he didn’t know. She wasn’t particularly tall, or even particularly short. Her hair wasn’t brown, or chestnut or guinea gold. Strangely, it was all of them. Her features were neither classical nor pretty nor plain, because one only noticed her large cerulean-blue eyes framed by surprisingly dark lashes. Were they dyed or natural? And why would he care? She didn’t glitter or sparkle as other females did, nor did she fade into the modest obscurity of a miss new on the town. She glowed with the incandescent warmth of the pearl choker around her throat.
And the Beau Monde hovered around her like bees over clover. Sumptuously dressed women hung on her every word, while the men mentally slavered over the flesh exposed by the low-scooping gown. The lure of shoulders and high, full breasts of palest white startlingly scattered with freckles. Instinct told him she was French. Few British women would dare such a diaphanous gown of silver and dampen their petticoats with such blatant unconcern. A recent émigrée, perhaps? One who had arrived during his absence these past few months.
A woman as sensual as sin. The words reverberated in his head. Surprising. Shocking. These days, he rarely had that kind of reaction to a woman, no matter how beautiful or fashionable.
Her gaze passed over him and flicked back. An almost imperceptible lift of brows as dark as her lashes. Interest. Followed immediately by an acknowledgement of desire. The look strummed every nerve in his body, a vibration followed swiftly by heat. Things inside him shifted, as if his spine had realigned. Stunned, he froze. His body stirred as he was caught in her clear-eyed gaze. A coolly calculating glance that spun out into timelessness before it fractured into naked vulnerability. Or not. A blink and the very idea seemed absurd for such a self-contained creature.
Realisation dawned. She was the one of whom he’d been warned.
The French, then. How typical of them to suppose he couldn’t resist the wiles of a woman. Clearly, they’d let appearances deceive them into thinking he was an easy mark. Yes, he found the woman extraordinarily attractive, but so did every male in the room.
Damn it all. And if he was right, why test his loyalty at such a critical juncture? That he now had to fight a battle on yet another front was irritating to say the least. Yet, if he’d been in their shoes, he likely would have been testing his loyalty too. His role had become pivotal to their plans. If he proved a weak link in the chain, it might set the invasion back by months. He certainly didn’t want that. The more nervous they became, the harder it would be to put a stop to their ambitions once and for all.
If he told Sceptre of his suspicions about this woman, they would demand he eliminate the danger. Coldly. Brutally. Just as Marianne had been eliminated. His stomach clenched at the memory.
No. Not without proof. Suspicions were one thing, but it behove him to discover the truth of who had sent her and why. Only a fool would eliminate a danger without knowing from whence it came.
Tension tightened his muscles. A reaction to the knowledge of an upcoming skirmish. Retaining his outward easy calm, he sauntered through the ballroom, bowing and smiling, while his skin tingled and his body burned with an inner flame. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this much anticipation. Because of the way he had come alive during the space of a glance.
As he moved among his peers, he heard her name on their lips. Nicoletta, Countess Vilandry. Society’s new novelty.
He drifted towards the refreshment table, glad to see Armande was nowhere in sight. He deliberately slowed his breathing, forced himself to think logically, sifting through the bloodlines of the French nobility. Vilandry. An old name. And one now extinguished, he thought. Lack of certainty made him uneasy. Ignorance was vulnerability in this high-stakes game. But no matter what he didn’t know, his gut sensed she was the one of whom Armande had warned.
Heat leached away, followed by cold resolve. One way or another, he must delve the secret depths of the Countess Vilandry before returning to Cornwall. And quickly.
* * *
Without a doubt, Gabriel D’Arcy, Marquess of Mooreshead, would be Nicky’s most difficult challenge to date. The gauntlet in his chilly blue eyes had been unmistakably thrown down before he coolly turned away. Not a man to be trifled with carelessly, she’d been warned, despite his reputation for charm.
Something had happened during the course of that brief visual encounter. Despite her every effort, the familiar mask of the Countess Vilandry, the seductive woman she’d become to survive her marriage, had almost slipped from her grasp. Leaving Nicky Rideau, the girl she had been a long time ago, open and exposed and unprotected. Perhaps it was Mooreshead’s sheer physical beauty that had pierced her protective shield, his golden locks and masculine physique, with no sign of the corruption she’d expected to see in a man base enough to betray his country. The sweetly painful little flutter low in her belly when their eyes made contact had been a terrible shock, when she’d expected to feel nothing at all. Such a display of weakness would have earned her a slap if Vilandry had been alive to see such a beginner’s mistake. There were no emotions involved in a seduction. The woman never admired the man. She only teased and tormented.
She’d realised her mistake in an instant and drawn the Countess around her like a domino made of steel. It was too late for Nicky Rideau. She’d been buried years ago. The Countess never let her own desires run amok. And no matter how handsome or charming he proved, he would pose no threat to a woman who had learned her arts from a master. She would expose all of his secrets and find the proof of his treachery.
Failure was not an option. Not if she wanted Paul to keep his promise to provide the false papers that would get her into France. The hint she’d received that her sister might yet be alive and alone was a bruise on her heart. And the sour taste of guilt in the back of her throat.
Exposing Mooreshead would give her the opportunity to know the truth once and for all.
It would take a delicate touch to reel in a man with his reputation. She’d made it her business to unearth the gossip about him. A man of fashion. A Corinthian. A man who drove to an inch and who displayed to advantage in the pugilist ring despite his whipcord leanness and rangy height. And an incorrigible rake. A man who took nothing seriously, unless it was the cut of his coat and the set of his cravat. A man who laughed easily, whether he won or lost a fortune. A man who needed a fortune to support his lifestyle, but who was rumoured to be penniless. That last alone made her suspicious.
But it would not be easy to pierce that carefully constructed armour of devil-may-care. At least, not easy for any other woman. The Countess had been well schooled in the art of seduction and male manipulation. Her husband had delighted in teaching his young bride how to please him as well as keep his friends and political enemies dancing to his tune. She shuddered at the recollection.
Still, Vilandry’s lessons would stand her in good stead in this new venture of hers. And if in the end, Paul did not send her to France to help with Britain’s war effort, she would have earned enough to pay her own way.
A quick scan of the room found Mooreshead near the refreshment table idly watching the dancing. Or appearing to do so. She smiled at her companion, the estimable, plump Mrs Featherstone. As a widow, Nicky did not need a chaperone, but the elderly matron, with her grey frizzled hair and placid expression, not only added a necessary aura of respectability, she was the link to her spymaster. ‘Ma chère madame,’ she said idly, ‘why is it the English must keep their rooms so warm? I swear I am parched.’
‘Do you find it so, my dear?’ the other woman said, looking vague. A habit she cultivated to great success. Her eyes sharpened as they fell on their target and she gave a small smile. ‘Why is there never a waiter nearby when one needs one? Let me see what I can do.’ She drifted in the direction the refreshment table.
A moment or two later Mooreshead arrived in Mrs Featherstone’s wake, carrying two goblets of champagne. She smiled her thanks as he handed her a glass.
‘Countess,’ Mrs Featherstone said, ‘may I introduce Lord Mooreshead, who so kindly came to my rescue. Mooreshead, the Countess Vilandry.’
Nicky gave him a warm smile, dipping her knees and inclining her head,