Page 11 of A Spy’s Guide to Seduction

He cracked open the door to the hall. A sliver of light exposed the black of his evening clothes and the bright gleam of adventure in his eye. Then he was gone, and Emily heard his footsteps on the stairs. He was leaving it to her, trusting her to act.

She slipped back into the ballroom behind the potted palm. The leering fiddler, in the midst of a lively country-dance, did not notice her. Emily moved easily along the edge of the room, looking for something to drop over the balustrade.

She saw just the thing when a harried-looking footman set a tray on one of the side tables and began loading it with empty drinks glasses. While his back was turned, Emily snagged the tray, turned away, and headed for the open doors of the ballroom.

She stepped to the edge of the balustrade and peered down at the expanse of marble floor below her. Once again the angry voices of her host and hostess filled the air. Emily held out the tray, and let it go. For a moment she thought she’d gone mad. The silver tray and the glassware separated in air into a noiseless glittering stream. Emily held her breath. Then tray and glass shattered against the marble floor below with an appalling splintering, jangling noise that echoed off stone, the noise of things breaking that could never be put together again. A terrible silence followed. Emily stepped away from the balustrade.

Chapter Four

Nothing the husband hunter encounters in the Season is as potentially misleading as a kiss. It is wise to avoid as much as possible those locales, which favor such expressions of feeling. The very circumstances in which the husband hunter is likely to succumb to the promptings of her heart or the persuasions of a gentleman, if such a man may retain the title, do not make for clear thinking. Moonlit gardens, dark balconies, and fireworks displays by their very nature obscure sight.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Lynley silently applauded Emily’s resourcefulness as he stepped from the library into the entry hall. The shattering glass had just the desired effect. His own head, still muddled by the kiss in the closet, cleared, and the Ravenhursts’ servants came running. Brooms and dustpans were fetched, and the work of sweeping up the glass, tiny fragments of which glittered from one end of the hall to the other, began. No one noted the odd direction of his entry on the scene.

Ravenhurst and his lady stood watching in silence. Ravenhurst saw Lynley first.

“Lynley, what are you doing here?”

Lynley lifted the coat draped over his arm. “Came to collect my coat and say goodnight, old man. Couldn’t help but overhear. Are you missing something?”

Lady Ravenhurst gave a dry laugh. “His wits.”

“Vital Foreign Office papers, if you must know,” Ravenhurst snarled.

“Where should we look?”

Ravenhurst tightened his jaw. “Someone’s taken them. I’ll have everyone searched.”

Lynley held his arms out and assumed an expression he hoped would pass for imbecilic. “Well, you can start with me, old man, but I often find the thing I’m looking for in some place I’ve forgotten. Shall we search your library?”

“Do,” said Lady Ravenhurst. “Take my absurd husband away to his precious library.”

“You know, Ravenhurst,” Lynley said, “we really should talk about your cellar.”

“My cellar?”

“The sherry’s execrable.”

Ravenhurst shot his wife one last glare, then stalked to the library. Lynley trailed after him.

* * * *

Emily hurried down the stairs. On the strength of a kiss in a closet she had done something outrageous. Ever since Lynley had raised his head above that wretched sofa in Rosalind’s drawing room, she’d been off balance. She needed to regain her senses. She could hear footmen talking, the tinkle of glass fragments being swept up, and the rumble of Lynley’s voice in conversation with their hosts.

As she turned to descend the final run of stairs, a footman held up a hand to stop her. “Best to wait, miss. Broken glass about.”

From below Lady Ravenhurst looked up and shuddered as her gaze took in Emily’s black gown.

“Sorry to disturb,” Emily murmured. Her black gown, which had seemed a good joke at the start of the evening, now appeared to be a piece of utter folly. “I’m looking for Lynley. We were about to leave.”

“He’s in the library with my husband.”

“Oh.”

Lady Ravenhurst appeared lost, her violet eyes staring blankly, her hands hanging limp at her sides. She was one of those females Emily could never be—the helpless and fragile kind that compelled men to rush to their sides offering all manner of assistance. From above came the music and laughter of the ballroom. It was hard to stand saying nothing, offering no comfort to the woman before her, not knowing what exactly was wrong, but Emily knew it was what she must do, until the footmen withdrew.

When they did, she came down the steps, trying to think of what to say beyond the inadequate commonplaces of leave-taking. She could hear Lynley’s voice from within the library and ventured a thank-you. She added, “Tonight Lynley and I enjoyed our first waltz.”