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ladies’ maids in tow. Due to the weather, they avoided the tent in the beautifully lit but foul-smelling gardens, and the house was consequently a crush. Despite the extra footmen posted with large fans in the corners of every room, the air was thick and stale. The bouquets of hothouse flowers massed around the room already looked wilted, as did the footmen.
    The heat aside, however, it was a beautiful gathering. Dozens of tall wax candles combined with the gaslights to make the room midday-bright. The young ladies wore frothy white dresses, lavishly trimmed with ribbons and flowers. Married and older women wore more colors, but for all ladies it was a season for dramatic décolletage, and showy gemstones glittered from a few dozen bare breastbones. In their black dinner jackets and white ties, the gentlemen provided a dramatic contrast.
    Gazing about the laughing, chattering, flirting, tipsy throng, Mary found it difficult to believe this polished luxury was built on creaking wooden ships and the backs of merchant sailors. International trade and dangerous labor had no place here, except as an unacknowledged, invisible source of wealth.
    A fierce impatience knotted her gut. She’d spent four days living with the Thorolds. Four days keeping Angelica company. Four days absorbing hostile remarks and pretending not to notice sulks. Four days trapped in this dark, airless house while Mrs. Thorold went out in the carriage each afternoon. And all for what? The only bits of information she’d heard were sadly commonplace. For example, Thorold had no obvious heir. His only son, Henry Jr. — the sickly boy in the portrait — had died several years ago, transforming the ambitious company of Thorold & Son into the more subdued Thorold & Company. And last month, the parlor maid had been sacked for “immorality.” She’d been six months’ pregnant at the time, and word in the kitchen was that Thorold was the father.
    It was becoming clearer and clearer that Thorold and Gray never discussed business at home — at least not before the women. And there was so little time remaining: Anne and Felicity expected the assignment to end in just over one week. They’d sent her no additional instructions or information, which meant that they had no news — at least nothing that concerned her. She’d had no contact from the primary agent, which meant that her assistance was not required there. She was not to communicate with either the primary agent or the Agency unless she learned something concrete. And — completing the circle — the only way she’d discover anything would be actively to look for evidence of smuggling and such. And — oh dear — it would be so much more interesting than wearing itchy dresses and fetching fruit ices for rude matrons.
    She wouldn’t. She should carry out her instructions to the letter.
    And yet . . . what was the harm? There were, after all, only nine days left on the case.
    She didn’t know where to begin.
    Oh, yes, she did.
    The party was at its peak. No one would miss her for a mere quarter of an hour. She slipped past a knot of men near the entrance of the drawing room. Dressed as she was in a modest gray gown, most of the guests looked straight through her. Except —
    A white shirtfront, rather wilted from the heat, suddenly loomed in front of her. “Where’s the fire?”
    She looked straight up into Michael’s eyes. Green eyes. “I beg your pardon?” She sounded startled, breathless.
    “You’ve been dashing about all evening. Avoiding someone?”
    She laughed at that. “I don’t know anybody to avoid.”
    “You know me.”
    “I suppose I do, slightly,” she said, sounding a little surprised.
    He made a comical face. “‘Slightly.’ How very humbling, when I’ve been lying in wait for you all evening.”
    Was he flirting with her? Surely not. And how did one go about flirting back? Assuming one wanted to flirt back . . .
    He seemed to enjoy the confusion written on her face.