Linwood eyed him with open suspicion. “You’re attending another social event? Are you turning into a society man?”

  “Hardly.” Avery grimaced, prompting a smile from his friend. “But it is my hope that if I put in more of a show this season, my uncle will have less cause for complaint.”

  It was another truth. In addition, Avery hoped one or both of his suspects would be in attendance tonight. “Are you and Lady Linwood attending the dance?”

  A shadow crossed his friend’s face. “We were invited, but no, Clare and I won’t be attending.”

  “Is something amiss?” If Linwood wished to unburden himself, then of course Avery would stay and listen. Besides, he already had a good idea where Rodmill was headed.

  Linwood’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be all right. You go on, old man.”

  “If you need anything, Linwood . . .”

  He nodded, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I know, Winfield. And I’m grateful for it.”

  Avery bid his friend goodbye, then exited the club before searching the busy street for Rodmill. Once his current assignment was over, he intended to get to the bottom of whatever was troubling Lord Linwood—at least, if his friend was willing to share it.

  As he’d predicted, he discovered Rodmill walking a familiar route through London’s various neighborhoods. Likely bound for the undistinguished townhouse Avery had followed the man to before.

  Rodmill peered over his shoulder often, but Avery stayed far enough back to not be noticed. Members of the upper class, dressed in their finest, could be seen climbing into carriages and the occasional motorcar to attend a variety of social events.

  At last, Rodmill stopped in front of the same townhouse. A servant opened the door, and the other man entered the house. Avery crossed to the opposite side of the street to wait. Rodmill’s meetings typically lasted less than an hour.

  His thoughts soon turned from his investigation to his concern for Lord and Lady Linwood. But that trail of thought went to the last time he’d seen them together at the dinner they’d hosted and that, annoyingly, led his mind to Miss Barton.

  Nearly a week had passed since his disastrous conversation with the American girl. Avery had attended two other functions since then, but he hadn’t seen Miss Barton at either. It was a fact he found as gratifying as he did disappointing. He’d wondered more than once how she was doing and if her philosophies on love and faith were holding up in the face of the season. He actually hoped they were.

  He had met two more American heiresses since the Linwoods’ dinner. But neither of them could be the girl who’d helped him. One of them, a Miss Syble Rinecroft, was pleasant enough, and yet she chattered too much to be his calm, serene young lady from the opera. The other, a Miss Snow, had a beautiful singing voice, which she prided herself on sharing. Her manners were a bit too showy, though, to be those of the woman from the opera box.

  Had he only imagined the girl spoke with an American accent? No. Avery shook his head. He might have been in great pain that night, but he hadn’t hallucinated his surprise when he’d heard her accent. Those three American girls might not be the one he sought. However, there were still other American heiresses he hadn’t met yet.

  The door to the townhouse suddenly opened, jerking Avery from his musings. Rodmill descended the steps to the street. Avery straightened away from the wrought-iron fence he’d been leaning against. Tonight the man looked uncharacteristically happy. Instead of his usual frown, Rodmill wore an actual smile.

  Near the corner, the other man paused to pull out his watch. A slip of paper fluttered from his pocket to the sidewalk, but Rodmill seemed to take no notice. Without looking down, he marched on.

  Avery dashed in front of several carriages to reach the corner. He bent and picked up the paper. Could it finally be a clue as to why the man visited this part of town? Avery opened the note, and a surge of victory rolled through him when he saw the German words penned there.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he murmured to himself as he translated the message.

  Komm heute Abend um 6:00 zu mir. “Come to me at 6:00 this evening.”

  He stuffed the note into his pocket. This was actual evidence that Bert Rodmill’s meeting this evening had in fact been with the Germans. Could the man’s happiness mean he’d at last delivered valuable information to those inside the townhouse? Could Rodmill be the one who’d commissioned that reprobate to try to kill Avery at the opera?

  Avery had shared the incident with Captain Kell, along with his concern that his cover among the ton might have been blown. But the captain believed the threat was likely a lucky guess by the enemy spy’s superiors—an attempt to do away with Avery in the event that he might well be a spy himself. With a very limited number of men to help him, Captain Kell had asked Avery to continue his work until they had the solid proof they needed to apprehend whoever was spying for and reporting to Germany.

  He hurried past the corner and down the street until he had sight on Rodmill once more. As usual, the man’s trail ended outside his parents’ townhouse.

  Not as exciting a final destination as Avery had hoped. But he still felt pleased with the note he’d discovered. It gave him an upper hand in this game of cat and mouse.

  Before he turned to leave, he noticed a carriage pull to a stop in front of the Rodmills’ home. Was Miss Barton inside? He paused to watch and felt something akin to pleasure when the young lady stepped down from the vehicle. Except she was the only one to disembark. The carriage moved on the moment she started slowly up the front steps. He could see, even from a distance, her guilty expression as she approached her cousin, who stood waiting for her.

  How curious. Avery studied the pair. Rodmill looked annoyed as he spoke to Miss Barton, and Avery assumed the other man was scolding his cousin for her behavior. He had to admit he was surprised by her actions as well. Why would she travel unaccompanied around London? And where had she gone?

  When the two of them entered the house a minute or so later, Avery started for his own home, his mind flooding with thoughts. Could Miss Barton be working with her cousin, and thereby, with the Germans too? Avery didn’t want to believe it, especially given the disappointment expanding inside his chest. And yet he couldn’t deny that the young lady possessed the skills of quiet observation and discreetness, which were so needful in a spy.

  Perhaps she would be at the dance this evening. The possibility had him smiling to himself with anticipation. Because, whether Miss Barton accused him of interrogating her again or not, Avery planned to find out exactly where she had gone today and why.

  Chapter 6

  Everything swirled around Gwen as though she were caught inside a kaleidoscope for the senses—the lights glittering off the evening gowns, the buzz of conversation, the clashing scents of perfume. And it was more than the dancers moving around the Stouts’ ornate ballroom. It was the eddy of emotions inside her too.

  She’d felt so purposeful and independent heading to Dr. Smithfield’s office. But her bravery had been vanquished by disappointment when the clerk had brushed her off after informing her that the doctor was away on a house call. That meant she would have to arrange another time to visit.

  Then when she’d returned to her aunt and uncle’s townhouse, she had been horrified to see Bert striding up the steps ahead of her, then pausing to wait for her. Gwen had exited the carriage as regally as she could, her head held high. To her relief, she hadn’t been questioned about where she had gone. But Bert had plenty to say about the impropriety of riding in a carriage unaccompanied.

  His irritation over her faux pas had mingled with her regret at missing the doctor and had stolen most of her appetite at dinner. Or perhaps that had been more due to the apprehension she felt over tonight’s event, which was supposed to be the dance of the season. Anticipation of how awkward she would look and feel at sitting out added to the churning sensation in her stomach.

  Gwen shifted on the cushioned chair, turning her gaze away from the whirling pageantry. It wasn’t that she longed to dance, though she supposed it might be nice with an honorable man as her partner. She simply wished she had the option to decide for herself.

  At that moment she caught sight of the dogged Mr. Fipwish heading her way. Gwen suppressed a frown. In good conscience, she couldn’t ignore him, especially when he came to a stop in front of her.

  “Mr. Fipwish.”

  He bowed to her. “Miss Barton. I was hoping you would be here this evening. May I say how enchanting you look? Like a decanter aglow in the firelight.”

  No, you may not.

  The thought of saying such a thing out loud tweaked the corners of her lips, but Gwen hurried to hide the smile lest the man think it stemmed from his praise. “Thank you.”

  “Will you do me the honor of the next dance?”

  All of her mother’s advice, including another hissed reminder as they were helped from the carriage outside the Stouts’ residence, reverberated through Gwen’s head. She fisted one of her gloved hands as she attempted to silence the cacophony of thoughts. She’d committed to being herself, and that meant telling the truth—not making excuses. Hopefully doing so would send Mr. Fipwish fleeing for good.

  “I’m afraid I cannot dance, Mr. Fipwish.”

  His eyebrows rose in a quizzical expression. “You mean to say you never had dancing lessons?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I thought dancing lessons were part of every American heiress’s education.”

  “Not for me.” She sat up straighter. “I was injured as a child, and the result is a foot that can’t bear much weight for long periods of time.” A flicker of something entered his gaze. Gwen guessed it was a mixture of shock and dismay. “I limp when I walk, which makes dancing out of the question.”

  Gwen offered him a congenial smile, relieved to have the truth out in the open. After all, he wasn’t likely to stick around in the present or the future after such a candid explanation.

  And that made his answering smile all the more puzzling. The uneasiness returned to her middle as the man took the vacant seat beside hers.

  “If you cannot dance,” he declared, “then I shan’t dance either, Miss Barton.”

  “That really isn’t—”

  He leaned close. “Never fear. I will gallantly take it upon myself to provide you with all of the conversation you could desire this evening.”

  She glanced around, desperately searching in vain for some reason to excuse herself. Her gaze met her mother’s across the room. There was no mistaking Cornelia’s pleased expression. Gwen felt trapped—she couldn’t abandon her would-be suitor now that her mother had seen them sitting together. Why had being herself resulted in the very thing she’d hoped to avoid?

  “How is that new mare of yours?” she managed to say from her tight throat.

  If she could get him talking about himself, then she likely wouldn’t have to talk at all. Instead she could think of how to ensure her plan to be herself didn’t go awry again.

  “She is a sight to behold. Have I told you how well she can jump?”

  As Gwen had suspected, the man launched into an equestrian monologue. She tried to listen, but the longer Mr. Fipwish talked, the more her attention and gaze strayed to the rest of those assembled. She noticed Mr. Hanbury standing to one side of the ballroom. The sight of another of her would-be suitors inspired an idea. Mr. Hanbury had kindly helped her out of an awkward situation before. Perhaps he’d do so again.

  Gwen waited until he looked her way, then she offered him a genuine smile. He might be quiet, but he was nice-looking and not fond of talking only of himself. The man didn’t seem overly fond of talking at all. Which Gwen now viewed as a great blessing. If he would only come over to speak with her, then maybe she could join him—to seek refreshments or step outside for some air—and blessedly leave Mr. Fipwish behind.

  Mr. Hanbury acknowledged her with a dip of his head. However, instead of moving toward her as she’d hoped, he threw Mr. Fipwish a pointed look before disappearing among the press of people. Gwen bit back a disappointed sigh. Help would not come in the form of Mr. Hanbury tonight. She would need to come up with another strategy to shake the company of Mr. Fipwish.

  At that moment, she noticed Mr. Winfield moving along the perimeter of the dance floor. Her heart gave a strange leap when he met her eye and smiled. Gwen didn’t know whether to return the smile or frown instead. She was still mildly irritated at him for his bombastic comments at the Linwoods’ dinner. And yet, when she realized he was coming her way, she felt more relief than annoyance. Debating with Avery Winfield sounded far more pleasant than listening to Mr. Fipwish belabor his fascination with decanters or his mare.

  “Good evening, Mr. Winfield.” She nodded to him when he stopped alongside her chair.

  He inclined his head in return and bowed. “Miss Barton.” Turning to Mr. Fipwish, he acknowledged the other man. “Fipwish.”

  “Winfield,” Mr. Fipwish replied with a frown.

  Mr. Winfield turned his gaze toward the dancing. “Quite the ball, is it not?”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Fipwish glared in annoyance at Mr. Winfield.

  If he noticed, Mr. Winfield chose to ignore the other gentleman’s reaction. “I overheard Lord Dunstill talking about your mare, Fipwish.” He leaned in as he added, “I’m afraid he still thinks he has a horse that can easily out-jump yours.”

  Mr. Fipwish aimed a glowering look across the room. “Is that so?” He stood and tugged his evening coat into place. “I’m afraid I must leave you, Miss Barton. The honor of my prize mare is at stake. If you’ll both excuse me . . .”

  “Of course,” Gwen said, trying hard not to laugh. It was not an easy task with the way Mr. Winfield’s brown eyes were twinkling with mischief.

  “I shall seek you out later.”

  She held back her grimace by clasping her hands tightly together. “I’ll understand if your other . . . conversation . . . requires a great deal of your time.”

  As Mr. Fipwish strode off, Mr. Winfield took his vacated seat. “Well played,” he murmured to her, his mouth twitching with a barely hidden smile.

  “You as well.” She was surprised to find herself relaxing into her chair. “Was this Lord Dunstill actually talking about Mr. Fipwish’s horse?”

  “I did happen to overhear him.” The merriment hadn’t disappeared from his gaze. “However, even if I hadn’t, I would have been safe in my claims. Lord Dunstill can’t attend an event with Mr. Fipwish without disparaging the man’s horses at some point during the evening.”

  Gwen studied him with a mixture of bewilderment and gratitude. “So you planned to approach Mr. Fipwish whether you overheard that conversation or not. Why?”

  “Because I’m all too aware of how long-winded he can be. Especially when it comes to whatever new horse he’s purchased.” Mr. Winfield exchanged a smile with her, then turned to watch the dancing again. “I suppose you could say I was aiding a damsel in distress.”

  “Ha. I was hardly in distress.” The laugh she’d suppressed earlier spilled from her lips. “All right, so I might have been experiencing a little distress.”

  He faced her once more. “I guessed as much. And as a reward for my benevolence, I should like to know why you aren’t dancing this evening.”

  Had he been watching her longer than she was aware? Gwen found the prospect as unsettling as it was pleasing.

  “I’ll gladly tell you why I’m not dancing.” She motioned to her left foot as she shifted it slightly beyond the hem of her ball gown. “As a child, I was in a carriage accident and injured my foot. In spite of the doctor’s care, the foot didn’t heal correctly.”

  Mr. Winfield nodded thoughtfully. “That’s why you walk with a limp.”

  “Yes.” She wasn’t surprised that he’d noticed—not with how astute he’d been in his observations the other night. But she appreciated the lack of feigned sympathy from him. “It’s also why I can’t dance.”

  “And are thus at the mercy of Mr. Fipwish.”

  Gwen laughed lightly. “Exactly. But why aren’t you dancing, Mr. Winfield?”

  “Ahh.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tonight, I find that I prefer enlightening conversation to dancing.”

  He found their conversation enlightening? Gwen wasn’t sure she could say the same. Except . . . he had seen her distress and responded to it. And after resolving her difficulty, he’d stayed and appeared genuinely interested in continuing to talk with her. Surprisingly, she found the idea of conversing with him less appalling than she might have earlier.

  “What enlightening topic should we discuss, then?”

  Mr. Winfield appeared to think her question over. “Are you finding the season’s social events to your liking? And, remember, I expect you to speak plainly.” He waved his gloved finger at her.

  “That’s what you deem enlightening?” she countered with another laugh. He offered a shrug, though his expression conveyed his amusement. “Fine. I’ve enjoyed the theater and the opera and some of the dinners. Although I did have a rather irritating companion when I dined at Lord and Lady Linwood’s home last week.”

  Placing his fist against his chest, he shook his head as though deeply pained. “You wound me, Miss Barton.”

  “I’m sorry.” Though she wasn’t, not really. The man had been much too free with his views that night. “I couldn’t resist.”

  “Nor could I,” she thought she heard him murmur. “Have you seen much of London besides townhouse drawing rooms and the theater?”

  It was her turn to shake her head. “Not as much as I’d like.”

  “What do you wish to see?”

  Besides Dr. Smithfield’s office, Gwen considered where else she wanted to visit. “I’d like to see Hyde Park and St. Paul’s Cathedral. Oh, and an orphanage for crippled children if there’s something like that here.”

  Mr. Winfield looked momentarily taken aback by her response. “Why would you wish to see an orphanage?”

  “I work at the one my cousin founded back in New York, and I’m curious to see how they operate in London.”

 

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