She gave her first real smile of the evening. “Are you going to be horribly annoying and tease me mercilessly? Or step on my toes? Or talk about nothing but the weather?”
He returned her smile with a warm grin of his own. “Are you going to be an imperious brat?”
“Shall we simply dance instead?”
“Excellent.”
He led her out onto the floor, his brown eyes full of mischief. She let her hand rest lightly on his arm as they took their places, making sure her every move was exactly correct. Shoulders back, neck long and swanlike, arms graceful—just like the dancing master at Wollaston had decreed.
Then the moment came when she was supposed to say something infinitely clever. But this was Bucky, and she’d known him forever. Words should have come naturally, but unexpectedly, every brilliant quip she knew dribbled out her ears.
So she said the first thing she could think of. “I heard that the duke and duchess put up over three thousand of those tiny gaslights for the night.”
“No wonder it is so very warm in here.” He raised an eyebrow. “But I suppose I shouldn’t have seen you nearly so well with a mere fifteen hundred.”
“Dazzling lights are the fashion.”
“It’s still silly.”
She felt a tiny stab of annoyance. It was an extravagant, expensive fashion, but she rather liked it. “Bow ties are silly, and yet you’re wearing one.”
“Most of my existence is unforgivably comical. That is the lot of a young man of purposeless wealth.” With an easy grace, he turned her about the floor. He was more muscular than her brother, almost as strongly built as The Stare. He made her feel slight enough to snap in the wind, and yet incredibly safe.
That feeling of security was most welcome after the last few trying days. It made her bold. “Are you one of those who mock everything and yet do nothing to improve it?”
“Heavens, no. I’m sure there must be something I have not yet mocked. I am strongly in favor of sausages. And buttered toast. And Mrs. Braithwaite has a highly appealing Yorkshire terrier.” Imogen bit back a laugh, struggling to remain poised. “I appreciate a man with standards.”
She was a little short of breath, but it seemed to have more to do with Bucky than with any exertion on her part. Everywhere he touched her felt extraordinarily sensitive, as if her skin had been magnetized. It made her shiver with the sensation, a delicious flutter that made her warm and cold at once.
He smiled in a way that made his eyes crinkle nicely. “And where do you stand on sausages, Miss Roth?”
But by then the ladies had to make a star in the center of their quartet, circling around with a swirl of skirts. It gave her just enough time to find her sense of equilibrium, and when the figure deposited her back in Bucky’s arms, she was decidedly glad to feel his touch again. He was relaxed and confident, which was the essence of a good dancer. They moved forward, changing partners, then changing back, her feet barely touching the gleaming marquetry of the floor. His gaze never left her for a moment, watching her with that special intensity that made it nearly impossible not to preen. No one, not even The Stare, had watched her quite that way. It made her feel like Venus swanning about on her sea-foam cushion.
When the last bars ended and she gave a final curtsy, they were near the doorway to the refreshment area. Imogen realized that she had abandoned her lemonade several partners ago, and she was parched. “I would very much like something to drink,” she said plaintively. “But it looks like half the world has had the same idea.”
“Fear not, fair lady. The first duty of a resourceful knight is to find alternate routes to the punch bowl.” He tucked her arm through his, his gloved fingers warm and strong, and led her away from the throng. “I’ve been here many a time, and know a back way.”
“You’re removing me from the ballroom? Is this an evil scheme to lead me astray?” she asked suspiciously —but at the same time couldn’t deny the prospect had appeal.
“To claim that I scheme would be to give me too much credit. The best I can manage is a desultory plot from time to time.”
“How sad.”
“I shall have to try harder. Never let it be said that I lacked ambition, even if it is intriguingly misguided from time to time.”
His grin stayed a whisker away from impropriety. Imogen answered it with one of her own, feeling impossibly daring.
He led her into another hallway. There were fewer people, and suddenly walking was much easier. A servant hurried toward them, guiding a steam trolley with a tray of something that smelled delicious. Since the passage was narrow, Bucky pulled her into another doorway to let the man pass. Imogen noticed the considerate gesture—many wouldn’t yield to a servant, no matter how impractical it would have been to force the trolley out of the way.
As Bucky had made way, he’d pushed the door open so they had more room to stand. The room where they’d taken refuge was one of those catch-all spaces necessary for large gatherings—this one was filled with stacks of extra linens, instrument cases that no doubt belonged to the small orchestra, and a rolled-up carpet. There was another door on the far wall that must have opened into yet another room, because Imogen was suddenly aware of voices on the other side.
“No, no, and no!” It was a woman’s voice, and tinged with panic.
Bucky and Imogen exchanged a glance. He pulled her all the way into the room and shut the door to the hallway quietly, leaving it open just enough to admit a sliver of light. Then he raised a gloved finger to his lips. “I think someone is in trouble,” he said in low tones. “I’m not sure, but I may need to interfere.”
Jasper Keating sat in the small, fussy sitting room where the Duchess of Westlake had bid him go. He was to wait there until she could slip away from the ball unnoticed. The separate-exit-and-rendezvous maneuver was standard protocol for romantic intrigue—as ridiculous as it seemed, the old harridan was still too careful of her reputation to be seen entering a private chamber with a man who was not her husband.
That was not—
It was an odd contrast to what he had been doing at this time yesterday—marching through the dockyards to check the locker where Striker had stored his weapons. His man had inspected it already, but Keating wouldn’t rest until he’d looked himself. The lost key still felt like betrayal, a spurning of the favor he’d showed the piece of street trash. If Striker hadn’t been so good at his job he would have been today’s refuse, left in the gutter for the rats and dogs.
Keating clenched his fist, watching the seams of his gloves strain with the fierceness of his grip.
The sky above the dockyard had been pale gray blotched with inky clouds, the sun dying behind the rows of warehouses. Keating and his men had moved quickly between the brick and wood buildings. Many of the docks were under the control of Keating Utility, but not all—and every edifice was carefully guarded. Automatons loomed outside each doorway, a reddish light smoldering in the pits of their eyes and the slash of their mouths. Some rolled on tracks, others lumbered on two or four feet. No one in Keating’s party was foolish enough to set foot beyond a competitor’s property line. Men died for less.
By the time they’d stopped at the building in question, the sun had fully set and the lamps around Keating’s structures were lit. The yellow glow washed the cobbles and brickwork in a sepia haze—a color that matched the river’s cold and choking stink. Keating still felt the raw wind from the Thames on his face, a bite that seemed to go clear to the bone. He had cursed Striker all over again for making the trip a necessity.
And he’d cursed again when it turned out to be a fool’s errand. The warehouse lock had been undisturbed, just has his man had said. They had opened it, pulling the heavy oak doors wide and lighting up the enormous gaslights within. The enormous building was a maker’s daydream—a whale’s maw crisscrossed with twelve-foot
