“I have never known the lady to kick.”

“You would be surprised,” he mused, his brow knit as he watched her circulate the room. “She has come a long way somehow. How is she ostracizing these roguish chaps, anyway? I understand some of them were blackguards and deserved it—had it coming, even—but how?”

“You had better not kick, either, Pembridge. How she does anything is none of your affair, but she is not what you are intimating. I suggest you abandon your misguided suspicions of Lady Dumonte.”

The clear warning had Nick pausing to study his friend. “Sound advice, Your Grace. I do believe I shall keep my feet under me at all times.” Nick smiled, then bent in a slight bow. “If you will excuse me, I am off to lay our investigation and hard work at Lady Dumonte’s feet… gentlemanly.”

Nick wasn’t sure if the duke was protecting him or Lady Dumonte with that threat. Béarn was a good friend to both, which was how Nick assumed he had received an invitation and why Béarn refused to take no for an answer. The duke was a royal pain in the arse when it came to savoir vivre, and apparently, if Nick had refused the invitation, he would have been doing it wrong.

Nick had taken his fair share of risks. He had spent some years at war and a decade spying for the good of England, not to mention his own pockets. He knew he was close to solving this bloody case, but he must stay close to the target, which was undoubtedly a member of the ton. If she decided to give him the boot, though, the case might very well be lost. It was a risk he would not choose to take.

Nick swallowed a frustrated growl. He would make it quick, like jumping in a cold pond to save a clumsy puppy. Jump in, rescue his last five years’ worth of work, and get the hell out.

The ballroom was double the size of the sports field at Eton. At least, it felt that way to Nick. Guests mingled along the walls, and a group of quite enthusiastic dancers pranced in the middle. It caused Nick to take twice as long as he had anticipated to get to where Lady Dumonte stood, speaking to Lady Juliette. Or rather, she was speaking to Lady Juliette.

By the time Nick arrived, Lady Juliette had gone.

“Lady Dumonte.” Nick smiled as he bowed over her hand and left a kiss in the air above her knuckles.

“Welcome, my lord,” she greeted, then gestured onwards. “Shall we?”

Nick managed a smile and a nod, expertly hiding his inward groan as he offered his arm.

They silently began a slow migration through the throng. He usually enjoyed social engagements, but this was an absolute crush. There were multiple times already when he had narrowly avoided a collision with a stray dancer.

Within seconds of their stroll, the first strokes of a waltz picked up. Two by two, the outside ring they were sluggishly weaving through cleared as the couples were eager to take part in the intimate dance.

Nick felt the air from the terraces now for the first time. The walkway, created by the line of chairs against the wall to one side and a row of drapes and pillars to the other, was now an open path for them to leisurely stroll.

Nick’s lips twitched as he turned to the lady ambling confidently at his side. “Lady Dumonte, I had not thought you one to render punishment on the unsuspecting, but I dare to say you knew our walk would be unimpeded yet thought to make me agonize.”

She was silent, but he could see her lips turn up.

“Well, I forgive you,” he went on. “My suffering was great, but I forgive you, if only because I expect you to do the same for me should I require forgiveness.”

“That sounds reasonable,” she demurred, graciously going along with his ridiculous logic.

Now that the air had cleared with most of the bodies gliding across the dance floor, Nick began to catch the scent of her perfume. It took him a moment to identify it or, more aptly, to realize he couldn’t. It was like a spring garden after a rain: fresh and floral, but not overpoweringly so. The scents that filled the ballroom—other than sweat and fabric—were rose, jasmine, sandalwood, and the occasional clove. Hers was a refreshing change.

“Your eye for design is remarkable,” Nick complimented as they passed one of the pillars.

He meant it. Her skill rivaled his own.

“Thank you,” she answered simply.

“Did you study the skill?” he asked, determined to get her talking.

“No, I merely have taste.”

“Undoubtedly,” he muttered.

Nick had used those very words when asked the same question. It was usually punctuated with a veiled insult to the inquirer’s mother, because the question itself was more often than not a jab at his masculinity or an accusation of the lack thereof.

“In fact,” Nick went on, undaunted, “some may be here solely to observe your talent. It is known you set the trend for all of Europe. Gad, there must be over two hundred gawking in this room alone.”

Lady Dumonte continued her leisurely gait beside him in silence. She had not looked at him since they had started walking, and it was strangely unnerving.

“It must be rather embarrassing,” he went on with raised brows, “to smile at one’s beloved. The poor lad might receive several propositions by the end of the evening.” Nick chuckled quietly. “One could only hope the lady would be forgiving.”

Nick slanted an assessing glance at her, but her expression was stoic. Today was not his day for getting people to talk, it seemed.

“Speaking of misinterpretations and forgiveness, I am afraid I was a lad who was too cautious. I certainly did not intend to slight you. Naturally, I assumed your attention was for the duke.”

“So, you wish to be certain I was not offended by your accidental slight,” she confirmed.

“Just so. How was I to believe such a lovely creature would notice me?” he asked, the glint of amusement in his eyes belying his beseeching expression. “Had I realized, I might have fallen instantly in love with you, and what a scandal that would cause! Then where would we be?”

One ebony brow winged up. “You were obviously on the guest list,” she reminded him coolly. “Tell me, do you think me a woman of poor manners or poor memory?”

Nick’s amusement faded. “Neither, I assure you,” he answered. “I am a good friend of the Duc de Béarn as well as his business associate. I assumed he procured my invitation. A plus one, you might say. I cannot imagine you writing my name on an invitation.”

“Perhaps you think me prejudiced against the English? Is that why you think I would not have invited you?” Now both brows were furrowed in the most delicate of black looks. “Even had I lost someone in the war, my lord, I could not very well blame you. I doubt you have ever stepped foot on a battlefield, and politics is a tricky skill to master.”

Nick’s brow knit as the insult hit its mark. “You do me an injustice. I meant only that, because of my reputation, I am not a popular guest to some moral and principled crowds.” At least one or two had refused to extend him invitations in Paris, believing him a veritable Sade.

They obviously had never met either him or Sade.

“No, you are not,” she agreed. She stopped, turning to face him fully as they entered the alcove behind one of the large pillars. “I doubt anyone would be with your social ineptitude and complete lack of morals.”

Apparently, Lady Dumonte was one of those who confused him with Sade.