One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,25

would prove a superior dancer to Lord Penhurst, but she dutifully took her place in the line, performed the requisite curtsy with her eyes lowered, and discovered she owed the younger man a debt of gratitude after all.

She had been painfully aware that Lord Penhurst had trod more than once on her foot. But she had not noticed until just that moment that he had also stepped on the hem of her gown.

The overskirt of delicate organza was gathered in scallops along the bottom, each one suspended by a small rose fashioned from the same amaranth-red silk. In one spot, the thread holding the rose in place had broken and a swath of fabric now trailed on the marble floor. Another careless move, her partner’s or her own, and the dress could be torn beyond repair, even beyond the abilities of Martha’s needle. For once, she really did need to mind her step.

Thank goodness for Lord Penhurst’s clumsiness!

“Oh, dear,” exclaimed Amanda, gesturing at the damage. George did not look, still steadfastly refusing to take in the splendor of the low-cut gown, with its daring suggestion of translucence, lest he glimpse something improper. “Please forgive me, but I must pay a visit to the ladies’ retiring room.”

“Ah, hmm,” was Lord Dulsworthy’s only reply, and she was soon halfway across the dance floor, slipping past the other couples and into the freedom of the hall.

The retiring room was empty of guests, and the maid stationed there for just such a purpose would have made quick work of pinning the rosette back into place and averting further disaster. With very little effort, Amanda could have returned to George’s side before the Boulangère began.

Instead, she gathered her skirts in her hands and hurried upstairs.

In the drawing room, the card players were too much occupied to notice her passing the double doorway. In the dining room beyond, servants bustled to prepare for the late supper that was to be served. She overheard George’s butler, Mr. Evans, speaking sharply to someone about the parmesan ice cream. Glancing quickly around to ensure she wasn’t spotted, Amanda slipped into the shadowy corridor past the dining room, where the sconces had not been lit, signaling that the rooms there were not open to guests.

A dozen silent steps took her to the door of George’s study.

She surprised herself with the firmness of the hand she stretched out to open it, though what lay beyond that door was a familiar battleground, the site of innumerable discussions about the boys and their future. No trembling—except, perhaps, with excitement. If the book was inside, she would retrieve it and smuggle it to Magpie below… Oh.

How did she intend to sneak out of the house in the middle of the ball carrying a French cookbook?

The less-revealing blue gown might have been better suited to the evening’s activities after all.

No matter. She could…why, she could stash the book somewhere else in the house and return for it at the end of the evening.

And with that plan, she opened the door and plunged herself into the study’s total darkness.

* * * *

By ten o’clock, the street was quiet, and the footman inside the front door had departed for other duties, ordering Langley and the freckle-faced lad to give admittance to any late-arriving guests. Langley knew better than to be surprised that Dulsworthy’s guests were not the sort to start their evening closer to midnight. In fact, he supposed it would not be long before the stodgiest ballgoers would be calling for their carriages to take them home. If he was to get inside and have a look about, he needed to act now.

“Damn this rain,” said his partner, shifting uncomfortably. “Makes a chap need to take a piss, eh?”

“There’s bushes t’ the side,” Langley offered with a jerk of his chin. “Nobody’ll notice if you give ’em a little extra water.”

The lad needed no further encouragement. With a nod of thanks, he hurried down the steps and disappeared around the corner of the house and into the shrubbery.

Likely before the other man had unbuttoned his fall, Langley had shed his wig and livery coat, stuffed them behind a stone urn, and entered the house wearing the tight-fitting attire of a gentleman, running a hand through his hair to give it a rakish air, transformed from a lowly footman into a late-arriving guest.

With no one the wiser, he stepped easily into a stream of dancers leaving the ballroom for the supper room. In the crowd and without