Chapter Two

Banebridge Spring Ball

Clouster Hall

County of York, England

April, 1817

“Oy, you!” a rotund and sweaty man in a tightly fitted livery called across the kitchen, pointing a fat finger at Vic, who ducked her face to hide her grimace from his narrowed gaze.

“Yes, sir?” she asked, voice demure, shoulders slumped, hands twisting the fabric of her crisp, white apron. If Faith could see her now, she’d bust a stitch doubling over in laughter. But Faith wasn’t there; she was at the townhouse in London, waiting for word on Vic’s success…or failure.

I cannot fail. Never failure. I cannot fail.

She refused to be the only Daring who failed their first solo mission. Since arriving in London, Love, Honoria, and Verity had already completed and succeeded in their first solo missions for the Home Office. It was her turn to succeed.

And so, she was here.

The fat man strode across the expanse of the enormous kitchen, his jowls jiggling, then he stopped just in front of where Vic had been standing, watching the comings and goings of the other kitchen and serving staff as they flittered about gathering whatever the Countess of Banebridge demanded for her guests.

All two hundred of them. Packed together in a ballroom like pickled fish in a jug. And they smelled about as good, too.

While in China, the idea of attending balls and dressing to the nines was as intriguing as any Crown secret. But now that she’d been in England for four months, for the life of her, she couldn’t understand the British aristocracy and their impulse to gather together in groups to squawk like old hobs and flash their finery like peacocks. It was apparent now that all those years she’d spent daydreaming about the glamour and finery of London, she’d been blinded by the stars in her eyes.

For the truth was far less…elegant.

She’d often remarked upon it while reading the London Times, and her mother adroitly reminded her that she, too, would be expected to conform to such ridiculousness now that they’d returned to England and were in the thick of planning their own ball. Though, much to her dear mama’s dismay, Vic had spent more time in disguise, running about the back alleys of London, than she had in parlors, wearing all the gowns and dresses her mama had ordered their first week in town.

But there was nothing to be done about it. It was all part of her duty to the Crown, after all…at least that’s what she told her mama when she’d catch sight of her eldest daughter dressed as a groom or bootblack.

Operation Imperial Twilight was in full swing, much like the ball, and her attendance as a maid at the latter was because of the former. She was at Clouster Hall searching for information necessary to their clandestine operation—the very reason her family had been recalled to England.

The fat man standing before her now, Harry Mander, grunted, and Vic peered up at him through her inky black eyelashes.

“You,” he said, pointing at her again, “take that tray”—he indicated a circular silver tray with scalloped edges sitting on the large butcher block in the middle of the room—“and gather the empty glasses for the scullery. This is the last time I tell you to get busy, Berta. Mrs. Maisey has a mind to toss you out on your arse, and I’ve a mind to let her.”

Vic—Berta for all these people knew—felt a moment of panic. If she lost the position before the week was over, she’d lose the best cover she had—the best chance at completing her already marred mission. Her mission had already had a most inauspicious beginning: the debacle at the house off Theed Street, where she’d convinced the real Berta to take a holiday in Bath—on the King’s gold. But the woman had balked at the paltry sum of twenty pounds, contending that if she were taking the risk of besmirching her good name, she’d better have enough coin to “take permanent holiday in the Cotswolds.” The gall of that woman, sopping up every last guinea from Vic’s reticule.

But Vic had done what needed to be done to secure her position at the party. “Berta” had been hired through an agency in London to work the weeklong party at the home of Malcolm Egerdon, the Earl of Banebridge, a once close, personal friend of King George.

Vic sucked in a deep breath and picked up the tray, holding it with two hands as she’d seen other servers do.

Be useful; do not give them cause to sack you. You have been training for this.

You are a Daring.

Silently repeating those words over and over, she left the kitchen through the swinging door and headed down the wide corridor toward the ballroom where everyone was packed in tightly, the heat and tongue-wagging making many thirsty. Again ducking her head to hide her face—though she doubted anyone here would recognize her even if she weren’t wearing a wig and spectacles—she moved through the crowd, easily sidestepping tipsy dandies and sour-faced dowagers, extending the tray for them to place their empty champagne and punch glasses upon it.

The heat of the room and the sticky moisture in the air coming in through the open terrace doors was making the red hair of her wig fray around the bangs. And it itched something terrible. But she’d withstand the irritation just to get through this evening. And hopefully, she’d not be overcome by the heat and smell before she could break away from the party and search for the earl’s private study.

Party? This is more like a study in misery. She could only hope that her own coming-out ball—several years late—wouldn’t be as stuffy as this one. At least she’d have her sisters there to ease any discomfort.

But this, right now, was a chance to put all her training to use. For King and Country, no less.

Fighting back a trill of nerves, she collected one last empty glass and turned to make her way back toward the kitchen and scullery beyond that. Her mind occupied with the next step in her plan, she collided with a tall, broad wall made of silk and warmth and the scent of cloves.

Cursing under her breath, she looked up into the face of a man who couldn’t possibly be of earth… His striking green and gold eyes flashed with self-reproach, but that disappeared quickly, a look of shock rising up to fill his gaze with a brightness that made her heart thud.

Dark brows arched to disappear behind a dashing fall of blond locks. And his lips…the bottom one fuller than the top, they quirked into a lopsided smile that made her belly flip.

But it wasn’t just his striking looks that twisted her good sense, it was also that she’d instantly recognized him as the brother of one of the men she and Love had been tasked to follow the previous week. She’d seem him from a distance twice before, but she had never had the opportunity to see him this close.

It was disconcerting, how handsome he was and how she’d noticed it.

“My apologies…” His deep voice rumbled from his chest and into hers, and it took her a moment to realize he meant for her to reply.

Unfamiliar heat bloomed in her face, rushing up from her neck to warm her cheeks. Goodness, as if she weren’t already hot enough!

Finding her voice, she dipped a sloppy curtsy and muttered, “So sorry, m’lord, please forgive me clumsiness.” Her cockney accent was firmly in place, and her cowed countenance—one she’d practiced just for assignments like this—was about as perfect as one would expect.

Not that anyone in the room expected a homeland spy in a scratchy red wig circulating the room with a drinks tray.

Unbelievably, the man’s smile grew, until a row of straight white teeth flashed in the glittering light from the overabundance of candles. The smile reached his eyes, which made his face all the more…dashing.

Gāisǐ de— Damn! I don’t have time for such thoughts.

Offering another curtsey, this one even more poorly done, she bowed her head and tried to skirt around him, the tray in her hands gripped with white knuckles. The man chuckled then moved into her path.

Sucking in a breath, she looked up into his face again. His smile had dimmed, but his eyes had darkened from green hazel to a molten gold-flecked coffee that seemed to flare with fire. Her stomach did another flip, which she ignored, though the sensation seeped into her limbs.

Steady…

“I will only forgive you if you will forgive me. I have been told—more than once—that I am an inelegant oaf. If I hadn’t been standing there, you could not have stumbled into me.” His reasoning was sound…and ludicrous. “So, I must beg your forgiveness.”

“No need, m’lord,” she murmured, her voice rising with her sense of panic. She couldn’t make a scene—or rather, a bigger scene. It would be devastating to her cause for anyone to take note of her and then remember her once she was gone. She was supposed to be like a shadow, drifting along, unseen, unheard, and easily forgotten.

The man moved closer, his expression changing even as his eyes took in the rest of her. His gaze flicked from her hands to her arms, then back to her face.

What was he looking for?

“Please…are you hurt? Can I help you with that?” he inquired, his brows furrowed with concern as he reached out as if to take the tray from her. Her heart hammering, she pulled away, nearly colliding with a woman behind her.

Murmurings began then, the elaborately gowned women speaking to one another in hushed tones from behind their furled fans. She wanted to roll her eyes and show them what they could really do with those fans—with a practiced flick of her wrist, she could crush a windpipe with a single blow—but she knew her actions would only make her stand out all the more when what she really needed was to blend in.

But this man was making blending in difficult. Rather than continue their conversation out where everyone could hear, she spun around him skillfully, dodging three, four, five people who’d clustered in to eavesdrop openly. Lord, but she hoped the man took his smile and went back to his conversation with the gaggle of brightly dressed women around him.

Once she was through the crowd of hot, malodorous guests, she let out a heavy breath and tried not to run into the kitchen. She needed to get the tray to the scullery, then find a way to excuse herself to slip away into the other part of the house.

According to Miles Leigh, Earl of Leavenson, her family’s only direct connection through the Home Office intelligence organization, Clouster Hall was made up of one main building with a wing branching on each side. The earl’s study was in the western wing, on the opposite side of the house from the ballroom and kitchen. The corridor leading to the corridor that led to the kitchen at the back of the house was busy with other servers and houseboys in livery, dashing about with trays, linens, sewing kits, and whatever else the guests were currently in need of.

Thankful for her dancing practice, she sidestepped others carrying trays laden with platters of pale and unappetizing food and gently placed her own tray on the counter beside the wide, deep sink where the scullery maids were frantically scrubbing pots and pans.

“Gor! Not ’nother one,” the nearest scullery groused. “There’s no end to ’em.” She huffed and went back to scrubbing the pot caked with what looked like cheese. “I’ll lose me arm if I keep scrubbin’ this same pot—cook is the Devil, she is.”

Not eager to speak with the woman, Vic turned and left, checking to make sure Harry was busy with another maid, and slid out of the kitchen door and into the corridor.

Now, how to get from this side of the house to the other…

She glanced down at her black dress and white apron. The sleeves were puffed, the hem scraped the floor, and her shoes were black, serviceable half boots. If the partygoers didn’t look too closely, she could easily pass as a guest…in mourning.

Unfortunately, the white mobcap on her red wig designated her as the help. Removing the apron would, hopefully, fail to raise any disinterested guests’ hackles, but she’d have to carefully unpin the mobcap from the already precariously placed wig.

On second thought…if she removed her wig, she would appear an altogether different person. Anyone looking at her would never consider she’d had red hair earlier that evening. Her natural black hair was already pinned up under the wig; it would be easy enough to take it off, hide it with her apron, and pass in the corridors unnoticed.

On third thought…if anyone were to see her without her wig, would they recognize her later on when she was back to being Lady Victoria Daring?

Damn. She couldn’t take that chance. The wig would stay, drat.

Spying a closed door, just up the corridor from the kitchen, Vic rushed to it, peering over her shoulder to make sure no one was looking in her direction, then cracked the door and peered inside. Dark. Empty. She slipped through, then shut it quietly behind her.

Vic made short work of removing the apron, but removing the mobcap took a little more finesse, since it was securely pinned to the wig. With the mobcap off, she readjusted the wig to sit perfectly on the crown of her head, tucking the strands of loose hair back under it.

Patting the hidden dagger hilt strapped to her thigh, she made sure it was still secure. The last thing she needed was to lose the thing—it was one of her favorites, a sixteen-fold blade hammered to razor-sharp perfection by a master bladesmith. Tucking the apron and the cap beneath a pillow on what felt like an upholstered chair—she was probably in an unused powder room—she held her breath and opened the door a crack. The corridor was nearly empty, the only occupants rushing from the direction of the ballroom and right into the kitchen.

Thank God for small favors.

But she couldn’t let her guard down now—one wrong move, one nosy maid or guest, and she’d be out the door without ever having set foot in the study.

Taking a page from her “visual deception” training manual, she infused her countenance with the haughty carriage of a peer. Pulling back her shoulders and tipping up her chin, Vic did as her mother always did and floated down the hallway on a cloud, her feet barely making a sound as she made her way away from the party…

And away from that man with the staggering smile.