guests. “Any action?”
“Not a hint that I can see.” Barnaby grinned dourly. “I spotted the watchers outside. If Mr. X does make a move, he’s going to get a surprise.”
“We can only hope.” Dillon noticed a number of Cynster scions heading their way, smiling and exchanging greetings as they unobtrusively-as unobtrusively as such men could-tacked through the crowd. Over the next several minutes, Demon and Vane, then Gabriel and devil joined them.
“I take it your meeting with Tranter and company was fruitful?” devil raised a brow. “I assume those were his men skulking outside.”
Barnaby nodded. “His, or from one of the others. Mr. X’s underworld enemies seem legion, and they’ve been as stumped as we in identifying him. Until we approached them, I hadn’t realized how deeply they felt about him eluding them. He owes them a fortune, but it’s his anonymity they view as a personal insult-a slap in the face, a matter of honor.”
“Just so.” devil’s lips curved cynically, also wryly. “Powerful men hate to find themselves helpless. Your Mr. X has miscalculated there.”
“Hmm.” Demon glanced around their circle. “If he does move against Dillon, and they nab him, what should we do-haul him free or leave him to their untender mercies?”
They all considered; eventually all looked to devil, but he looked at Dillon and raised a brow. “You’re the most involved”-his glance included others in the room, Pris, Rus, and those involved in the substitution switch-“on all counts. What say you?”
Dillon held devil’s pale green gaze; he considered the possibilities, how he felt-would feel…“I say it depends on his actions. If he strikes, but it’s a token gesture, a jab at me before he goes slinking into the night, then we pull him out and hand him to Stokes. Tranter and crew won’t like it, but handing him over to the authorities was part of our agreement-they’ll accept it.”
“They’ll still benefit,” Barnaby said. “They want him identified so they can pick over his financial bones in case there’s anything they can salvage. And they’re well aware they’ll gain a modicum of status with the authorities for assisting in his capture. So yes, I agree, they’ll go along with that.”
“But what,” Gabriel asked, “if his revenge is rather more than token?”
Dillon met his eyes. “Then we leave him to his fate. If he’s that bent on revenge, handing him to the authorities will only create unnecessary difficulties.”
Lips curved without a trace of humor. “Indeed.” devil nodded. “So that’s what we’ll do.”
Vane looked at Dillon. “Planning aside, have you had any indication he’s preparing an attack?”
Dillon shook his head. “This is all conjecture on our part-we’ve no evidence he’ll try to take revenge at all.”
Barnaby snorted. “If he doesn’t, I’ll eat my hat. The fact he’s lain low and not acted precipitously only confirms that he’s a cool, careful schemer.”
“The most dangerous sort.” devil looked at Dillon. “Be careful.”
Dillon met that direct, faintly disconcerting glance, and nodded. The group parted, donning their affably charming social masks and going their separate ways, but devil’s glance-and the injunction that lay behind it- remained in Dillon’s mind.
Before Pris had come into his life and become such an essential part of it, he would have recognized devil’s look, and understood the implication, but not truly felt it, not as a threat. Now he did. He looked over the heads, and found Pris-the one thing he had to take greatest care of, as devil had intimated. She was engaged with a bevy of guests, Rus by her elbow, her father nearby, fondly looking on.
Conscious that something within him eased, like a beast settling back to semislumber, Dillon smiled at Lady Folwell and stopped by her side to chat.
Pris was safe, the night would soon be over, and their wedding would be one day closer. Despite his impatience to have Mr. X act, be identified, and dealt with, he was equally impatient to dispense with town and head back home with Pris. If Mr. X didn’t act soon, he would consign the substitution racket and its perpetrator to the past, and leave it behind. He and Pris had too much to do, too much to look forward to, to waste time on a ruined villain.
The ball was a certified crush, the evening declared a huge success. Horatia and Flick were both beaming. Dillon danced with them both, grateful but wary, too. Flick informed him that Pris intended to ask Prue to be a flower girl along with Pris’s sisters; he asked if she didn’t think it dangerous to be encouraging Prue to think of weddings-and set her laughing. He didn’t think, faced with the same question, that Demon would even chuckle.
Twirling herself, Pris saw Dillon circling with a delighted Flick in his arms, and smiled.
“Mr. Caxton is indeed a lucky man.”
The comment had her refocusing on her partner, Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace. Pris inclined her head and glanced over his shoulder as he steered her through the turn at the end of the room.
Rus’s words returned to her mind; without looking back at Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace, she tested Rus’s hypothesis that she didn’t truly see men other than Dillon. Abercrombie-Wallace was a typical London gentleman, in age somewhere between Dillon and Demon. He was dark-haired, not quite so tall, a trifle heavier…her physical description wavered at that point. She supposed he had a typical english face, passable enough, with features that owed much to his aristocratic background. He was, she’d gathered, wellborn and well connected, from one of the older families of the haut ton; the quality of his clothes, the diamond in his cravat, smacked of wealth and affluence.
His address was polished, his character rather mild for her taste. He seemed, not shy, but reserved.
Her gaze sliding past his face, she inwardly shrugged. It was hardly a surprise he didn’t impinge on her mind.
“Mr. Abercrombie-Wallace…I wonder, sir, what are your interests in the capital?” She quizzed him with her eyes. “Is it business or plea sure that claims you?” She’d noticed him at the balls they’d attended over the past days; her money was on plea sure.
He might not impinge on her mind, but she’d instantly and completely claimed his. His gaze-he had pale brown eyes-locked on hers. After a moment of rather disconcerting staring silence, he replied, “As it happens, it’s a mixture of both.”
His voice sounded faintly strained; it had been melodically smooth until then. Pris widened her eyes. “Indeed? How-oh!”
She stumbled and nearly fell. Abercrombie-Wallace caught her, steadied her, even while he apologized profusely for his clumsiness; he’d stepped on her skirt. Pris looked down at the lace trailing beneath her hem, and swallowed a curse. She’d have to pin it up.
“Forgive me, dear lady.” Wallace had paled. “If I might suggest, if you have pins, there’s a parlor across the corridor-just through that door.” He nodded to a door in the paneling nearby. “You could repair the damage without having to fight your way up the ballroom first.”
They were at the far end of the ballroom; Pris glanced at the door, then eyed the throng between her and the ballroom steps. “That would be best.”
Abercrombie-Wallace opened the door for her, then followed her through. He closed the door, leaving the corridor dimly lit by a distant sconce. “Over there.” He gestured to a door a little way along the corridor.
Holding her skirt with the damaged petticoat to one side, keeping the trailing lace clear of her feet, Pris headed that way. Wallace reached past her to open the door.
She walked in, one glance verifying that the room was a small parlor looking out on the side garden. The lace caught the toe of her shoe; she looked down, untangling it, then released her skirt and turned to thank Wallace and shut the door.
He was right there-almost face-to-face. The door was already shut.
She opened her lips to send him away-the words died in her throat as he drew something from his pocket and flicked; a long black scarf uncoiled from his fingers.
Hands rising defensively, she dragged in a breath, glanced at his face as she opened her mouth to scream.
He moved like lightning. He wound the material about her head and face, smothering her cry-smothering her. She was immediately short of breath, had to struggle to draw air through the fine-woven material.
