Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

His dark hair had been tamed and slicked back, revealing the hard contours of his face—square jaw, crooked nose attesting to his life as a fighter, heavy brow. Though his lips were somewhat thin, their curves hinted at carnality.

A rough man in evening dress. She’d never seen anything more arousing.

Keep alert, she reminded herself sharply. They were here for the mission.

Difficult to remember that when Jack kept looking at her with blatant hunger. She didn’t feel quite so plain in her simple gown when he did that.

At last, they reached the top of the stairs. The butler held out his hand, and Eva gave him the invitation.

“Your name, madam?”

Monarchs would cower at the butler’s haughty tone.

Summoning her own hauteur, she sniffed. “Mrs. Eloise Worthington, of the Northumberland Worthingtons.”

The butler glanced at Jack, who glowered back.

“And this is Mr. John Dutton,” Eva said. “The cattle magnate from Australia.”

The butler studied him. Beneath her hand, Jack’s muscles tensed as if preparing to knock the butler flat. Gently, she squeezed his arm in silent communication. They’d agreed ahead of time that he would speak as little as possible. Since he seemed comfortable with silence, he’d agreed, but she hadn’t extracted a promise from him not to hit someone.

After an excruciating pause, the butler waved toward the staircase behind him. “Supper has already been served. Dancing is in the ballroom at the top of the stairs. Good evening.”

She and Jack moved on. They crossed the threshold and stood in the vaulted foyer, where footmen relieved Jack of his coat and hat and took Eva’s wrap.

She sent Jack a meaningful glance, which he returned. They’d done it. Gotten past the first obstacle. But they hadn’t crossed the Rubicon.

He offered her his arm again, and together they ascended the curving stairs that led to the ballroom.

“Why Australia?” he said in a low voice.

“Much of that country was settled by transported convicts.” She shrugged. “It would stand to reason that someone of your physique might be their descendant.”

“If I have to talk to someone,” he pointed out, “they’ll know I’m English.”

“Most of these people have as much experience with Australia as they do Bethnal Green.”

“None,” he said.

“Exactly.” They reached the landing, and followed the trail of guests and music toward a set of wide double doors that stood open. In wordless understanding, they both paused and took a breath. Then stepped into the ballroom.

“Bloody buggering hell,” Jack breathed.

“Agreed,” Eva murmured.

While not as large as the Beckwiths’ ballroom, the chamber was still impressive in its size. White and gilt columns rose up toward a coved, equally gilded ceiling, from which hung crystal chandeliers that hurt the eye with their brilliance. The parquetry floor shone like a mirror, reflecting back the forms of men and women in their evening best. Liveried footmen bearing trays of champagne stood against the walls, as much part of the furniture as the upholstered chairs placed for wallflowers and dowagers.

Everywhere was a sea of black wool, lustrous silks, and jewelry that twinkled like the unfeeling stars. Some men wore military uniforms, drawing young girls in white like a plate of cakes. Conversation draped over the chamber. Long patrician vowels mixed with the gliding strings provided by the orchestra. A screen of potted palms had been placed at the farthest end of the chamber, discreetly concealing the musicians.

“Smell that?” Eva drew a deep breath, and Jack did the same.

“Beeswax. Sparkling wine.” He breathed in again. “Soap and starch.”

“Privilege.”

When a footman passed by with his tray of champagne, Jack grabbed two glasses. Despite his genteel gloves, the flutes looked tiny and fragile in his hands.

She sipped at her champagne and was relieved to see that Jack did the same rather than gulp it down.

“I don’t see Gilling,” she said. She’d studied a picture of him earlier to familiarize herself with his appearance. “Let’s take a turn around the room.”

They moved through the guests milling at the edges of the chamber. She made certain to nod regally at those they passed, trying to convey with only her bearing that she belonged here as much as anyone. It was like wearing someone else’s face, someone else’s body. Yet she must have been reasonably successful, for no one sneered at her, and she even received some polite nods in return. Murmurs of speculation trailed after her and Jack. In the narrowly defined world of the elite, new faces were bound to incite interest.

She saw more than a few ladies gazing at Jack avidly. Her response was an icy stare. But why should the other women’s interest bother her? She’d no claim on him. Not in the slightest. Yet it sparked a cold fury when a particularly pretty brunette in rose-hued taffeta gave Jack a look of blatant invitation.

To his credit, his gaze never lingered anywhere. Not on any thing or person. He was at all times watchful, assessing. And when a gentleman or two spent a little longer gazing at her, Jack’s glower had the men hurriedly looking away.

“What’s going on between Lazarus and Harriet?” Jack asked abruptly. “The two of ’em snipe at each other regular as the bells of St. Paul’s.”

She chuckled softly. “It’s obvious to everyone that they fancy each other, but they’re both too bullheaded to admit it.”

“Where’s the harm in it?”

“It’s not a good idea for Nemesis operatives to become romantically involved. But I also believe they’re afraid.”

“On account of that combat training you receive.”

She pursed her lips. “If either Harriet or Lazarus took the initiative and declared themselves, and was rejected … I don’t think either wants to risk that pain. So they just taunt each other and amuse the dickens out of the rest of us.”

Jack was silent for a while, but then said, “If they want each other, then to hell with the rules and to hell with getting hurt.”

She felt her brows rise. “Do you really believe that?”

He shrugged. “Life’s got a habit of slipping through your fingers, slippery as an eel, and leaving you with nothing. Maybe if we’re offered a chance at something good, we should grab it while we can.”

Unsure how to respond, she sipped at her champagne. Was he referring just to Harriet and Lazarus, or something more?

Damn it, I can’t think about that now.

“Still no sign of Gilling,” she said quietly.

“If he scuttles around the edge of the upper crust,” Jack answered, “he’ll be here. We can wait him out.”

They continued to stroll leisurely at the perimeter of the ball, watching the highest echelons of British society in the rituals of their arcane culture.

“That woman,” she murmured, “over by the punchbowl. The one in the diamonds and green satin. She’s paid off a blackmailer three times so no one finds out about the son she had before she was married.”

“Bloke standing next to the third window,” Jack said. “With the belly and bushy sideburns, looking snobbish.”

“Sir Denholm Braunton.” A baronet, she recalled, known for his particular hatred of policy intending to help the poor.

“He pays a whore twenty pounds to whip him. Or he did five years ago,” Jack added. “Maybe now the price has gone up to thirty pounds.”

She smiled darkly over the rim of her glass. “Secrets. Everyone here has them. From the blushing debutante to the venerated patriarch.” There were sexual peccadilloes, financial misdeeds, addictions, thefts.

He snorted. “Wouldn’t know it just to look at ’em. They swan around as if gold comes out their noses when they sneeze.”