What if all the men walked right past her? What if she was left standing alone all night? The thought of it made a corkscrew of her insides. She’d already fought off one attack of the hiccups. Give her a tightrope to walk, or a dragon to vanquish. This was agony.
A low whistle sounded from beyond the gate—a long note, then three short ones.
Or not. With Magnus lurking about, she wasn’t taking anything for granted. Cautiously, she crept a few steps down the walkway to the metal gate that opened onto the street—or would have opened, had it been daytime. Since the murder, Bigelow had taken to locking it at sundown. She didn’t cover more distance than she could make in a quick dash back to the door.
“Nick?” she said in a low whisper.
He suddenly appeared on the other side of the iron bars. “Evie.”
The rough sound of his voice was like a familiar touch. With a stifled cry, she ran the rest of the way to the gate, but she didn’t have the key to open it. She studied Nick’s face, the oblique glow of the yellow gaslights limning the clean lines of his face.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
A frown put a vertical crease between his brows. “Watching for Magnus. What are you doing standing on your own outside?”
“I’m waiting for a carriage.”
His hands waved in exasperated arcs. “You might as well have a sign over your head saying:
Nick had suffered the last time he’d met Magnus. The memory of it raised the hair on her nape and sharpened her tongue. “Oh, fine, and what are you going to do if he shows up?”
“I’ll think of something.”
She made an impatient noise in her throat. Tears started to her eyes, and she was grateful the darkness covered them. “Nick, be careful. Use your head. He left a rose in my carriage this afternoon. One just like yours.”
The conversation froze in place, not only from the implication of the doctor’s gesture, but also because of the memory of that moment in the ring: Nick the triumphant knight, Evelina the queen of love and beauty. He reached through the bars of the gate to catch her hand.
His grasp was hot enough to feel through the silk of her glove, and he pulled her forward a step. Her cloak fell open, revealing the form-fitting shape of her low-cut ball gown. His gaze ran down to her toes and back up again, lingering appreciatively.
Heat seared her cheeks. She wondered if he was there for Magnus at all.
“Aren’t you a picture?” he said, his voice dipping to deeper timbre.
Her mouth went dry. “You have your costumes, I have mine.”
He stepped closer to the bars, leaning into them like a prisoner trying to see out of his cell. He lifted her fingers to his lips, brushing them lightly.
“Nick, stop,” she breathed.
His gaze kept devouring her, but now it mocked as well, reminding her of that other, powerful Nick she’d seen in the ring. The one that made her insides melt.
He didn’t let go of her hand. “Is there something wrong with worshipping a fine lady?”
“Don’t tease me.” She wanted to be angry, but it came out more as a plea.
Nick’s eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth twitching downward. “Where are you going tonight?”
“The Westlake ball.” She could hear voices, and glanced over her shoulder. If they weren’t careful, they’d be caught carrying on a conversation through a locked gate like lovers from some witless romance.
The pressure of Nick’s hand brought her attention back to him. “Going dancing, are we?”
There was a tone in his voice she didn’t like. Jealousy? “What else does one do at a ball?”
He shook his head, something akin to pain in his eyes. “Look at you, little Evie Cooper.”
“Nick! Let me go,” she begged. She could hear the carriage coming. She pulled her hand away.
And then he was gone, quick as one of his own flashing blades. She turned and ran back to the house, cursing him.
Confused and feeling somehow guilty, she was nearly silent all the way to the Duke of Westlake’s elegant mansion, when Applegate handed her out of the carriage. Then she was confronted with the sheer scale of the event. Vehicles of all kinds—steam and horse-drawn—jammed the street for half a mile either way. Every titled head in London was crowding into the pool of golden gaslight flooding from the mansion’s front door. Evelina barely resisted the urge to cling to Lady Bancroft’s elaborately ruffled bustle like a toddler afraid to lose her mother. The crush lasted until they were safely inside.
“There are twenty-four dances,” Imogen said brightly, examining the dance card once they shed their wraps and put on their dancing slippers. “Twenty-four chances to sort the toads from the automatons.”
About four inches tall, the tiny booklet had a richly colored cover ornamented with gold leaf, as well as a miniature pencil dangling from a cord. The whole works hung from a ribbon loop. What made this Season’s cards unique was the novel way they opened. If one pushed the button to the left, only pages with unclaimed dances fanned out for viewing. The right-hand button showed them all.
Evelina slipped the loop of her card over her wrist. “Do you have a preference for dance partners?”
“I’m partial to the toads. At least they have personality.”
“And prince potential?”
“Unlikely.” Imogen made a philosophical moue, despite the flush in her cheeks. “Sometimes a toad is just a toad, but he might be a very nice toad. I think we’d get farther if we just accepted that and got on with things.”
Evelina wondered if that particular amphibian was heir to the Penner factory fortune, but diplomatically held her tongue.
Their party gathered at the top of the grand staircase that swept down to the brilliantly lit ballroom. Evelina felt the heat shimmering up from the dance floor below like a palpable cloud. A footman took their invitations.
“Lord and Lady Bancroft,” he announced in a stentorian voice. “The Honorable Imogen Roth and Miss Cooper.”
Tobias, of course, would arrive with his friends, hopefully before everyone else went home. The interesting young men always arrived late.
The Bancrofts started down the stairs at a sedate pace, Lady Bancroft’s gloved hands resting on the ambassador’s arm like a hovering bird. Imogen descended next, all gold beauty, then Evelina. The coolness of the marble stairs seeped through the soft soles of her dancing shoes. Faces turned up to look at them, at her floating down the staircase in her fine dress of whipping-cream white. She lifted her head a fraction higher.
The descent gave her a good view of the company. Many of the same men who had been at Lord Bancroft’s table were there, including Jasper Keating. In the opposite corner of the room, almost hidden by the crowd, was an attentive Dr. Magnus. It struck her as odd, because she doubted the duchess would have invited him—but then, it seemed, he had a way of going where he pleased. Despite the heat in the room, she shivered, remembering the bruising crush of his hand on her arm. It took everything she had to keep the fear from her face, but she would be damned if she let him see her panic.
When they reached the ballroom, Evelina reached into her reticule, feeling the cool steel fur of the mechanical mouse.
She bent as if to adjust the lace of her dancing slipper, and quickly released Mouse next to the heavily carved baseboards of the wall. It disappeared in a streak of gray, a dozen times as fast as any regular rodent. She straightened to answer a question of Lady Bancroft’s, careful to preserve a neutral expression.
She needn’t have worried about her dance card. The diplomatic service could have taken notes from Lady Bancroft and her cronies. They knew how to steer likely young men toward the young ladies without seeming to do so, winnowing away the chaff with a precisely placed word or tap of the fan. Within minutes, Imogen was the
