Page 11 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)
T he kiss was front and center in Damaris’s mind now, and she couldn’t stop thinking about Annette’s warm, sweet breath or the slight calluses that had slid against Damaris’s cheeks.
She passed a group of four gentlemen and two ladies speaking another language—French but with a Russian accent, perhaps.
The oldest and most prominent was a middle-aged man with a large nose, short neck, and thick, white hair on his head and a pale blue sash across his chest. His wife walked behind, wearing a fashionable dress that appeared far more elaborate and with unusual trim to Damaris’s eyes.
She also wore the pale blue sash. The young men were all smartly dressed, though one or two had the beginnings of a mustache.
They wore fitted navy military-esque coats with gold epaulets and fringe on their shoulders.
The last, a young woman, wore a typical ballgown of short sleeves, high waist, and gauzy skirt, but with a sort of red head-covering that framed her forehead.
You’re not safe, Damaris thought, watching them pass. Not one glanced at her. She looked over her shoulder, hoping to see Annette’s cousin, but didn’t spot him or anyone else that might be suspicious.
Damaris put a hand to her stomach, forcing herself to take a slow and steady breath.
She took up a post between two tall, potted ferns, ignoring the footman at the entrance who gave her odd looks.
The fringe of her pink shawl, the lovely one that now reminded her of Annette, brushed against the skin of her arm between the gloves and the sleeves.
She stroked it, dreaming of the way Annette’s breath had mingled with her during their kiss.
The clock ticked, and Damaris grew more nervous with every passing second. She rubbed her gloved hands against her skirt, hoping she wasn’t sweating in the gloves too much.
Finally, just when she began to wonder if Annette wasn’t coming, she spied her just inside the glow of the torchlight. Damaris took a breath and stepped forward.
Annette wore a cloak of rich, deep green trimmed in cream lace.
She always looked so sophisticated. Damaris had always thought the sharp pang in her chest at the sight of Annette was because she was jealous—Annette was far prettier, curvier, and more fashionable than Damaris would ever be.
But…now she realized it wasn’t jealousy.
Instead, it was admiration and more than a little yearning.
Besides, Damaris had her gown trimmed in the purple velvet ribbons, and that made it beautiful. Several women’s gazes snagged on the gown in appreciation—an entirely new experience for Damaris.
Annette pulled the hood of her cloak down, revealing curled hair shining in the light. She smiled and said something to the footmen.
One footman stepped in Annette’s way, holding up a gloved hand. His white powdered wig shone brightly in the night. The two began speaking, and Damaris realized it was time to step in.
She cleared her throat. “Miss Morand is here to assist me. She’s been hired as a lady’s maid for the evening.”
The footman turned, taking a more deferential stance. “Miss, I was asking for her invitation.”
“I am here to serve at the event,” Annette told him, smiling but insistent.
Damaris doubted Annette had ever served at a ball. Nor would she. The lords and ladies in the next room might see her as a skilled tradesperson—which she was—but she was going to inherit one of the most successful businesses on Bond Street, the most prestigious shopping street in the country.
The footman reluctantly stepped out of the way, letting Annette up the last of the stairs and into the house.
Damaris’s cheeks ached, and only then did she realize she was grinning from ear to ear. “Come.” She resisted the urge to hold out her hand.
Annette dipped into a quick curtsy, taking off her cloak and handing it off to the other footman, then followed Damaris.
“Oh, thank goodness you’ve come!” Damaris kept her voice low as they went up the stairs to the first floor. She tried not to ogle Annette’s full bosom now that she could see how her bodice framed it so prettily, the two mounds rising above the lace neckline in a tantalizing fashion.
“Have you seen anything suspicious?” Annette asked, unaware of Damaris’s amorous thoughts.
Damaris shook her head. “I’ve only looked everywhere save for the card room and the last room in the corridor. There was no place to hide a hand grenade. I think…I think it may be a false alarm, Annette.”
“I suppose we’ll have to search those rooms to make certain,” Annette said with a sigh.
“If we find Philippe, everything should sort itself out,” Damaris said hopefully. “But perhaps there is no cause for dismay.”
Annette let out a shaky breath. “Have we become an espionage ring of our own? Gathering intelligence and attempting to stop an attack on British soil?”
Damaris rubbed her forehead and laughed. “Or we’re both mad and it’s all in our heads.”
The main corridor of the house had largely cleared of guests, and the strains of a waltz drifted from the open double doors of the ballroom. A footman hurried past with empty glasses on a tray, hardly sparing them a look.
Annette and Damaris scanned the corridor for Philippe or anyone that looked out of place.
“Look for a footman whose livery doesn’t fit,” Annette murmured. “If my cousin has an accomplice here, he probably wasn’t hired legitimately, and is using someone else’s livery tonight.”
Damaris nodded. She peered behind flower arrangements, then walked down the hall toward the other rooms that had been prepared for guests to rest away from the bustle of the ballroom.
Annette opened the door at the very end as it was as good a place to start as any, poked her head in, then motioned for Damaris to join her. “No one’s here, but it’s worth searching.” She smiled. “But if this is empty…then perhaps my cousin went home with his grenades.”
Damaris followed, hope lightening her body, then shutting the oak-paneled door behind them.
Annette had struggled to keep her eyes off Damaris’s lovely sylvan form since she stepped into the townhouse.
It made her nearly— nearly , mind—regret their kiss that afternoon.
Right now she needed to focus on finding a grenade, stopping Philippe, and saving her mother’s business.
She did not need to be thinking of Damaris’s soft moans, her long fingers, or her sparkling eyes.
She did not need to be wondering if Damaris wanted to kiss again, or if she considered her curiosity settled.
Damaris was wearing her pink shawl. The one Annette had spent hours bent over, making sure each leaf and rose in the embroidery was perfect. Did this mean Damaris truly did think of Annette while wearing it now, instead of that clodpole from Surrey?
Annette squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head, and put the matter from her mind. When she opened her eyes, she surveyed the room they would search.
Be thorough, and then it might be over, she told herself.
The small drawing room was tastefully set up with a Grecian style in mind: a few classical busts of Greek women sat on the mantle, and the room had a bright, airy quality to it with soft draperies, pale green walls and ceiling, and mirrors that reflected the light from the fire across the room.
Two settees were positioned with one in front the fire, the second further back, nearly drenched in shadows.
“You take that side of the room,” Annette murmured. “I’ll take the other.”
Wordlessly, Damaris nodded and began to poke around the shelves on either side of the fireplace. After several minutes, she turned and sighed. “We’re looking for a needle in a haystack. Perhaps we should’ve tried harder to learn more about Philippe’s gunpowder and any friends of his before…this.”
Annette gestured helplessly. “We ran out of time.”
Damaris opened her mouth, but before she could speak, laughter sounded just outside the door. It sounded like two women.
“Shhh, stop, you!” one of the women exclaimed in something that was supposed to be a whisper but definitely wasn’t. “Wait until we get inside.”
The door knob jiggled.
“We’re not supposed to be here!” Damaris mouthed, pointing at Annette’s simple gown that signified her role as lady’s maid.
Annette’s heart jumped in her chest. She stared at Damaris, eyes wide and face paling. Annette jumped behind the settee nearest her, dropping to the ground and letting the shadows cover her. She peered under the settee, between the legs.
Damaris snatched up her skirts and raced across the room, rounding the settee and dropping to her knees just in time. They both hid on their hands and knees, side by side.
The door opened and two sets of dainty footsteps stumbled into the room, punctuated by feminine giggles. The door shut and the lock clicked.