‘I’ll certainly keep you in mind, Mr Dyer, but I live such a quiet life, I see no chance of troubles.’ The Comte returned his attention to Moira. ‘Might I have the pleasure of this next dance, Lady Rexford?’
Bart wanted to tell her to refuse because he wanted the Comte to remain here and not sneak away, but he was in no position to do so. He tried to catch Moira’s eye and silently dissuade her, but he failed and she held out her hand to the Comte.
‘Yes, you may.’
While the Comte led her away, she looked back over her shoulder at Bart and threw him a conspiratorial wink. He realised she was now in a better position than he was to gather intelligence on the Comte. Although Bart didn’t want her anywhere near the man and danger, he was forced to stifle an answering smile, amazed once again at this brave new Moira. With any luck, she could pry some useful information out of the Frenchman while they danced, but he prayed she remained subtle with her enquiries. He didn’t want the Comte, or anyone else who might be connected to the Rouge Noir suspecting her of more nefarious motives.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Dyer. I must speak with Lord Palmer.’ Prince Frederick strode away, having nothing further to discuss with Bart. It didn’t matter. It was the Comte and Moira who commanded all his attention.
* * *
A thrill tripped up Moira’s spine as she took the Comte’s hand and the musicians began the allemande. It wasn’t the Frenchman who inspired her, but the hint of danger in dancing with him. Bart watched from the edge of the dance floor. Despite not looking at him, she was more aware of Bart than the Comte holding her hand for the turn. It took a great deal of effort to remember the steps and to charm the Frenchman.
‘Why have I not seen you in London before tonight?’ The Comte circled her with admirable elegance.
‘Mourning and family obligations have kept me in the country.’
‘My deepest sympathies. I, too, have suffered. My wife passed and I must see to my daughter’s marriage and welfare.’ He motioned to where a young lady with his nose and eyes conversed with the tall and dashing Marquess of Camberline, much it seemed to the Dowager Marchioness of Camberline’s disapproval. Lady Camberline marched up to her son and drew him away from the crestfallen and chastised young lady. Moira pitied the girl, knowing all too well what it was like to have a disapproving parent dictate a young woman’s affections.
The Marquess didn’t stay long with his mother, making for a door at the back of the room after offering her a curt remark which made the Dowager’s lips purse.
‘I’m sorry to be so rude, Lady Rexford, but I must end our dance early,’ the Comte apologised, bringing them to a halt in the middle of a chasse. ‘There is someone I must speak with. Please excuse me.’ With a shallow bow, he hurried away in the direction of the Marquess, leaving her to stand alone in the centre of the whirling couples.
Aware of the many people watching her, Moira gathered up all the self-possession she could muster and strode back into the anonymity of the crowd. She was making for the far wall near where the chaperons stood bored and ignored when Bart appeared beside her.
‘Where’s he going?’
‘I don’t know.’ She nodded in the direction of the tall door on the far side of the ballroom. ‘But I believe it’s wherever Lord Camberline is headed.’
Without a parting word, Bart dashed off into the crowd, working to keep sight of the Comte before leaving the ballroom in pursuit of him.
Moira remained where she was, wishing she could follow him instead of being forced to remain here. Without him to chat with or to force her to interact with others, she was alone and ignored once more. She picked at her fan, wondering what she should do next when Aunt Agatha approached her.
‘Given the crush at this ball, I’m surprised to find you standing by yourself. You should make more of an effort to meet people, especially gentleman who are apt to overlook you in favour of younger and wealthier ladies.’
Despite the sting in the remark, Moira thanked providence it was her solitude and not her time with Bart her aunt had noticed. He was the one man Aunt Agatha didn’t want her to speak with and Moira didn’t relish another argument about him.
A group of women strode past them, jostling Aunt Agatha when they passed because of the crowd.
‘Lady Camberline should better manage her guest list. I’ve never seen such a crush, but I suppose one can’t expect much from a French aristocrat, no matter how long she’s been in England.’ Aunt Agatha frowned as she was forced to step aside for another group of passing people. She’d been prejudiced against the many titled French people who’d come to London after the Revolution for a long time, never really losing her dislike of them even when her brother had married Moira’s mother. She could remember the Christmas dinners when her grandparents sat on one side of the table and Aunt Agatha the other, wincing each time they spoke French to one another. It hadn’t mattered to Aunt Agatha if they’d almost lost their lives to the guillotine. Aunt Agatha detested the French nobility. ‘Well, you might as well join me and my friends. There’s no point in being a wallflower.’
‘I might as well.’ Heaven knew when Bart would return or if he needed her any longer. Spying Freddy leading young Miss Filner on to the dance floor, she realised people not needing her was fast becoming an all-too-familiar pattern in her life.
* * *
Bart followed the Comte de Troyen at a discreet distance through the refreshment room, past the one reserved for gambling and down the long hallway leading to the back of the house. The number of guests thinned as they walked and Bart dropped further and further behind the Comte to avoid being noticed. The Comte paused at a juncture where the main hallway was crossed by another one. Bart stepped back into the narrow alcove of a closed door and pressed himself deep into the shadows, not daring to move.
After a long breath, Bart leaned forward, but the Comte was gone. Bart hurried to the juncture, the thick rug muffling the fall of his shoes. He hazarded a look down one side and then the other. In the centre of the right hallway, the Comte stood with Lord Camberline, less regal and more irritated than he’d been in the ballroom. Bart leaned back against the wall, near the corner to listen to their heated exchange.
‘Don’t think I’ll allow you to renege now, not with so much at stake,’ the Frenchman insisted, showing no deference to the young man’s superior rank.
‘I won’t renege,’ the Marquess answered, as agitated as the Comte. ‘But it’s been more difficult than you realise to put everything in place.’
‘I think you’re stalling for time, to avoid doing what we agreed must be done.’
‘I want this as much as you do. It will change everything and I want it changed. I’ll send word when all is ready. I promise, it will be soon.’
‘It better be or you’ll regret it,’ the Comte threatened.
The Comte’s shoes thudded against the carpet as he stalked away from Lord Camberline. Bart dashed down the hall and into the first room he found. He left the door cracked open slightly, hiding behind it while the Comte passed by, muttering to himself in French. Whatever he and the Marquess were embroiled in, the Comte held power over the younger man and he wasn’t going to let him get cold feet. Bart would make sure the young man’s feet froze solid before he let him compromise himself or the country.
Bart waited in the empty room to give the Marquess time to pass, his eyes adjusting to the moonlight falling in through the windows along the far wall. Above the scent of wood oil, he caught another familiar and more deadly scent.
Gunpowder.
If this were a masculine room he wouldn’t be concerned. Stored hunting rifles improperly cleaned by a footman might leave a lingering scent, but the gilded chairs and comfortable sofa set before a delicate writing table near the windows told