and two men fought with bloody knuckles and bleeding noses while a crowd cheered and bet.
I mingled throughout the room, avoiding the fringes and gracefully moving from group to group with the ease of long practice. Rumors about the attack on House von Hasenberg and the war between us and House Rockhurst were rampant. No one had any real information, but everyone wanted to talk about it.
My face ached from holding both my tongue and my polite smile. The next person who lamented that Bianca von Hasenberg hadn’t been shot was liable to get a hair pin in the eye.
“You’re glowering,” Ian murmured. He grazed a featherlight touch across the exposed skin of my lower back to direct me around a drunken guest.
I shivered, but refused to be so easily distracted. “I’m about to do more than glare,” I growled back. So far, Riccardo Silva had been decidedly absent. If we went to all this trouble and he failed to make an appearance, I didn’t know what I would do, but I vowed it would be properly dramatic. I’d get his attention one way or another.
An older gentleman in a white tuxedo with graying hair, deeply tanned skin, and a slim build approached. A mask covered the upper part of his face, but his smile was warm. “Your dress is a work of art,” he said by way of greeting.
“Thank you,” I said. “I happen to agree.”
“Would you care to dance?” he asked. When Ian stepped closer, he clarified, “In full view of your guard, of course.”
“No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I don’t dance.”
“Then please allow me to escort you around the room. That dress is meant to be in motion.”
I accepted his offered arm and let him lead me on a circuit of the room. “So, are you a fashion designer or just a connoisseur of women’s dresses?”
He laughed, a deep, pleasant sound. “Ten seconds and you already have me figured out. I’m a designer. And I’m betting your dress came from High Street.”
“You have a good eye.”
“When you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you learn to recognize the competition.”
“So what’s a fashion designer doing at a Syndicate party?”
“Hoping to negotiate for cheaper, better materials. The Consortium is killing my business.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard the complaint. Consortium taxes could be outrageously high, depending on how much pressure they wanted to put on a certain business or sector.
“And what do you do, my lady of good fashion sense?”
“I deal in information,” I said.
He paused and turned to me. “I don’t suppose you could find me a new line on materials?”
I laughed lightly. “You’re single-minded, I’ll give you that. But no, I don’t deal in that kind of information. I could do it, but my fee is so high you’d lose any benefit the information would give you.”
He started walking again, until we returned to where we’d started. He bowed over my hand and offered me a card. “The next time you’re in Honorius and need a new dress, come see me. I may not be on High Street, but my dresses are no less beautiful. Even the High Houses will be envious by the time I’m finished with you.”
“Thank you. I look forward to it,” I said. I tucked the card into my clutch and bobbed a shallow curtsy.
The ballroom was nearing capacity as more and more guests arrived. The heat was stifling and I regretted not bringing a personal cooling field. On the far end of the room, wide glass doors were thrown open to an outside balcony. I headed that way. I just needed a few minutes of fresh air away from the din.
Small groups of people mingled on the balcony. I moved away from them, to a secluded corner. No breeze moved the air, but it was still nearly ten degrees cooler out here than in the ballroom.
“Are you okay?” Ian asked.
“Yes, just hot and frustrated.”
“Perhaps I can help with one of those,” a masculine voice interrupted. His accent was lilting, nearly musical. “I’ve been watching you all evening and I must say, that dress is my new favorite thing. But it would look even better on my floor.”
I turned to face the newcomer and it was only through years of practice that I didn’t roll my eyes at the terrible line or show my surprise when I came face-to-face with Riccardo Silva and his two bodyguards.
Riccardo was a handsome man, with blue-green eyes and warm olive