She was sitting with her elbows propped on the table, her chin against her folded hands, a question in her eyes. “The attention. The way so many people know who you are and want to talk with you. You pretend to be indifferent, but underneath you’re like a cat with cream.”
He shrugged off his discomfort at how clearly she’d seen through him. “I’m not going to complain,” he said. “There are a lot worse ways to spend an evening.” Like starving in a gutter. Or trying to stay clean when the whole world is determined to make you filthy.
“What were you thinking about just now?” she asked, sitting up a little straighter, her eyes focused completely on him now. “Your whole expression just . . . closed up.”
She was too perceptive by half. “Nothing,” he told her, feigning ignorance about her concern.
It was clear she didn’t believe him. She was still staring at him as though he’d give up all his secrets if she were patient enough. But that couldn’t happen. He called over a server and ordered a bottle of champagne, avoiding her eyes and her expectations as the waiter poured two glasses.
“To our new partnership,” he said with his practiced, pleasant smile as he raised a glass to toast her.
She only watched him with those serious eyes of hers, and didn’t bother to lift her glass or take a drink. “It’s an impressive mask you wear,” she said. “Even knowing it’s there, I can barely see a crack.”
He placed his glass on the table, untouched as well. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said stiffly. “I am exactly what I appear to be.”
“That’s probably more true than you know.” Still not taking the champagne, she turned to watch the room below.
After a few minutes, he missed her attention and wanted her to turn back, if only to spark at him again. That, at least, was more amusing than this sullen silence. But Esta’s attention was on the floor below. She drummed her fingertips softly against the base of her champagne flute as if waiting for something to happen.
Or maybe she was waiting for someone, he thought with a sudden unsettling jolt of unwelcome jealousy.
It all served to remind him that they weren’t really there together by choice. She wasn’t really his or even on his side. They were sitting on opposite sides of the board, playing each other in hopes of gaining the same prize. But he had so much more at stake, and if push came to shove, he wouldn’t let her be the victor.
He stood and held his hand out to her. “Dance with me,” he said, not allowing himself to think about the motivation behind his impulse.
She looked up at him, her eyes betraying her surprise. But she didn’t make any move to accept his invitation.
Now that he was standing, he felt like an idiot. “I think our mark arrived,” he lied, when he started to fear that she would refuse him and he’d be forced to sit down, humiliated.
“Oh?” Still, she didn’t reach for his hand.
His neck felt hot. The people at the table next to them laughed at something—probably him—and he had to fight the urge to tug at his collar and adjust the cuff links at his wrists. “We should make sure Jack sees us,” he pressed.
“Of course,” she murmured, but there was no pleasure or anticipation in her eyes as she finally took his hand and allowed him to lead her down to the dance floor.
Harte recognized his mistake almost immediately. He’d never been one for waltzing, usually preferring instead to work the edges of the room or the men near the bar. So he’d forgotten how it felt to take a girl by the waist, to hold her smaller hand in his and pull her close as he spun her around the room. He’d forgotten the way his head could spin as the music wrapped the couples in its hypnotizing rhythm, the way the entire world could narrow to one pair of golden eyes.
He felt drunk, suddenly, even though he hadn’t touched the champagne either. Off-balance. Inexplicably swept away by the song, by the moment, and against all his better judgment, by her.
One glance at her face showed that she didn’t feel the same. She moved gracefully, allowing him to lead her across the floor, but she wasn’t really with him. Her concentration was on the room around them, not on the small, private world they were creating within the span of their arms and the rhythm of their steps. The realization was like water on a fire, and by the time the song wound down to its close, Harte had sobered. Convenient, because as Esta made her final curtsy to him, he caught sight of Jack Grew over the top of her head.
He offered his arm to escort her off the floor, and when she accepted it, he bent his head toward hers. “Are you ready?”
She gave a small nod as she met his eyes. He wasn’t sure what he saw there now—determination? Resignation? It worried him that he couldn’t read her, didn’t know what she was thinking. Not without using his affinity, and doing that would mean losing the one ally—however tenous that might be—that he had. But the time for delaying was over. They had work to do.
TO SINK THE HOOK
The orchestra at the Haymarket had just finished a cloyingly sentimental waltz that had grated against Jack’s already-raw nerves. He was at the end of his rope. He’d put everything he had left—and a lot that wasn’t his to take—into rebuilding his machine. The new machinists had been working day and night to restore the hunk of metal and wire, and it was nearly ready to try again. But trying it again was pointless unless he could figure out how to stop the blasted thing from exploding.
He was running out of time—his father’s ship would leave from London in another week. When he arrived in New York, his men of business would tell him about the emptied accounts, and Jack would be on a one-way train to Cleveland, or some other godforsaken uncivilized place in the wilds of the Midwest. He wouldn’t be around for the Conclave, much less to make his triumphant return to the Order’s good graces.
But at least the Haymarket stocked passable scotch.
He raised the glass to his lips, anxious for the numbing burn and the taste of smoke and fire, but when he tilted it back, he found it empty. He peered down, wondering when he’d finished the drink. Then he lifted the empty glass to signal the barmaid to bring him another while he waited for Darrigan and his doxy to show up.
The thought of them arriving buoyed him a bit. The demonstration they’d done the night before had been remarkable. Impossible. He could use a little of the impossible on his side right now.
Over the racket of the crowd, he heard his name and lifted his head to find Harte Darrigan walking toward him. On his arm was the girl from the night before. Tall and lean, she could have been an Amazon in another life, but in this one she was a vision in a gown spun from gold. If the dress wasn’t enough to convince him that she was different from the usual theater types, the jewels at her neck would have been. No chorus girl had jewels like that.
“Thanks for the invitation tonight,” Darrigan said as he closed the distance between them, offering Jack his hand as he approached with the girl.