madame Petrova with shameless ease.
His smile—that devastating smile—curved just so, making the woman all but melt against him.
And now…now he was leading her onto the dance floor like this was some bloody house party lark instead of a critical mission.
What the hell was he doing? Her outrage burned low and steady beneath her ribs. It had to be outrage. That was the only reasonable explanation for the tightness in her chest. She could not be jealous. Absolutely not.
She had no claim to him, she reminded herself. Not anymore. Not in the past five years. How many women had there been in that time? Dozens, probably. With his sexual appetite, his devastating good looks, and his charm, he could have seduced half the eligible women in England—and likely had.
Not surprisingly, the thought did nothing to improve her mood.
What did it matter to her?
Nothing. Not a single damn thing.
Still…did he have to flaunt it? Right here? In front of her? During a mission? It was disrespectful. Irresponsible. Infuriating.
Her fingers tightened around the tray she carried. She couldn’t confront him now. Not without jeopardizing everything. Pouring a glass of red wine down Madame Petrova’s decolletage would, unfortunately, attract too much attention.
But there were subtler ways to make a point.
As the dance ended and the pair drifted toward the refreshment tables, Alice moved through the crowd with calculated ease, her head bowed, posture humble, just another anonymous servant.