Luc pushed back his chair. “I need to go to the necessary, but I don’t want to leave you alone,” he murmured. “I should never have let you and Camille to talk me into this. I dread to think what will happen if somebody recognizes you. Come with me. It’s downstairs.”
Emmy nodded, and together they made their way back to the staircase. Luc was clearly enjoying himself. He had a formidable intellect; he could probably devise a method of breaking the bank if he put his mind to it, but she was just glad to see him having fun. He’d missed out on several years’ worth of evenings like this when he’d been an invalid.
The Tricorn’s giant doorman, a man named Mickey, pointed Luc in the direction of the bathroom, and Emmy took advantage of his momentary inattention to palm the key that he’d left on a table near the door.
For all she knew, it opened something completely useless, like the Tricorn’s wine cellar, or coal shed, but if she were lucky, it might prove more interesting—like the key to the back door, for example. Or to the private apartments. She slipped it into her reticule. No telling when something like that might come in handy.
As Luc lumbered off in the direction given, Emmy loitered at the far end of the corridor, feigning interest in the surprisingly good paintings that hung on the burgundy damask walls. A paneled door to her right opened, and she turned, expecting to see a servant, but instead, she encountered a familiar pair of slate-blue eyes.
Of all the—
She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but Harland took one swift glance down the deserted corridor, caught her elbow, and tugged her through the door.
Emmy was too surprised to do more than gasp as he closed it behind them with a heavy click and swung her round so her back was pressed against the wall.
The noise from outside decreased to a dull hum, and she registered, dimly, that they were in some kind of secondary hallway, illuminated at regular intervals by a series of glowing wall sconces. He stepped up close, his huge chest inches from her own, his shins pressing against the front of her skirts.
Irritation mingled with shock. She was masked; he couldn’t know who she was. Did he make a habit of abducting female strangers in this manner? Was this how he conducted all his interactions with women? He just pulled them into dimly lit corners whenever he felt the need to—
She tugged her elbow from his grip and went on the attack, even as her heart thundered in her ears. “Lord Melton, you seem to have made a—”
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“You have me confused with someone else, sir.”
He sent her mask a scathing look. “Do you think I’m completely blind?”
Emmy made one last-ditch effort. “My name is—”
“Emmeline d’Anvers,” he supplied smoothly, and Emmy stilled in shock at the unexpected perfection of his French accent. From his lips, her name sounded liquid, seductive. As if he’d said it a thousand times before. Only Camille and her father had ever used that version. Luc and Sally used the clipped, Anglicized style—Emmy Danvers.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll ask you again. How did you get in?”
Emmy looked him in the eye. “Your friend Mowbray sent my brother tickets.”
His jaw tensed, and she thought she heard him mutter a curse. His gaze flicked down to her mouth—about the only part of her face he could see beneath her mask—then back up.
“You shouldn’t have come. This is no place for a lady. It could be dangerous.”
Emmy almost laughed aloud. Oh, yes, dangerous. The danger wasn’t out there, though, in the card room. It was right here in front of her. Six foot two of bristling, infuriated male.
“You’ll be ruined if someone from the ton recognizes you.”
She managed an offhand shrug. “My reputation, or lack of it, is not your concern.”
An inch of white cuff flashed as he braced his hands on the wall on either side of her head. He leaned forward, crowding her with his height, and a thrill of something that wasn’t quite fear flashed through her. It had been a mistake to come here, to taunt him. But she’d never felt so alive. Being near him elicited the same nerve-wracking rush as participating in a heist.
“You’re in my club, Miss Danvers. That makes you my concern.”