Dashing All the Way : A Christmas Anthology

by Eva Devon

Andrew huffed, as if he’d expected such an answer. His gaze held hers as they stood palm to palm, and Claire’s breath snagged just from the intimate touch.

  “Don’t look now,” he murmured, “but Ducos is three dancers up the line.”

  Claire started. That news certainly broke the sensual spell.

  “You’re certain?” she whispered as they circled one another in the dance’s next step.

  “Indeed,” he said. “One of Balfour’s men tipped me when Ducos presented his invitation, and I’ve been following him ever since.”

  The dance called for Claire and Andrew to turn away from each other at that moment, so she took advantage of the figure eight step that came next to cast a peep at Miguel Ducos.

  The short, compact man executed his own steps just a few dancers away. As Claire skirted another figure eight around the woman next to her in the procession, she had to admire the duke’s choice of costume.

  He was cleverly disguised as…a Spanish duke in military court dress, with gold epaulettes, elaborate embroidery work along the cuffs, knee breeches, and lapels, and a bright red sash tied jauntily around his waist. The ensemble was finished off with Spanish crosses pinned to his jacket, a mask, and a bicorn hat with feathered flourishes.

  Exaggerated military costume was popular masquerade fare, and everyone knew the real San Carlos was in prison in France, so…all in all, an inspired choice, really.

  Andrew took her hand as they met once again in the middle, and pulled them into a twirl. The dance brought them closer, hands touching palm to palm and foreheads nearly grazing.

  “Have you noticed him speaking overlong to any one person or group?” Claire murmured. She hoped she hadn’t already missed her opportunity.

  Another set of figure eights drew Andrew away from her and advanced them up the line. A bubble of anxiety floated into her throat. Was tonight’s mission already for naught?

  When a gliding step brought them face-to-face once more, he said, “No. He’s mostly stayed to the edges of the room, taking it in.” They touched hands, then Andrew’s mouth turned down beneath his mask and his voice was harsh as he said, “You scared years off of my life last night, Claire. When I thought—”

  The steps of the dance pulled them apart again. Claire joined arms with the woman next to her as a matter of course, but inside she fumed at the reminder of how he’d tried to keep her from coming tonight. Who cared what he thought when he found she’d left him in the cold? Served him right.

  She’d almost not left him a note at the townhouse before she’d departed, either, but she hadn’t wanted Andrew to worry…much.

  She met him again in the center, and he took her hand for the twirl.

  “You left me little choice,” she hissed. “I will not be dictated to by you, or anyone. And at any rate,” she continued as they touched hands in preparation to turn away from one another, “I’m here now, so let us drop the matter and do what we came here for.”

  Another loop with the neighboring woman, and they were once again together in the center for the twirl.

  “Pax, Claire,” he said, much as he had the first night when she’d insisted to remain as Clarence at Abchurch.

  She relaxed as the ending strains of the violins echoed through the air and he turned her in the final twirl. He was coming around to accepting her part in this, which was good. But if they were going to have a chance at a future together, they would have to discuss his propensity to want to protect her at all costs.

  If she could get over the fact that he’d been able to walk away from her in the first place.

  After the applause for the orchestra, the line of dancers broke up. Andrew settled Claire’s arm on his—rather possessively, she thought. She tried to tug away, wanting to follow San Carlos now that she knew what he looked like.

  Andrew squeezed her hand. “No. We’re just watching for now.”

  He must have sensed her frustration, because his mouth kicked up a half smile beneath his domino. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re not likely to lose sight of him in that elaborate costume.”

  He had a point.

  “Is it wise for us to be seen together?” she murmured as he pulled her into a stroll, loosely keeping pace with Ducos on the opposite side of the ballroom.

  Andrew shrugged one shoulder. “If the killer suspects us, then he’d be looking for two men together. That makes your costume…”

  His gaze dipped to her décolletage once more and his eyes flashed hot.

  “…perfection.”

  The spark of heat that flew through her was so powerful, she half-expected her wooden crook to shoot lightning bolts.

  “Isn’t that why you came as Claire and not Clarence?” he inquired.

  She swallowed, having to repeat his question in her carnally distracted mind. “Um, no, actually.”

  She told him her plan to get close enough to Ducos to be present to overhear any clandestine conversations.

  Claire felt him go rigid, his muscles becoming taut where her hand rested on his arm.

  “It’s the only way,” she said before he could mount the argument she saw brewing in his eyes. “Gentlemen are taught several languages as part of their education. Ducos will not speak freely to anyone if you or any other unknown man is hanging about.”

  She tightened her grip on his arm. “But me? No one expects a lady to know more than French. They’re less likely to suspect me of being able to understand anything they say, so I have the best chance of learning what we need to know.”

  “Christ, Claire,” he muttered, and she sensed him teetering on the edge of picking her up bodily and running for the exit, little lamb and all.

  “You know I’m right,” she said. “And I’m not giving you a choice.” She knew it went against everything in him, but she was through being protected. She intended to do what she felt she must in her life. And if Andrew couldn’t live with that… “I’m going after Ducos with or without you.”

  He shook his head. He took several deep breaths, no doubt grappling with his masculine instinct to shield her at all costs.

  “All right,” he said finally. “But I’ll be close by. And if anything, anything at all makes you uncomfortable, just…” He looked her over. “Roll your shepherd’s crook between your hands and I’ll come to you.”

  She nodded.

  “And if for some reason I don’t, go immediately to one of the footmen.”

  That was an odd request. “Why a footman?”

  “Because most of them here are actually Bow Street Runners,” he said. “Apparently Miguel Ducos is not the only person of interest who is in attendance tonight. I’ve been told the authorities are also trying to trap an infamous jewel thief or two.”

  “Ah.” Knowing that actually did make her feel better. She put on a brave front for Andrew, but her stomach churned at the idea of crossing men who had so much to lose. They wouldn’t think twice about killing her if she were caught.

  From the corner of her eye, Claire noticed Ducos change direction and head for the card room. Another man sidled up to him along the way. The hair stood up on the back of her neck. This was it. She knew it.

  “He’s moving,” she said, as energy spiked through her. She let go of Andrew and quick-stepped her way through the milling crowd, making for the parlor that Ducos had just slipped into.

  Chapter 14

  Claire didn’t look back to see if Andrew followed her. She knew he would, though likely some time behind so as not to alert anyone watching that they were about the same business. She only hoped her plan proved fruitful, as she doubted they would get another shot at uncovering this plot.

  She slowed to a stroll as she reached the card room. Just before passing through the doors, she stopped to take a calming breath. She also plucked her little lamb muff from its pouch and cradled it beneath her arm like a silly prop for an even sillier costume. In truth, she just wanted easier access to her gun should she need it. Then she pinched her cheeks, pasted a smile on he
r face, and entered.

  The Balfours’ impromptu card room sparkled with light and hummed with conversation. Several tables were scattered throughout, filled with guests trying to best one another for a bit of coin. While more sedate than what she’d witnessed at the Devil’s Den—and without games like hazard or roulette, which would be improper in a London ballroom—the room nonetheless reminded her of the gaming hell. Many women graced the tables, either encouraging the men or playing themselves.

  Good. She should fit right in.

  Her eyes sought out Miguel Ducos. He and another man had just joined a mixed group at a table in the far corner and were being dealt a hand.

  It took everything in her not to cut a path directly there. But no. She needed to be circumspect in her approach, lest she draw suspicion.

  She cut her eyes to the party at Ducos’s table, who looked to be engaged in whatever game they played, himself and his companion included. She was going to have to take a gamble and work her way slowly around the room, hoping that no serious discussion took place between the two men until they’d settled in a while.

  And so, against every natural instinct, Claire joined a table in the completely opposite direction.

  Over the next quarter hour, she flitted from game to game, doing her best to make herself seem flighty and a tad ridiculous. She simpered, she cooed, she lost games on purpose and pouted mightily. And all the while, she made her way closer and closer to the table where Ducos still sat.

  The Spaniard and his companion remained at their original table, but other people had come and gone from the seats near them—which was good for her. They should think nothing of it when she sat down.

  She saw her chance when a silver-haired matron laid down her cards and gathered her reticule. Claire made her way over as the older woman departed the seat two down from Miguel Ducos. Her heart thumped like a jackrabbit, but she ignored it. It was now or never.

  “Ooooh, what’s this game?” she trilled as she lowered herself into the recently vacated chair, plopping her little lamb on the table in front of her.

  “Faro, miss,” said the liveried servant who must be acting as dealer and banker tonight.

  Ducos flicked his gaze at her, but Claire dared not let herself look at him. Instead, she turned to the handsome gent on her opposite side. “Is it anything like loo?”

  The man gave her a patient smile. “Not at all.”

  Claire twisted her lips. “How about piquet, then? Is it like piquet? I enjoy piquet.”

  She almost felt the man’s eyes roll as he shook his head.

  And her impression as a brainless flibbertigibbet was set.

  Ducos looked away from her and returned to his hand of cards. Perfect.

  “Ah, well,” she said with an annoying giggle. “I’ll give it a go anyway.”

  Play resumed, and Claire did her best to live up to that impression. She made silly mistakes and asked ridiculous questions, and all the while she kept an ear tuned towards Ducos. Problem was, he wasn’t really speaking to anyone. He just played the game.

  When the man sitting between her and Ducos decided to call it a night, Claire scooted over to his seat. “Perhaps this chair will be more lucky,” she declared with a laugh.

  Finally, she’d insinuated herself right next to the man she believed to be the Duc de San Carlos.

  And still, nothing.

  Had she missed whatever exchange might have happened by taking her time getting here? What if she’d been wrong about the man sitting next to her? What if he wasn’t San Carlos after all? They’d have to start over again in their hunt for Clarence’s and Uncle Jarvis’s killer.

  She fretted over all of that as she played her next cards, and as time passed without Ducos saying anything of interest, she began to wonder how long she should continue to sit here.

  But then a tall gentleman, dressed in the colorful Andalusian costume of a matador, made his way to the table. He discretely tapped the man seated on the other side of Ducos on the shoulder. Without a word, that man stood and left the table, and the torero took his place.

  “Ducos,” the newcomer murmured.

  Miguel Ducos leaned back in his chair, while keeping his cards fanned out before him like a shield. “Señor Embaixador,” he replied softly.

  Claire’s breath stilled. The matador who’d joined the table was the current Spanish ambassador to London. Which meant she’d been right. Ducos was San Carlos. Her hand shook as she laid out her card, and she squeezed her fist to stop it. She had to stay calm. This was what she’d been waiting all night for, and she couldn’t spoil it now.

  She turned and laughed at something a woman on the other side of her said, angling her shoulder away from San Carlos to give him a greater sense of privacy in hopes he would be more free with his words. Then she settled in to listen.

  With the noise of the room and the raucous game play around her, Claire struggled to follow the quietly spoken conversation, but she deduced right away that the men weren’t speaking Spanish, but Galician—a sort of blend of Portuguese and Spanish that originated from Vulgar Latin in the Middle Ages and was still spoken in some parts of Spain. Luckily, she understood enough to get by.

  “Recoméndolles que saca de Londres inmediatamente—” San Carlos was saying.

  He was advising the ambassador to make preparations to leave London?

  “Your play, miss,” the dealer’s voice pulled her out of the conversation.

  “Of course,” Claire replied, pretending to dither over what card to put down…and went back to listening.

  “Si, o tratado xa está en camiño, atravesando Catelonia coa axuda de Copons—”

  A burst of laughter from the table beside them drowned out the rest of whatever San Carlos was saying, and all of what the ambassador replied.

  “—segunda foi enviada con Palifax, no caso de que o primeiro sexa interceptado—” she heard a bit later.

  Claire could only catch snatches here and there of the whispered conference, but even so, she’d soon heard enough. Not only had hers and Andrew’s theory been correct, it was worse than they’d thought.

  She had to find him and tell him what she’d learned. Now.

  When it came her turn to play, Claire pushed her cards into the center of the table.

  “That will do it for me, I’m afraid,” she said as she stood. She picked up her little lamb muff and waggled it. “I do believe I’ve been flee-ee-ee-eeced enough.”

  A few chuckles followed her as she left the table.

  Claire discretely glanced around for Andrew, but didn’t see him in the card room anywhere—which didn’t surprise her overmuch. He’d likely concealed himself in case the killer was watching him, so as not to draw attention to what she was doing. So she made her way back to the ballroom, fully expecting him to rejoin her the moment she cleared the card room doors.

  After a full turn about the place, she still hadn’t found him. Unease snaked its way around her middle. It had cost Andrew to let her go after San Carlos on her own, to admit that he had to rely on her to protect herself as she carried out their mission. There was no way he wouldn’t be by her side now that she was finished—not if he was able.

  Still, she took her crook between her hand and rolled it between her palms in the signal they’d agreed to, hoping it called him to her side like the proverbial lost sheep.

  But it didn’t. Her unease flared into alarm. Where was he? And what was she supposed to do without him?

  Go to one of the Bow Street Runners. That’s what Andrew had told her to do.

  And say what? Precious time would be wasted trying to get someone to believe her, she was certain. She had to get the information she’d gleaned to someone in the War Department right away.

  But… Her stomach churned with fear for Andrew. She needed to find him, too.

  In the end, the choice was made for her. As she turned to search out one of the runners-turned-footmen for help, her arm was caught in a punishing grip.

&nbs
p; “If you want to see Sedgewick alive again,” a familiar voice growled in her ear, “you’ll walk out of here with me. Without making a scene.”

  Chapter 15

  Andrew struggled against the ropes that bound him, twisting his wrists counter to one another in an effort to break free. The rough braiding bit into his skin, drawing blood. But the ligatures didn’t loosen a bit.

  Damn it all!

  He hadn’t been tied up or chained when he’d escaped his prison in Paris. When he’d been taken by French forces, Andrew had been treated as an officer and gentleman who might later be traded for one of Napoleon’s own. He’d even been asked to dine with Marshal Marmont over several evenings—all in a failed effort to glean information from him about Wellington’s plans, of course.

  All very civilized, really, if one didn’t count that the men who’d been captured with him had been shot dead on the spot—as they hadn’t been officers—and that outside the locked doors that had held him were well-armed guards.

  But that experience wasn’t helping him to escape now.

  He renewed his efforts, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  Some minutes later, a cold sweat dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes, and his wrists were on fire. He needed a short break from the agony. Andrew let his body go limp against the hard wooden chair, and as he breathed in heavily of the foul-smelling air, he took in his surroundings.

  He was in a small, bare room with dirty wooden floors, wooden walls, only one door, and a very small window set high above it. The awful stench—a sickening mixture of refuse and rotten fish—could only be the Thames, which meant they were very near the river. And given how long he’d been in the carriage before he’d been hauled unceremoniously into this place by two hulking men, he guessed they weren’t far from Abchurch. Near London Bridge, perhaps.

  He yanked against his bonds once more, but they were as tight as ever. After five years of war, was this tiny, stinking room where he was going to meet his end?

  At least Claire was safe.

  That was the only reason he’d gone quietly when he’d been ambushed in an alcove near the card room by two men dressed as footmen that he’d taken at first to be Bow Street Runners. Let the villains think they were safe by nabbing him. They couldn’t know that Claire was his secret weapon. That by now, she may even have gotten the proof they’d been hoping for and be on her way to the War Department with it.