Chapter 3
Three
The Lion Watch was kept in a warehouse that smelled faintly of tarred rope and damp timber. A bit of an unromantic perch for a network that traded in whispers, codes, and other various dangerous things... Dash preferred it that way. He had never trusted gilded things. Gilding cracked too easily.
He stood at the long table in the central office; one hand braced on the edge of a map of London that had been pricked and marked far too many times.
Pins and colored thread traced routes from the docks to Mayfair, from Whitehall to Wapping.
In the margins lay a scatter of folded notes, sealing wax, and a small sandglass that measured minutes.
Dash did not sit. He rarely did when he was waiting.
His patience could run a little thin at times, and this was certainly one of those times.
His coat had dried from his time in the rain earlier.
A cold unease lingered beneath the fabric, as persistent as damp in stone though.
He told himself it was nothing and he should not be worried.
She would be all right. He would ensure it.
But his instinct sharpened by years of living one step ahead of blades told him he had to remain vigil.
A niggling feeling that had begun at Whitcombe House refused to be dismissed.
So, he would take heed and be prepared. It was how he had survived on the continent for so long.
He did not like that someone had been watching Lady Lavinia. This was not the first time he would have had to put himself in front of an innocent in danger. The only difference was this time that person meant far more to him than she ever should have.
A door opened with a careful squeak. A man slipped inside.
He was plainly dressed and forgettable at a glance.
Which was precisely the point of his attire.
His cap was in his hand and his expression remained composed.
Though his eyes held the brightness of someone who had been alert for hours and would need sleep soon.
The man gave a small bow. “My lord.”
Dash did not greet him. “What have you learned?”
“The lady lives a charmed life,” he said. “Everyone seems to adore her.”
He could well understand that notion. But it was not something he needed to be reported to him. “Did she notice you?”
“No.” A hint of pride filled his gaze, but he quickly suppressed it and continued to tell Dash what he learned. “I kept a proper distance. I maintained cover as a porter, then a groom.”
“Good.” Dash’s gaze stayed on the map, though his attention sharpened. “What happened after I left the Whitcome residence.”
“No further incident after the waltz. Lady Lavinia left with her family. I followed the Avonridge carriage at a distance. She returned home without interruption.”
Dash flexed his jaw. “And today?”
The man was one of Lionston’s best shadows, which meant he was not inclined to dramatics and answered with steady precision.
“She went to a modiste on Bond Street late this morning. Spent near half an hour there talking with the shopkeeper. No one approached her. There was nothing untoward. There was no exchange of any sort not even a note was passed to her. She made a brief call at the stationer’s afterward. Then returned home.”
Dash’s fingers curled against the table. “Did she go to Hyde Park.” He had thought he’d seen her there, but he had been in the park on other business.
“Yes, my lord. She went in the early afternoon. She walked with her sister and a maid. Several gentlemen looked her way, but none lingered long with her and her sister.”
“Was there anyone that who watched too closely?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not that I noticed.” If there had been he would have taken note of it down to the last detail. So, Dash trusted his word.
“Is there anything else you think I should be aware of?”
“Not regarding her movements today.”
Dash paused and stared at the pins embedded in London’s paper heart. The absence of any incident ought to have eased him. Instead, it sharpened the unease. Because men from his world did not always act at once. They learned patterns and they waited for the moment a target was alone.
“What is her next engagement?” Dash asked.
The man hesitated only long enough to recall the details precisely. “The Cresswell Ball. It is tomorrow night. Lady Whitcombe mentioned it to the Duchess of Avonridge as they were departing the ball. Lady Lavinia will attend with her mother and sister.”
Dash’s eyes narrowed…Cresswell. He knew the house. He knew the guest list would be thick with glittering distraction and he also knew how easy it would be to be invisible in that crush. It would be far too easy it would be to orchestrate an accident or make someone disappear.
“Do you know who of import will attend?” Dash asked.
“Several ministers and their wives, two foreign ambassadors’ cousins. The Earl of Thornhill mentioned he might attend.” The flicked his gaze up briefly. “And the Duke of Lionston, if he does not leave London before then.”
Dash absorbed that without outward reaction, though something in his chest tightened at the mention of Thornhill.
Thornhill moved in and out of rooms the way a cardsharper moved in and out of fortunes—smiling, charming, leaving less behind than he took.
He was also one of Lionston’s best agents for that reason.
Dash’s voice remained even. “Did Lady Lavinia appear uneasy or alarmed? As if she feared she was being followed?”
“No. She behaved as any young lady might. Calm, polite, and perhaps…thoughtful.”
Thoughtful could mean anything. Thoughtful could mean she had already noticed a thread and begun to pull it. She prayed that was not why she had been lost in thought at all.
“Very well,” Dash said.
The man waited, as if expecting further orders. Dash dismissed him with a single nod. “Continue to watch her until midnight tonight. If anything changes, anything at all, send word at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The door closed again. Dash remained at the table, alone with the map and the sound of the sandglass emptying itself one grain at a time.
It would have been easier, safer, to remain distant.
He should continue to send shadows like that man to follow her and take note of any threats.
He should wait for proof before intervening, but proof sometimes came too late, more often than not.
Beneath all of his careful logic, another truth pressed at him with quiet insistence.
Dash had remembered her. He had never been formally introduced to her, but the girl who had fallen at his feet years ago…
He could not help but recall her. Her cheeks had been aflame with embarrassment and her pride wounded.
Those bright eyes had stolen his breath.
She had a lot of determination even in mortification.
All that innocence wrapped up in one lovely package.
A lovely girl had turned into an even more beautiful woman.
He had not thought of her often. That would have been absurd, and yet he had never forgotten her.
Which made her dangerous to him in a way no enemy blade ever could be.
Because a blade he could meet. A bullet he could dodge.
A weakness…was something else entirely. That was the reason he had rarely thought of her in all the years he was on the continent.
Because it would have been a distraction he could not afford.
If the enemy had discovered it and if they had somehow learned that he carried one foolish memory like a private wound—they might use it against him. They might hurt her to hurt him… Dash turned the sandglass over with a sharp motion and watched the first grain fall.
“No,” he murmured to the empty room. “I cannot allow that to happen.”
He reached for his coat. Tomorrow night, he would attend the Cresswell Ball. Not as a man seeking pleasure, but as a man stepping into a trap before it could spring. If she was going to the ball, any ball, he would be there to ensure no one ever hurt her. Not while he still breathed.
The Cresswell ballroom blazed with light and laughter. Chandeliers scattered fire across gilded mirrors while music spun bright and buoyant. The air was perfumed with orange blossoms and the faint scent of vanilla. Vivy moved through it all with a smile that did not reach her heart.
The list in her reticule might was a heavy reminder she could not ignore. She felt its weight with every step, a reminder that she no longer stood safely within the ordinary world. She had stepped, willingly or not, into something shadowed.
And tonight, she intended to learn who among the shining crowd wore an unseen mask of a spy.
Her gaze swept the room, landing on familiar faces and unfamiliar ones alike.
A duke’s daughter saw more than most people assumed.
She was trained to read the currents beneath conversation, to notice when laughter was too loud, and when a pause lasted a beat too long.
She paused when she found the man she had come to the ball hoping to find.
Near the edge of the card tables, surrounded by women with flushed cheeks and pleased smiles her query stood.
He was the Earl of Thornhill. He was handsome in the effortless way of men who knew their appeal.
He had brown hair that fell artfully into place as if it had never met a comb.
His eyes were a clear, bright blue that gave the impression of sincerity, even when sincerity was nowhere to be found.
His smile was quick, charming, and just wicked enough to make matrons pretend they disapproved while nudging their daughters closer.
In short, he was impish, intoxicating, and dangerous.
Vivy approached with steady grace, reminding herself that was the daughter of a duke and she would not falter before a charming earl. “Lord Thornhill,” she said, curtsying as required.