Chapter Three #2
A criminal then, though God alone knew where he would find one, or whether such a man could be trusted to keep his secrets besides.
His gaze strayed across the ballroom, scanning the crowd until they landed upon Mr. Moore—
No. Decidedly not. The man hadn’t had a qualm about threatening his life so openly over Miss Seymour; like as not he’d laugh straight in Henry’s face had he the temerity to approach him. And could Mr. Moore be trusted, besides?
The fine hairs at the back of his neck prickled as he recalled the silky menace infused into Mr. Moore’s none-too-subtle insinuations. Probably his family could trust the man implicitly. Anyone else? Not bloody likely.
Best to avert his eyes before Mr. Moore caught sight of him again.
Henry had the vague sense that it would take very little provocation indeed for the man to make good on his threats.
Perhaps he ought to make his way to the card room, or at least make an effort to smooth the wrinkles from his cravat in the retiring room.
Before he could move from his spot against the wall, he caught sight of Miss Seymour at last, making her way through the crowd toward the refreshment table.
Unaccompanied, of course—he had never been certain if it had not been thoroughly explained to her that a young woman of good reputation never went anywhere unaccompanied, or if she simply did not care.
Then again, he knew well enough that one could do one’s utmost to follow every stricture of society and still fall short of public approval.
If she had noticed him standing nearby, she’d given no indication of it whatsoever, and so he slouched back against the wall hoping to avoid Mr. Moore’s notice for just a few minutes longer.
He watched her surreptitiously as she lingered over the table, choosing a selection of tiny pastries for herself.
A few delicious blond curls had been left loose from the coil of her hair to drape elegantly down her back, drifting with each turn of her head over the seafoam-green silk of her gown.
Tiny cap sleeves left a swath of her arms bare above her evening gloves, revealing smooth, creamy skin.
The cinch of the bodice at her natural waist flattered her figure ever so much more than had the high-waisted gowns that had been the mode only a few years ago.
And that arse.
“She’s got good breasts, I’ll give her that, though the hips are a bit too wide for my liking.”
“Mm. But she’s got a dowry of twenty thousand.”
Henry’s head swiveled in the direction from whence the voices had come. At the opposite end of the refreshment table lingered two men who stared openly at Grace only a few feet away from them.
A nasty chuckle from one of them. “Well, the duke can afford it, can’t he? I’d wager no one would take her for less than ten, besides. Would you?”
His companion wrinkled his nose. “I’d consider it for thirty and no less. For thirty, I could afford to keep my mistress, besides. Still, it’d be a cold day in hell before I’d pollute my bloodline in such a fashion.”
“For less than thirty thousand, you mean to say,” said the first, and they both shared a laugh.
“But the hips,” the second sighed, with a shake of his head.
Though she did not betray herself with so much as the smallest glance in their direction, Grace’s shoulders stiffened.
So did Henry’s. Didn’t they know she could hear them?
Or did they simply not care? What manner of man spoke of a woman, any woman, as though she were a damned broodmare?
In a crowded ballroom, no less! Perhaps he had not always—or ever, really—been particularly kind to her, but it had never been on account of her figure.
Which was lush and full and perfectly lovely.
The sort of figure that could have made her the muse of any sculptor; the sort of figure that would have made Rubens himself weep with joy.
He couldn’t cause a scene. Not tonight. But he found himself scanning the crowd in search of Mr. Moore.
Before he took his leave, he’d drop a word in the man’s ear regarding what he’d overheard and from whom he’d overheard it, and trust that the man’s loyalty to those he considered his family would see the matter satisfactorily resolved.
“Oh!” Grace’s voice grabbed his attention once more. She’d turned in the direction of the two men, plate of pastries in hand. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I didn’t see you there.”
A lie. The falsehood was pleated into the saccharine sweetness of her smile, etched into the stiff set of her shoulders, in the very twitch of her adorable little nose.
If he’d heard the fellows at twenty feet, she’d certainly heard them at five.
And yet she pretended she’d cast herself into their path by mistake, smiling pleasantly.
“I’m so very sorry. Might I squeeze by?” she asked, all syrupy amiability.
Though they grumbled about it, the two men made a path, and as Grace glided forward to pass, a catch in her step had her fumbling the plate of pastries in her hand. One of the men dived to right it before it could land flat upon his chest.
“How clumsy of me!” Grace simpered as she retrieved the plate. “Terribly sorry, gentlemen. Do have a lovely evening.”
Something round and silver flashed briefly in the palm of the hand she flattened against the bottom of the plate. A pocket watch?
Henry slid his hand over his mouth, scrubbing away the expression of raw amazement he knew had settled there. Grace Seymour had just stolen a man’s watch straight out of his coat pocket in the midst of a crowded ballroom—and not a damned person had noticed.
Except for him.
Astonished, Henry could only watch as Grace wove back through the crowd toward her family.
Incredible that she could move so smoothly, that there wasn’t even the faintest trace of guilt or guile lingering in her expression, that she carried herself with such confidence.
As if she knew that no one would ever suspect her of a damned thing.
Hell, he’d watched her do it, and still he could hardly bring himself to believe it.
She stood there surrounded by her family, nibbling at dainty little slices of cake, occasionally offering some choice pastry to someone or other—and not one other person had the faintest idea that she had a man’s pocket watch held in her palm just below the plate from which they made their selections.
Henry could almost have made himself believe the whole incident had been an invention of his imagination, except that when the plate was empty at last, and a member of the serving staff swept by to take it from her, she effortlessly palmed the watch once again and surreptitiously slipped it into a pocket concealed within her gown.
A secret pocket, hidden within a ball gown. What manner of woman was Grace Seymour, exactly?
One with criminal tendencies, clearly.
Holy hell.
Henry’s spine snapped straight, and he shoved himself away from the wall as an odd little tingle of awareness skittered through his nerves. Grace Seymour was a thief. A damned good one, too. Cunning, capable, and confident. Quite possibly one of the best.
And a thief was exactly what he needed.