Page 15 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

A nnette took an inadvertent step backward. This was the Duke of Westbrook. Host of the ball and owner of this townhouse. She and Damaris copied Mrs. Dunham, though not dropping so low as to make their knees ache.

“You are…” The man’s voice trailed off as he eyed Damaris, attempting to place her.

“Damaris Dunham, Your Grace,” Mrs. Dunham supplied helpfully. “And I am Mrs. Dunham. My husband assists you by providing legal advice.”

“Ah.” The duke’s eyes cleared. “My solicitor. Yes. My secretary mentioned he’d invited the family.”

Annette wondered if she should leave. She didn’t belong here—she hadn’t even been invited, unlike Damaris. But just as she took another step backward, Damaris shot her a frantic, pleading look. So Annette stayed.

“My butler tells me that these two men seem to have infiltrated my home in an attempt to…set off hand grenades around the room?”

Damaris nodded.

“And you stopped this one over there.” He glanced over his shoulder, at the musician who was being led away by several grim-faced footmen and a sweating butler.

“We did let Bow Street know, Your Grace,” Damaris said. Her mother sucked in a breath at that revelation. “They said they would begin their search, um, tomorrow.”

The duke didn’t even blink at that. “That information is most helpful.” He sighed. “My girl, I believe you—and your companion here”—at this, he cocked an eyebrow at Annette, who smiled beatifically at him—“have stopped what could’ve been a bloodbath.”

Annette watched him carefully and realized the calm was just a facade—beneath it, this man was raging.

As well he should, she thought. French monarchists had infiltrated his ball and attempted to assassinate several Russian diplomats, uncaring of how many British civilians would be harmed in the process.

She would wager that not many in the political half of the ton even liked the Russians that much, considering they currently had an alliance with Napoleon.

An older man, huffing and puffing, bumped Annette out of the way to butt into the conversation. She reeled, mouth dropping open.

“Father,” Damaris said quietly, glancing between him and Annette. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed to Annette.

“I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace,” Mr. Dunham began to bluster. “I have just come from dealing with the situation in the card room, and I?—”

“Your daughter did us a service tonight,” the duke cut in smoothly. “I will tell my wife, who most assuredly will want to know the details of what happened. But with all the excitement, it’s probably best for all of my guests to return home, hmm?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes, yes, of course, Your Grace.” Mr. Dunham’s face turned a mottled red.

“I suppose it was a good thing after all that I hired your firm,” the duke added.

He glanced at Annette, then at Damaris. “You should probably get your daughter home. Once the scandal sheets get hold of this, I’d hate to see what they’d do to a girl’s reputation.

” He grimaced. “Although she’s done admirable work tonight, notoriety never helps a woman. ”

Mrs. Dunham blanched, likely realizing that her hopes for an advantageous marriage might be going up in flames as they spoke. “Quite right, Your Grace.” Her hands fluttered at her husband, making shooing gestures. She curtseyed again, dragging Damaris down with her.

Annette, vaguely amused, followed suit.

The duke swept into a perfunctory bow, then turned back into the crowd, likely to find his wife.

The Dunhams grabbed Damaris and began escorting her to the crowded door.

“Wait!” Damaris called, trying to dig in her heels.

Overwhelmed, Annette followed behind them.

The doorway was crowded, as was the corridor.

Half the guests were leaving at once and the other half wanted to pour into the ballroom and watch what remained of the spectacle.

It made for a mad crush. Annette had to fight to stay on Damaris’s tail, and she doubted her parents even noticed her.

It took a good ten minutes to reach the ground floor.

“Stay here,” Mrs. Dunham ordered her daughter, setting her against the wall beside a life-size portrait of a hunting scene. “I’ll get my wrap.”

Mr. Dunham disappeared to order a footman to call their coach. At least a half a dozen other men were attempting to do the same thing.

In the mad dash, Damaris and Annette had a level of anonymity they wouldn’t have otherwise due to the rushing about.

“Are you well?” Damaris’s eyes roved Annette’s face. “Philippe didn’t harm you, did he?”

Annette shook her head, body still tingling with nervous energy.

“It was close, but as soon as the men knew what was happening, they were quite happy to grab him and hold him down.” She reached out and gently grasped Damaris’s elbow.

“And you? I was terrified when I saw you charge that man with his hand grenade. You could’ve been hurt!

He could’ve already had the grenade lit! ”

Damaris flashed a wan smile. “Perhaps I’m the worst spy in London, not Philippe. But we are both hale and unharmed, sweeting.”

Annette had already opened her mouth to argue when she recognized Damaris’s words and her mind stuttered to a halt at the use of sweeting . “Damaris,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost you. Or seen you hurt.” She swallowed. “Do you know how precious you are to me?”

Emotion lit Damaris’s eyes. “Am I? Truly?”

Annette bit back a laugh. Or a sob. She didn’t know the difference anymore.

“I think I fell in love with you the day you walked into the shop and your mother ordered that hideous mint pelisse for you.” The way her eyes had sparked, even when her mother controlled everything, told Annette there was something hiding behind all of that drab drapery.

Damaris’s eyes turned watery, and she bit her lip. “You mean that?”

“Of course I mean it!” Annette exclaimed. “You think I count the days until the duchess’s next fitting? Or have to close my eyes while Lady Palmerston disrobes down her chemise? No, it’s only you, my love.”

“Annette,” Damaris whispered, putting so many emotions into the name that Annette couldn’t parse them out.

Annette took a deep breath. She never thought she’d have this opportunity.

She never thought that Damaris might be open to these feelings.

She’d certainly never thought she’d witness Damaris risk life and limb.

“Damaris,” she said hopefully, slipping her ungloved hand into Damaris’s hand, covered in a blackened and torn glove.

“You are everything to me. I’ve yearned for you.

” She squeezed Damaris’s hand, heartened by the fact that Damaris hadn’t pulled away.

Instead, she was staring at Annette with an intensity that stripped Annette bare.

“I know these feelings are much newer to you than me, and I cannot ask for more than a deep and intimate friendship, but please know that I adore you. I want a romantic friendship with more romance than friendship, and tonight I will go to sleep with the memory of you coming apart in my arms in that drawing room.” She wanted to say more.

She wanted to describe a future she saw, with Damaris and Annette living together, waking together, breakfasting together.

Leaning on one another as confidantes and intimate partners and life companions. But she held herself back, just barely.

Damaris blushed. “Annette, I am flattered. I…” she trailed off, searching for words.

Annette’s hope flagged. She knew she couldn’t expect Damaris to know her own mind yet. For goodness sake, they’d only kissed the first time earlier today. But to Annette it had been so much longer.

Her heart cracked. “If your sentiments are not the same, please do not force words that do not truthfully reflect what’s in your heart.”

Damaris looked startled. “No, Annette, please. I do , I just?—”

Mrs. Dunham appeared out of nowhere, slipping through the jumbled crowd before Annette or Damaris could realize it.

“Come, Damaris.” She wrapped a hand around Damaris’s arm.

“Your father has the carriage. We must depart.” Her eyes slipped to Annette, as if only just seeing her now.

“Thank you, my dear, for your attentions to my daughter during this troubled time. She has a nervous disposition.”

Annette blinked. “Mrs. Dunham, I?—”

The older woman’s eyes sharpened. “I recognize you. Aren’t you the daughter of our modiste?”

Annette nodded.

“What are you doing here, child? Does your mother know where you are? Surely you do not need to supplement your income by playing lady’s maid at a ball.”

“I am three and twenty,” Annette told her. “And I am just leaving now. I will speak with my mother myself.” She watched Mrs. Dunham’s lips purse, then her gaze turned away, as if dismissing Annette as something not worth worrying over.

“We’re leaving, Damaris.” Mrs. Dunham’s voice turned sharp.

“But I haven’t finished speaking with Miss Morand,” Damaris protested, her eyes turning apologetic even as her mother propelled her away.

“We must leave before people recognize who you are,” Mrs. Dunham hissed, pushing through the crowd with her daughter in her wake.

Annette watched her love disappear. Her heart dropped, and she blinked back tears. Why had she ruined everything by speaking of her heart at a chaotic moment like this? Perhaps Damaris would’ve been more receptive if she’d taken her time.

Sighing, Annette retrieved her cloak and wrapped it around her, then began the short walk back to her mother’s home just five blocks away.