intention of selling, but like me, he’s wondering what’s behind this.”
“I’ve checked again since we spoke, and everything I hear suggests that all is going well and expected to improve even further. Perhaps this London gentleman simply thinks we’re naive?”
Gerald snorted. “Well, it seems he’s had no takers, so he must by now realize he’ll need to think again.”
Madeline smiled and inclined her head in parting, but the squire’s words lingered. The gentry weren’t the only ones who held mining leases. She was idly circling the dance floor, pondering that, when Gervase suddenly appeared before her and trapped her hand in his.
He smiled, openly wolfishly-tigerishly-at her, then raised her fingers and kissed them. She tried to frown, difficult when her eyes had widened.
Shifting to stand beside her, he tucked her hand in his arm. “Sybil cried off and left me to make my own way.” He glanced around. “I forgot the country operates on earlier hours.”
His gaze returned to her face. “But now I’m here, we can dance.”
The musicians had just started up; Gervase drew her toward the floor. Madeline jerked back to reality. And pulled back. “No. I mean, I don’t dance.”
He raised his brows, but didn’t stop leading her forward. “Why not? You can’t expect me to believe you never learned.”
“Of course I learned. It’s just…” She blinked as he neatly twirled her, then smoothly drew her into his arms.
And she realized she had to look up a good few inches to meet his eyes. Realized that the hand at her waist and the arm behind it possessed uncommon strength, remembered how easily he’d lifted her off her feet the day before.
She didn’t dance-even though she was drawn to the exercise-because most men were shorter than she. Or at least not tall enough, or strong enough, to accomplish what was needed.
Two revolutions in Gervase’s arms and…when he raised his brows at her, she shook her head. “Never mind.”
He smiled, then looked forward, and whirled her through the turn. Literally whirled her; she’d never danced- been able to dance-with such unrestrained ease. Never had she been able to pace her partner as she could him- without having to shorten her stride, limit her movement, rein in her natural flair.
As they circled the room, effortlessly outpacing the other couples yet moving so smoothly there was no sense of speed, only a refreshing freedom, her heart lightened, took flight.
He looked into her eyes, and smiled. “There-you see. You enjoy it.”
She closed her lips on the too-revealing answer that had leapt to her tongue. Only with you was hardly a wise thing to say, not to him.
He needed no encouragement. Not to whirl her off her mental feet, something he proceeded to do with ludicrous ease. Being so confidently steered around the room was frankly exhilarating. He held her close-enough for her to feel truly secure at the pace they moved-closer than he perhaps should, yet it wasn’t so blatant an attack on her senses that she felt compelled to balk.
All she felt compelled to do was follow, to relax and let him lead as he would; her inner self sighed, and embraced the golden moments of unexpected pleasure.
His eyes were on her face, searching. Deeming it wise to distract him, she said, “You must have been waltzing quite a bit this year, what with all the balls in London.”
He raised his brows, his expression-mild resignation-for once clear. “Thanks to my sisters’ antics, I spent very little time at any balls. I’d reach town only to be called back within a few days.”
“So they were behind all those strange happenings?”
The line of his lips turned grim. “Indeed.” He met her eyes, hesitated.
She waited, eager to hear more but knowing better than to press him.
His lips quirked. “At least, having dealt with your brothers, you’ll understand. Those strange incidents, all of which were expressly designed to bring me hot-foot home, were my dear sisters’ reaction to the advent of the new Lady Hardesty.”
She blinked, tried to imagine, and couldn’t. “I don’t see the connection.”
“Thank you. I didn’t either. They, however, had convinced themselves that like poor Robert, I, too, might succumb to the lures of some femme fatale who would banish them to live with Great-Aunt Agatha in Yorkshire.”
She stared at him, confirmed that he was speaking the plain truth. She tried to keep her lips straight, failed entirely and laughed. “Oh, dear.”
He merely gave her a resigned look; his lips not curved but relaxed, he continued to whirl her as she struggled to master her mirth.
“I…” She paused to draw in a huge breath. “I truly can’t imagine you falling victim to any female.”
Gervase looked into her face, into her eyes, a shimmery peridot green in the chandeliers’ light. He’d thought the same, but was no longer so sure.
The music ended; he swung her to a flourishing halt-which, he noted, she enjoyed. Her unalloyed delight in the dance, something she’d permitted him to see, had to him been a subtle pleasure.
It was also a significant advance from where he had been when he’d first fixed his eye on her; then he hadn’t been able to see past her shield. Now…in moments like this, he glimpsed the woman behind it clearly.
With every fresh insight she grew more intriguing.
After one swift glance over the heads, he took her arm. “I believe it’s time for supper. Shall we?”
Her brows rose a little at his clear expectation of her agreement, but then she inclined her head. Her next words told him why. “The boys told me you’d formed some new gentlemen’s club in London. If they had it right, one with a rather unusual purpose.”
He smiled. And set about distracting her.
In that he was surprisingly successful; between her questions and his answers, ranging over the Bastion Club and its members, the true nature of his past service to the crown, Dalziel and his office, they progressed through supper in earnest conversation, sufficiently engrossed to discourage others from joining them. As they strolled back into the corridor leading to the ballroom, Gervase couldn’t recall a supper he’d enjoyed more.
Why he found her, of all females, so easy to talk to he didn’t know, yet her quick wits and the breadth of her understanding had allowed him to speak freely of topics he normally eschewed.
That had been another subtle pleasure, just being able to relax and speak without thought. Without censoring his words.
Perhaps it was dealing with her brothers that had left her so patently unshockable. So calm, so grounded.
Around her he felt anchored in a way he never had, not with any other, not at any time.
“This Dalziel,” she said. “You’re quite sure he’s right, and there is one last traitor somewhere in the government?”
Taking her arm, he turned her away from the ballroom. “Yes. If you met Dalziel you’d understand, but quite aside from the fact he’s the last person to invent things, we-the rest of us-have seen evidence that this last traitor exists. Jack Warnefleet got closest-he nearly caught the man’s henchman-but the traitor killed his man rather than allow him to fall into our, and Dalziel’s, hands.”
She walked beside him, looking ahead, puzzling over Dalziel’s nemesis and not really seeing. He knew that last was true; she made no demur when they reached a garden room and he opened the French doors giving on to it. Without comment, a faint frown on her face, she walked through.
“This traitor-what is known of him?”
“Another traitor suggested he had some connection with the War Office. Beyond that, the only physical description is of a tall, well-set-up, dark-haired gentleman of the ton.”
“Of the ton?” She whirled to face him as, having closed the door, he joined her.
He nodded. “He killed his henchman at a royal gala at Vauxhall. The only people who could obtain tickets were members of the ton, and the young lady who saw him was quite certain of his station.” He paused, looking into her eyes. “As Dalziel puts it, the last traitor is one of us.”
She looked stern-a severely disapproving Valkyrie. “No wonder he-Dalziel-is so determined to expose him.”
“Indeed. But enough of Dalziel.” His ex-commander had served his purpose. They stood alone in the garden
