Page 14 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

S he sighed with relief and pulled out an iron shell the size of two small bowls placed together. It was heavier than expected, and she could hear the rattle of sharp objects and loose powder inside as she withdrew it. A wet rag smelling of oil hung from a small hole in one end of the sphere.

As long as no one lit it, the hand grenade was practically harmless.

But if there was a lit match anywhere, the fumes from the oil alone could ignite trouble. She thought of the card room, full of cigars and smoke, where Annette was searching, and swallowed hard.

Damaris had to stay focused. She held the iron sphere in one hand, letting the folds of her skirt hide it as she raced to the next pot.

Fear tightened her throat. What am I supposed to do with these? The open doors caught her attention. Beyond the doors lay the terrace, and below the terrace was a town garden with a fountain surrounded by lovely candles. Water.

Damaris was digging the second grenade out from between the fronds when her mother found her.

“Damaris Dunham,” she whispered fiercely, fluttering a fan in front of her mouth to hide her scowl. “What are you doing?”

She didn’t bother to face her mother. “Something that must be done, Mother.” Damaris had no idea how her mother would react to the knowledge that hand grenades littered the ballroom.

“Get your hands out of the dirt,” Mother hissed. “You are acting like you are four years old. I don’t even want to see your soiled gloves.”

Damaris got her fingers around the second shell and yanked it free. The fern shivered at her rough treatment. She looked up and counted five more pots. Surely not all of them had a grenade, did they?

“Damaris! Damaris, look at me while I am speaking to you.”

She could feel the displeasure radiating off her mother’s body. “Yes, Mother. But you see, I need to take these outside.” She turned, still trying to hide the shells at her side, but they were made of dark iron and of course her mother spied them immediately.

“ What are you doing?”

Over the murmur of voices, another sound snagged at Damaris’s attention. Heavy, thundering footsteps entered the ballroom and halted.

Damaris whirled and saw the large, tall man in the musician’s outfit standing in the doorway, face red and eyes bulging. He scanned the room and his eyes lit on Damaris.

You , the spark of recognition in his eyes accused. Rage filled his face.

Damaris’s knees knocked together.

His fists balled at his sides, and he stalked toward her, ignoring the looks of outrage on the guests or the hand waving from the musicians gathering in their spot to resume their music.

The closer he got, the more Damaris could see the murder in his eyes.

Fear clogged her throat, and she couldn’t breathe. She whirled, cutting her mother off mid-sentence, and tore through the crowd toward the open door with two unlit hand grenades.

She cut through a group of mothers and their daughters, then clipped the side of an elderly gentleman, nearly sending him sprawling on the wooden floor.

“Stop right there!” The musician’s voice boomed over the hum of the ball.

Damaris’s shoulders tightened, and she could practically feel his eyes like daggers in the back of her skull. She ran as fast as her skirts would allow.

Gasps and exclamations of dismay rippled through the room, and Damaris knew he was gaining on her.

The warm, summer night air hit her face as she stumbled out onto the terrace, nearly hitting the stone floor. Damaris righted herself and tore down the steps. The rumble of the crowd was behind her now. The fountain loomed ahead, two basins tall and illuminated with flickering candlelight.

She threw both grenades as hard as she could at the fountain, and they landed with terrific splashes.

Damaris stared, chest heaving, as she realized what she’d accomplished. A smile stretched her cheeks wide. She turned and ran up the stairs, skirt in her hands. Black smudges covered her gloves and skirts, but she didn’t care.

A handful of people stood near the door, their backs to her. Shouts and cries of alarm filled the room. Damaris cut through the first two layers of the gawking crowd, not bothering with manners anymore. She shoved past anyone in her way.

The center of the ballroom was bare of people—everyone had gathered at the edges of the room with shocked expressions. A few stared at Damaris with disgust, but most watched the middle of the room—where the musician stood with a grenade in one hand and a lit match in the other.

Most guests looked unable to believe their eyes.

A few probably still didn’t know what he was holding—hand grenades were rather old fashioned pieces of warfare, never seen off the front lines.

Most of the people in the ballroom were young debutantes, older matrons, or elderly men resting their legs.

The ones brash enough to jump into the fray would be in the card room, Damaris realized, or servants carrying trays from the kitchen.

And Annette had just barged into the room, stumbling nearly on top of the spy-cum-musician. Damaris’s heart stopped.

“Vive Napoleon!” the man shouted, both hands raised.

Damaris didn’t wait to see if the fuse had been lit. She saw Annette struggling to find her balance just behind the man, and knew she had to act. She charged forward, ready to slam into the man.

Annette escaped from the card room, eager to find Damaris and get away from the pandemonium she’d caused.

Four gentlemen from a table of whist had taken control of the grenades Annette had found.

Another table had seized Philippe as he shouted and struggled to free himself or attack Annette—she wasn’t sure which.

The Russians just watched with wide eyes, not realizing yet they were the primary targets.

Thankfully, no grenades had been lit in the card room.

Philippe still screamed in French, shouting obscenities toward her and the men who had tackled him.

Three footmen, faces reddened, poured into the room, trying to take stock of the issue and subdue the problem before anyone accused them of not doing their jobs.

Annette ran from the room, several men right on her heels as they realized, finally, that the ballroom and the rest of the guests might be in danger, too.

It took only a few seconds for Annette to run down the hall and turn into the ballroom, but she thought she might perish from worry. If she could not put her own two eyes on Damaris right now to ascertain she was well, she thought her heart would give out.

Annette flew into the ballroom, panting even though she’d not run far at all. She tripped on someone’s shoe and stumbled, nearly knocking into the musician who held aloft both a match and a hand grenade.

Back up, back up! But she slid on the slick wooden floor, bare of chalk from the dancing. She didn’t want to be beside that grenade if it blew. She caught herself and looked up just in time to see Damaris fly at Philippe’s accomplice.

“Damaris!” Annette screamed, hands flying to her mouth.

Damaris, eyes determined and jaw set, struck the musician with her entire body, making him stumble.

His lit match flew from his hands and hit the ground, extinguished in an instant.

The iron shell dropped onto the floor and rolled toward a cluster of women, who screeched and backed away.

One woman swooned, and the unlit grenade slowed to a stop right against her waist.

She…she pushed him away from me. At great danger to herself. Annette stared in shock.

Footmen and the butler thundered in behind Annette, swarming both Damaris and the musician. For a moment, all Annette could see was a host of blue and green with moving arms and disheveled white wigs. She shoved against the crowd to get to Damaris.

Two footmen hauled the musician to his feet. Instead of screaming and spitting his anger, the man rose with his face pale and lips pressed tightly together. Hatred burned in his eyes.

The butler, a man of advanced years with a shock of white hair that now drooped over his forehead from his exertions, had pulled Damaris back onto her feet and supported her—or detained her—with his hands on her shoulders.

“Oh my god, Damaris!” Annette finally made it between the last barrier and skidded to a halt at the young woman’s side. “Are you hurt? Why would you do that?” The shouts and cries of the people around them didn’t matter. She only had ears for Damaris.

Damaris smiled faintly, her hair askew and pins slipping out with each movement. The lovely purple ribbon at her bodice had come undone, and her skirts had gunpowder splotches all over it. “I stopped him. I think I stopped him, Annette. He would’ve killed you.”

Annette scowled to hide the fear still coursing through her body. “Never again. He could’ve killed you .” A world without Damaris’s bright smile was not a world in which Annette wanted to live. The thought struck her like an arrow to the heart.

Damaris reached for Annette’s hand. “It happened so fast, I didn’t even think. But if I could do it all over again, I would.”

Why would you do that? Annette wanted to wail.

Annette and the butler ushered Damaris over to the side of the room, and Annette tried to shelter her from prying eyes.

“We need to get you to the retiring room.” She looked over her shoulder to see men taking control of the situation, both guests and servants, as if they’d known of the threat all along and subdued it all by themselves.

“Good heavens, Damaris!” Mrs. Dunham’s voice cut through the bustle and panicked clamor of the crowd. The angular woman somehow slipped into place and glared at the butler until he released Damaris. “What on earth have you done?”

The butler made his apologies and left them.

Annette blinked at the woman. “Your daughter is a heroine, madam. She saved us all.” She saved me, that glorious, wonderful woman.

“Oh, I’m not sure about that.” A blush rose to Damaris’s cheeks, and Annette had never wanted to kiss Damaris more in that moment. “I was probably quite foolish, truth be told.”

“Don’t ever do that again, I beg of you.

” Annette crushed Damaris into an embrace, fear and anger and relief churning inside her.

The realization that she had come this close left Annette gasping for breath, even after the danger had passed.

“My nerves could not bear it. Especially because I am at fault for dragging you into this trouble.” Her hands still trembled from watching the scene unfold, and she knew she’d have nightmares about it.

“You foolish, lovely girl.” Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

Damaris’s eyes shone bright. “Annette,” she whispered, “I?—”

“And you are?” Mrs. Dunham’s voice was as sharp as a whip.

Before Annette or Damaris could respond, a deep cough sounded somewhere behind Annette.

“Pardon me.” The deep voice rang with authority and the expectation of deference.

Annette reluctantly let go of Damaris and stepped out of the way.

A man in his mid fifties with a head full of silver hair and a narrow, aquiline nose had approached. His superfine coat was a perfect black, and a ruby stickpin glinted in the exquisite folds of his snow-white cravat.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Dunham gasped, dropping into an obsequious curtsy.