Chapter 7
Seven
The strains of a quadrille drifted through the open doors of the ballroom, ribbons of music spiraling upward toward the glittering chandeliers.
Sabrina Fairchild stood at the edge of the floor, pretending to study the dancers while her attention remained fixed—pointedly, unwaveringly—upon her brother.
Basil had not danced once. Not so much as a reel.
Instead, he had paced, lingered, and surveyed the room with a tension that only a sister who’d known him all her life could recognize.
Something troubled him. Something continued to trouble him.
And Sabrina had had quite enough of being told to let it be.
Her spine straightened when he slipped from the ballroom—quietly, without ceremony, as though hoping no one would notice.
But she did.
Sabrina gathered her skirts and followed, keeping a careful distance as she slipped into the dim corridor beyond the ballroom. The hum of conversation dulled behind her, replaced by the low flicker of sconces and the faint echo of footsteps—his.
She pressed herself behind a marble statue as Basil paused near the far end of the hall. Her breath caught. He was not alone. A woman stepped out of the shadows to greet him. A woman Sabrina had never seen before.
There was something undeniably enchanting about the woman with Basil.
Though it was difficult to say whether it lay in her beauty or in the mystery that cloaked her.
She was tall and willowy, and she seemed to carry herself with a serene elegance.
Her hair was a lustrous shade of raven black that was gathered in an intricate coil that showcased the graceful line of her neck.
Her eyes were a deep twilight blue and so expressive.
There was something in her gaze that suggested that she possessed secrets she would never willingly share.
There was a seductiveness to her smile that seemed to sway Basil toward her.
The woman was wrapped in midnight-blue silk that shimmered even in the weak corridor light the exact shade of her eyes.
When she spoke—a soft, lilting French accent echoed around the corridor.
“Basile,” the woman murmured, resting her gloved hand on his sleeve with unsettling familiarity. “You must calm yourself.”
Sabrina nearly fell from her hiding place.
Who was this woman and why was her brother meeting with her?
Was she the reason that made it possible for Basil to be blackmailed?
What did she know and how did it pertain to England and her brother.
There had to be a connection. She just did not know what it was—yet.
Her brother stiffened. “How can I, when the situation is worsening? I should never have allowed it to go this far.”
The woman shook her head with gentle certainty. “Non. You fret over shadows. I assure you—there is nothing to fear. Nothing will come of it.”
Nothing to fear? Nothing to come of it? What the bloody hell was going on here?
Sabrina’s blood ran cold. This woman—this stranger—was not the person who had been blackmailing her brother.
She could tell as much from his tone there was no desperate edge to his voice.
No, with her he seemed almost—besotted. No, this was something else entirely.
Another secret. Another lie. This woman was his downfall—her family’s ruin.
She knew it but she could not prove it. Not yet.
But her instincts had never failed her before, and she did not doubt them now.
“élise,” he whispered.
Sabrina’s heart thudded. élise. She rolled the unfamiliar syllables across her tongue in silent repetition, committing them to memory.
Who was she? Why was she here? And what, precisely, had her brother entangled himself in?
She shifted forward, intent on slipping closer, just enough to catch their words with more clarity.
A firm hand closed around her wrist. Sabrina gasped and spun around, only to meet a pair of cool, green eyes glinting beneath the shadowed brim of the Duke of Lionston’s profile. His expression was unreadable, but his grip—impossibly steady—held fast.
“Sabella,” he murmured, voice pitched low, “this is neither the time nor the corridor for such… adventures.”
She tried to tug free—unsuccessfully. “Let me go,” she hissed, darting a desperate glance toward her brother. “I must hear what they are saying.”
Leander leaned in, the scent of crisp bergamot and something darker brushing her senses. “On the contrary—you must not.”
“You do not understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” His gaze held hers, unyielding. “You are about to be discovered, and whatever game you believe yourself to be playing ends in disaster should your brother see you lurking behind statues like a common spy.”
Heat flared in her cheeks. “I am not a spy.”
“No?” His voice lowered, velvet-soft and annoyingly amused. “You are hiding in shadows, eavesdropping upon secret meetings, and creeping closer by the second. Forgive me if the distinction is too subtle for my masculine brain.”
She glared at him, furious—and worse, aware that Basil and élise had already turned to leave the corridor. Her opportunity was slipping away.
Leander stepped between her and the retreating figures, effectively blocking her path. “If you wish to unravel whatever mystery plagues your brother,” he murmured, “you would do well to avoid ruining yourself in the attempt.”
Her breath caught—half indignation, half reluctant acknowledgment of truth.
He released her wrist slowly, deliberately.
“Now,” he said, offering his arm with infuriating composure, “will you allow me the honor of escorting you back to the ballroom before you cause a scandal neither of us can contain?”
Sabrina hesitated, torn between fury and frustration, but she knew a trap when she saw one—and this man would not move until she complied. With a tiny, reluctant huff, she shook her head. “No,” she told him firmly. “I will not go back to the ballroom.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” she told him. “I do not wish to and you cannot force me to do your bidding.”
Slowly, his lips tilted upward. “Perhaps not.” He leaned a little closer. “Would you like to test that theory?”
Sabrina’s mind was already racing. She had to give him the slip.
élise. French. A stranger. A secret whispered in the shadows.
She could not allow this opportunity to discover the truth slip through her fingers.
She had learned much but not nearly enough.
That woman was the key to everything and she had to know more about her.
She could not allow Leander to dictate her movements.
“There is nothing to test,” she told him, and yanked her wrist free from his grip. “I have someplace I need to be.” She met his gaze boldly. “And that place does not include you, Your Grace.”
She turned away from him and headed toward the library.
She needed to think and the music of the ballroom was not going to aid her.
She had a much bigger dilemma than filling her dance card.
Not when her brother was entangled in something far darker than she had imagined and absolutely not when she intended to uncover every last piece of it.
Leander could go to the devil. She did not need or want his interference…
Leander Ashby, the Duke of Lionston, had long ago learned that most disasters began with a woman who believed herself unnoticed.
Such was the case now. He had followed Sabrina the instant she slipped from the ballroom—moving with purpose, though she undoubtedly believed her exit had gone unseen.
But Leander had been watching her far too intently not to observe the moment she fled the crush of guests and the glittering chandeliers.
That was the reason he had attended after all.
To discover her secret and perhaps he was now about to uncover it.
He had not known she trailed her brother until she stopped abruptly and pressed herself behind a marble statue. Her pale gown blended poorly with the shadows, but it hardly mattered. Sabrina was many things—brilliant, fearless, infuriating—but subtle was not one of them.
He, on the other hand, had honed subtlety into an art.
Remaining cloaked in darkness behind a tall drapery, Leander directed his attention to the exchange unfolding between Lord Whitley and the woman he spoke with.
He had called her élise. She was exquisite in that deliberate, calculated French way—her gaze too sharp and her smiles too precise.
A dangerous woman. The kind who wielded charm as a blade.
And Lord Whitley…the poor, oblivious besotted fool…was already bleeding for her.
Leander’s jaw tensed. élise manipulated Sabrina’s brother with the ease of a master musician coaxing notes from a violin.
Every touch, every lilting laugh, every seemingly innocent question—each was crafted to draw information from him.
Lord Whitley, heir to one of parliaments leading lords…
was eager to impress, was precisely the sort of man who would offer it willingly.
He knew enough to be dangerous, and the French operative was taking advantage of his naiveté.
Leander did not yet know her orders, but he knew her type well enough.
Operatives like her infiltrated, charmed, extracted…
and vanished. They were exceptionally useful when employed by his side—and exceptionally troublesome when employed by the enemy.
Which was why Sabrina’s presence was a bloody catastrophe waiting to happen.
If élise sensed a watcher—if she believed her cover compromised—she might abandon Lord Whitley entirely and strike out at the nearest potential threat. She could hurt Sabrina. That was something he could not allow to happen. No, he would not permit that.
But before he could intervene, Sabrina shifted, her slippers scraping lightly against the marble floor. Not loudly. Not enough for Basil to notice. But élise’s head tilted, feline and alert.
He had to intervene. She was too close to being discovered for his comfort.
Leander stepped smoothly from the shadows, placing his hand over her wrist. Sabrina stiffened at his touch and turned toward him.
At least she was out of the Frenchwoman’s view.
Her eyes widened, surprise flaring, followed instantly by irritation.
Of course she was irritated. Sabrina took offense at the mere suggestion that she required protection.
Only when Basil and élise moved on, strolling down the corridor toward the south terrace he eased slightly.
Sabrina had not appreciated his interference.
Not that he blamed her. He would have been irritated in a similar situation.
But he did not let it bother him that she was mad at him.
Lately she was always angry and he was her convenient target.
He followed behind her as she fled the corridor until she walked inside the library.
When she swept inside the dark-paneled room, he stepped in behind her and—before she could protest—turned the key in the lock. The soft click seemed to echo.
Sabrina whirled, eyes blazing. “Leander! What do you think you are doing?”
“Ensuring we have privacy,” he replied smoothly. “It is best we are not discovered alone together.”
“Better for you, you mean,” she replied scathingly.
She was so beautiful it ached to look at her.
All he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and press his lips to hers.
He wanted to kiss her so badly he almost gave into that urge.
Somehow, he held the fortitude not to give into that desire.
Instead, he asked, “Why were you skulking about spying on your brother?”
“I was not skulking. I was observing.”
“You were about to be observed,” he countered. “And trust me when I say this, that woman is far more dangerous than she appears.”
“I am not afraid of her.” So much bravery… He would applaud it if it didn’t hold the possibility of getting her killed.
“You have no idea what you were about to interrupt,” he said quietly, “There would be repercussions should she mistake you for a threat. Do you not understand that?”
Color rose in her cheeks—anger or embarrassment, he could not tell. “How could you possibly know that?”
How did he explain the years of experience he had as a spy?
She had thought him a mere soldier in the war.
No one, except a trusted few, knew exactly what role he had played.
It had been imperative for his cover and continued existence that no one be aware of his spying expertise.
Instead of answering he said, “I will escort you back to the ballroom.”
“I refuse,” she snapped. “Haven’t we already had this argument. I want to be here. In the library. Not in the bloody ballroom.”
Of course she refuse—stubborn woman. His patience snapped like a bowstring. “You need to understand exactly the danger you are dancing with.” He stepped toward her, letting the truth settle heavily between them. “It is time we had the necessary conversation you have been avoiding, Sabella love.”
“I have avoided nothing…”
“Is that so?” He arched a brow. She was so stubborn…
though a twisted part of him liked that about her.
He might have to use some of those spy skills he earned to coax that truth out of her.
The problem, of course, was he would enjoy it far more than he should.
Seduction was a skill that all good spies used.
He just never thought he would have to use those particular attributes on the woman who held his heart…
“Well, then, let’s discuss something far more interesting.
” He stepped closer. “Something else that you have been avoiding.” He trailed a finger over her cheek and then down her jawline.
“Tell me, Sabella, why you are truly mad at me. Tell me why we are no longer friends. The truth, love. Why did you take my leaving so…personally?”
Her sharp intake of breath echoed around him and he stilled.
Would she speak the truth now or avoid it.
Was this enough for her to spill the secrets regarding her brother?
Would she choose a different truth over the much harder one.
The truth that they both hid from—that they loved each other and neither of them was ready to speak aloud.
He waited on bated breath for her response, with both fear and hope filling him in equal measures.