“Aye,” he said grimly. “Yer runner.”
“He’s not my – never mind.” She shook her head. “That’s not important. What’s important is that you put that bloody thing away before we’re both arrested!”
With obvious reluctance Bran slipped the pistol back into his jacket, but he kept his hand within easy reach of the weapon. “Do ye at least have a plan?” he growled. “Because I think he’s seen ye and he doesn’t none too pleased.”
“Yes, of course I have a plan. An excellent plan.”
He looked at her dubiously. “Ye don’t have one, do ye?”
“Not in the slightest.” She’d always known Grant’s presence at the ball might be a possibility. Their moment of reckoning had been coming from the first night they met. Better to get it over with once and for all than have it continue to linger over her head like an axe ready to fall.
“The tiara is here somewhere,” she told Bran urgently. “In the dowager’s bedroom, if I had to guess. Find it and meet me on the back terrace at exactly eleven o’clock.”
“What about ye?” he frowned.
“Don’t worry about me, I can handle myself. Now go!” She gave him a not-so-gentle push. “I’ll keep The Wolf busy.”
Quick as a cat, Bran slipped out from behind the fern and followed two women out into the hall. She heard him ask one of them if they’d liked to have their shoes polished as the double doors swung closed. Biting back a smile, she took another deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped out to meet her fate.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A herd of stampeding horses would have looked less menacing than Grant Hargrave cutting a wide swath through the crowd. He stalked Juliet with a single-minded purpose, his long strides devouring the space between them. His eyes were so filled with fury they appeared black, and it took every ounce of courage Juliet possessed not to turn around and follow Bran out the door.
“Lord Hargrave,” she said sweetly when he jerked to a halt in front of her. His imposing frame towered over her smaller one, forcing her to crane her neck back in order to meet his stormy gaze. “How nice to see you this evening. You’re looking well.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw as he glared down at her. Dressed in formal black with his hair slicked back from his face and gold cufflinks at his wrists, he looked every inch the fancy highborn lord. But the murderous glint in his gaze and the tension vibrating through his body was all runner.
“You made a mistake coming here tonight,” he growled.
“The only mistake I made was–” She stopped short. Losing her temper wasn’t going to help anyone, least of all Bran. If she was going to keep Grant distracted long enough for the tiara to be found she needed to keep a cool and level head.
“Was what?” he prompted, eyes narrowing.
“Never mind. It isn’t important. What is important is that I am an invited guest of the dowager.” She lifted her chin. “So if you were thinking of dragging me back to Bow Street, you’d best think again.”
He smiled humorlessly. “If the dowager knew what you really were she would have had you arrested at the gates.”
“And what am I?” she challenged, arching an auburn brow.
Leaning in close enough for her to smell the champagne on his breath, he whispered silkily, “A thief. A liar. A charlatan.” She quivered with awareness when his warm breath fanned across her neck. “A temptress I cannot get out of my head no matter how hard I try. Dance with me, Juliet.” He abruptly stepped back and held out his arm. She stared blankly at his outstretched hand, as if he’d just offered her a cooking pot or a watering can or some other obscure item that had nothing to do with the topic at hand.
“I – What?”
“Dance with me,” he repeated. “I can only presume dancing is why you accepted the dowager’s invitation.” One corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m sure it had nothing to do with her collection of priceless jewelry.”
“You’re not going to–”
“Arrest you?” he interrupted. “No. At least not tonight. It would cause too big of a scene, and my mother would never let me hear the end of it. She’s an old friend of the dowager’s. But then you knew that already, didn’t you?”
Was this some sort of joke? Her gaze darted from his arm, elegantly dressed in a flawlessly tailored black sleeve, up to his face. He’d taken care to make his expression unreadable, but she thought she detected a slight softening in the hard line of his jaw.
“All right,” she said warily. “I’ll dance with you. But on one condition.”
“For a thief, you certainly have a lot of conditions.”
“I could say the same of you, runner.”
They stared hard at one another. To Juliet’s surprise, Grant was the first to concede their silent battle of wills.
“Very well,” he said. “What is your condition?”
“We call a truce.” She felt a twinge of guilt knowing that Bran was upstairs at this very moment searching for the tiara, but the guilt quickly faded when she reminded herself of how Grant would have turned her over to the magistrate had she not escaped. “Until the end of the next dance, I’m not a thief. I’m…”
“Miss Williams, the daughter of a viscount?” he suggested when she hesitated.
“Precisely. And you’re – well, you can be you.”
“How gracious of you,” he said dryly. “Shall we, Miss Williams?”
This time she took his arm when he offered it, her gloved fingers resting lightly on the rigid line of his forearm. Side by side they walked towards the middle of the room just as the music began to play and Juliet bit her lip when she recognized the slow, sweeping tune.
Of course it would be a waltz, the most intimate of all the dances. But she didn’t resist when Grant squared off in front of her and clasped their hands lightly together, nor did she stiffen when he touched the small of her back.
They began to move in perfect harmony, his experience easily masking her rudimentary education whenever she happened to make a small misstep. He was as light on his feet as she remembered, and never once did she fear for the safety of her instep as they swirled effortlessly around the ballroom.
“Where did you learn to dance so well?” he asked curiously. They’d completed their first turn and were just beginning another. Before the waltz reached its conclusion they would complete no less than five turns around the room.
“A friend taught me the basic steps.”
“Was this the same friend who sent me on a merry chase all through St Giles?” he asked, one dark brow lifting. “I can only assume that’s when you infiltrated the garden soiree.”
“Infiltrated,” she scoffed. “You make me sound like a spy.”
“Aren’t you? A spy is as adept at changing personas as they are at changing their clothes. Since we first met you’ve been a boy, a bluestocking, a thief, and a lady. Which makes me wonder.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper as he stared deeply into her eyes. “Who is the real Juliet?”
When he looked at her like that she felt as though he was peering into the very depths of her soul. Flustered by the intensity of his gaze she glanced away, and nearly tripped over her own foot.
“Oh,” she gasped as she lost her balance and teetered precariously to the side.
“I’ve got you,” Grant murmured, his arm tightening around her back. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She looked up at him sharply, searching for a double meaning behind his words. But if it was there she couldn’t find it, and she chastised herself for being a silly romantic twit. Grant didn’t care for her. If he did, he wouldn’t have left her locked in a room. If he felt anything for her at all, he wouldn’t have–
Wouldn’t have what? A small, unwanted voice of reason interceded. Captured you? That’s his job. Turned you over to the magistrate? That’s his job as well. Except he didn’t turn you over, did he?
Well no, she thought silently. He hadn’t. But that was only because–
&nbs
p; He either did or he didn’t.
It’s not as simple as–
He either did. Or he didn’t. Which one is it?
“Didn’t,” she muttered under her breath.
“What was that?” Grant asked, glancing down at her with a half-smile. Devil take it, why did he have to be so bloody handsome? Even though she preferred him in less formal attire, there was no denying he cut a dashing figure in his ebony tailcoat and white cravat. For the first time she became uncomfortably aware of the dozens of eyes that were following them as they whirled around the ballroom, including the thoughtful gray gaze of the Duchess of Readington.
“Nothing. Everyone’s watching us,” she said tersely, her small frame automatically tensing beneath the scrutiny. She was accustomed to living in the shadows, not dancing in the spotlight. Grant, on the other hand, looked completely at ease with the attention.
“Of course they are. I’m one of the most eligible bachelors on the market and you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.” His thumb stroked across the middle of her palm, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Her gaze jerked to his face, wondering if the small movement had been by accident or design. The rakish gleam in his eye revealed it to be the latter.
“Tell me more about yourself,” he said as they began their third turn. Two more and their temporary truce would be over.
“There is not much to tell,” she said evasively.
“Who are your parents? Where did you grow up? When did you become a–”
“All right, all right.” A mulish frown tugged at her bottom lip. “When I agreed to dance with you I didn’t realize I would be subjecting myself to a grand inquisition.”
“They’re just questions.”
“They’re personal questions.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes.” What game was he playing at, she wondered? Was all of this – the dance, the sweet words, the subtle touches – a clever ploy to lull her into complacency? Or was it something more? There was only one way to find out.
“Very well. If you must know, my parents died in a fire when I was no more than a babe. I don’t remember them. I was raised in the East End. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. From a young age I quickly learned that if I wanted something I needed to take it, for no one was going to give it to me. What?” she said mockingly when his jaw tightened. “Did you think I learned to steal on a whim? That I did it for fun? Because I can assure you there is nothing fun about wondering where your next meal will come from, or fearing someone will discover you’re not the lad you’re pretending to be, or always going to sleep with a knife under your pillow.
“I’m a product of my environment, runner. The same as you are of yours. Do you think your life would have turned out so differently from mine had you been born in a rat-infested flat instead of a fancy estate in the country?” Her eyes glittered as the anger she’d been trying to contain spilled over in a frothy wave of hurt and betrayal. “You sit up on your moral high horse and judge those beneath you as if you have the right to do so because you were born with a title. Well you don’t have that right. No one does. You don’t know what I’ve gone through. What I’ve seen.” She was breathing heavily by the time she finished, her chest rising and falling with the rapid beat of her heart.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. Sincerely. Shockingly. “You’re absolutely right. For too long I’ve been trying to add two and two, but no matter how many times or how many ways I do it, you’re always going to be a five. Or a seven. Or a twelve. Anything but a four.”
Her brow creased. “What are you–”
“Dance with me,” he interrupted, gently pulling her forward until the tips of her breasts grazed his hard chest. “Just dance with me.”
She wanted to resist him. To scorn his attention and push him aside. It would have been easier that way. Simpler that way. But maybe what she felt for Grant was never meant to be easy or simple. Maybe they were always meant to be a ball of fire hurtling towards the earth with all the brilliance of a shooting star. A shooting star that was either going to ignite the heavens…or burn to a pile of ash.
There was no way to know what would happen when the music faded and their truce ended. But if she allowed herself, she could have this one moment.
So she took it.
Grant’s hand splayed across her back, drawing her even closer. She breathed in his comforting scent and closed her eyes, trusting him not to let her stumble or fall. They danced in silence, letting their bodies and their hearts speak for them as they completed the last turn around the room. When the waltz finally ended and everyone broke apart to clap they only had eyes for one another, both equally reluctant to let the moment go.
But moments were never meant to last forever, and the sound of a gunshot abruptly brought their truce to an end.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Oh my heavens!” Gray eyes wide, the Duchess of Readington turned to her husband as chaos broke out all around them. “Was that what I think it was?”
“Yes.” Grim faced, Eric took his wife’s hand and immediately headed for the terrace. While everyone else surged to the middle of the ballroom like chickens running into a henhouse, he quickly ushered Caroline down the winding stone steps and out into the gardens.
Dimly lit in an attempt to dissuade guests from venturing into the dowager’s flower beds, the twisting pathways were a shadowy labyrinth of towering shrubbery and stone walls, making it easy to get lost or turned around. But this wasn’t the first time the duke had infiltrated the gardens after nightfall, and he managed to navigate through the dark with ease, Caroline trotting obediently behind him.
He led her to a white gazebo with a wide bench in the middle of it. If his wife’s calculations were correct – which they almost always were – their middle son had been conceived on that bench. It hadn’t been the first (or the last) time they’d met in the gazebo for a secret rendezvous. Truth be told he’d been looking forward to a repeat performance tonight. Unfortunately, intimacy was the last thing on either of their minds.
“That was a gunshot.” Caroline clutched his sleeve. “Eric, that was a gunshot. Do you think anyone was hurt?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. He wanted to reassure her, but over the course of their marriage he was proud to say he’d never once told his wife a lie, and he wasn’t about to start tonight. Chances were the gunshot had been nothing more than an accident. An overzealous lord showing off his weapon in an attempt to impress a lady. But there was also a chance – however slim – that the gunshot had been an indication of something much more sinister.
Over the past few months there had been a rash of sporadic burglaries in the Mayfair District. Unlike the robberies in the past where only one or two pieces of jewelry were taken and no was ever hurt, these were violent encounters that had left more than one person seriously injured, including his personal friend the Earl of Reinhold.
The way Reinhold had told it he’d been woken in the middle of the night by a loud crash in his wife’s dressing chamber. When he went to investigate he discovered three hulking brutes stuffing all of his wife’s jewelry into large burlap sacks. The leader, he’d said, was a cruel-looking man with a scar under his eye. He’d shot Reinhold in the shoulder as soon as he had entered the room even though the older man had been unarmed and clearly defenseless. The countess – a dear woman, albeit deaf as a post – had slept through the entire thing.
The burglaries were being investigated by the bobbies who, to the best of Eric’s knowledge, had yet to come up with a single suspect. Not surprising, given their general ineptitude.
“I want you to remain here until I return,” he told Caroline tersely.
“Until you return?” Her grip on his sleeve tightened. “Until you return from where? Surely you can’t mean to go back inside.”
“People may need help and I – no,” he said when he saw the stubborn set of her chin. “No, it’s too dangerous. You’re staying here.”
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Her eyes flashed. “Do not presume to tell me what to do, Eric Hargrave.”
Bloody hell. Knowing it would be futile to argue, he grabbed her hand, linking their fingers tightly together. “You’re as stubborn as Grant, you know,” he told her as they hurried back through the gardens.
“Oh Eric,” Caroline said, her face paling. “You don’t think he’s in any danger, do you?”
Thinking of their son, they both increased their pace. And broke into a run when a second gunshot echoed through the night.
When Grant had first spied Juliet from across the room – hiding behind a plant, no less – he’d been so taken aback by her appearance that he had stopped dead in his tracks. If he thought her beautiful before, it was nothing compared to how she looked tonight. In her golden ball gown with her hair drawn back in an intricate coil and her skin all aglow she was an absolute vision. Yet despite her finery, he couldn’t help but prefer the way she looked when she was in trousers and a cloak, dirt on her nose and fire in her eyes.
She closed those brilliant green eyes as they completed their final turn around the room, and he felt his heart leap when she trustingly laid her cheek against his chest. A surge of protectiveness swept through his body and he squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing a circle in the middle of her gloved palm.
When the music stopped and the waltz ended she remained nestled against him, her smaller frame fitting perfectly into his larger one. Everything around them slowly softened and then faded away, like a telescope losing focus. His gaze slipping to her sweet little mouth, he contemplated kissing her…
And then all hell broke loose.
At the sound of the gunshot several women screamed. Two fainted. Acting purely on instinct, Grant started to push Juliet behind him but with a horrified gasp she slipped free of his embrace and darted into the confused crowd.
For a moment he was relieved, thinking that she was running away from where the sound of the gunshot had emanated from – as any person of sound mind would. Then he caught a glimpse of her heading directly towards the double doors that led to the main stairwell, and his curse turned the air blue.
A Dangerous Affair (Bow Street Brides Book 3) Page 21
