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her brain had turned to treacle. She tried to assume an air of frosty detachment. “You are impertinent, my lord. Let me go.”
    The marquess drew closer, so close that Amanda could smell his musky citrus cologne and the faint scent of cheroot smoke. His eyes were dark, potent pools of persuasion. “Forgive me if I seem too bold. I had the impression that you need someone to lift your spirits. If that is the case, I will gladly volunteer.” He pressed his lips to her palm. His touch seemed to burn through her glove and scorch her skin.
    Alarmed beyond the boundaries of reason, Amanda snatched her hand away. “My—my spirits have no need of lifting. Pray excuse me.” She lurched backward and nearly tripped over her own hem.
    He reached out for her again—to steady her? She thought not! Amanda skittered away and dodged into the crowd.
    Lord Bainbridge’s resonant chuckle rippled like waterover velvet. “Oh, you are a treat! I must have you,” she heard him declare. “Come back, little nymph.”
    Was he following her? Feeling very much like prey, Amanda darted through the crowd. Her breath came in frightened gasps, her face was flushed, and her skin tingled where Lord Bainbridge had touched her. What on earth was she doing here? She didn’t know how to swim with barracudas, either. She spotted an alcove shielded by a broad-leafed potted palm and dashed into it. There, in the semi-darkness, she gulped for air and tried to calm herself. Without Harry she was free to continue her search, but she was also in danger from rakes like Lord Bainbridge. This wasn’t her world; she didn’t belong here. She shivered. The evening was getting more dangerous by the moment—and given what she had yet to do, it was bound to get worse.
    Captain Jack Everly had but one thought as he sipped his lukewarm champagne: he was a sorry excuse for a spy. In the hour since his arrival he had followed Admiral Locke from one end of the room to the other, listening to the man’s conversations, but he had heard nothing even remotely suspicious. He was beginning to wonder if he was on some sort of wild-goose chase. Everly didn’t know the admiral, but Locke was reputed to be a competent officer. The thought of this man in the middle of a traitorous conspiracy was mind-boggling. To look at him—in the prime of life, replete with honors and decorations—Everly would have considered the suggestion absurd had it not come from St. Vincent himself.
    At the moment, Locke was occupied in an animated exchange with a small cluster of naval officers. Some of them Everly knew, but none of them seemed suspicious. Neither was their conversation. At present they were arguing the merits of another captain’s promotion.
    Everly stood just behind this little group, eavesdropping with one ear while engaged in conversation himself. He realized early in the evening that he would need to blend into the crowd to cover his activities; to do so, he needed to socialize, something he dreaded. Atone time he had felt at ease in the ballroom, for his handsome face and charming manner had attracted women to him by the score. Well, he was still handsome, he supposed, despite the thin scar that graced his cheek—but he could not disguise his shuffling, syncopated gait, no matter how hard he tried. Bad enough that his infirmity made him stand out in a society that celebrated physical perfection. He wished more people were discreet about their stares and whispered speculations.
    Even so, Everly had to admit that he was not the social pariah he had expected to be. He was no longer the hero of the moment as when he first returned from the Adriatic, but society still remembered that he had been granted a hereditary baronetcy for his victory at Lissa. His lips quirked in a sardonic smile. The
beau monde
was a fickle lot. Even if some had forgotten the circumstances of his elevation, they hadn’t forgotten his fortune. Prize money had made Everly a very wealthy