Devil in Spring

“You’ve seen him?” Gabriel asked.

Pandora nodded. “He just walked out from behind the dais.” She took an extra breath before continuing. “Now he’s headed along the north side of the room.”

Gabriel turned to glance at the man, his eyes narrowed into bright slits.

Ransom joined them, wearing a social smile. “That’s him?” he asked, his gaze flickering to the light-haired man and back.

Pandora nodded.

“That should be Mr. Nash Prescott,” Ransom said quietly. “An Under Secretary at the Home Office. Occasionally I take orders from him.”

Pandora glanced at the man again. He reached the door opposite the great hall’s entrance, and went outside.

“He’s leaving,” Gabriel said.

“Damned if he is,” Ransom muttered, and went after him, striding through the mass of waltzing couples and causing a few minor collisions.

“I wonder what he was doing behind the dais?” Pandora asked.

“I’ll find out.” Gently Gabriel turned her to face Dragon, who had approached them. “Watch over her,” he told the other man. His gaze fell on a stone bench inserted deeply into one of the room’s eight bays. “Pandora, go sit quietly over there for a few minutes.”

“I’d rather—” she began, but he had already begun to walk away.

Pandora stared after him with a frown. “Well, this is anticlimactic,” she said, while Dragon accompanied her to the stone bench. She heaved a sigh. “Back to sitting in corners.”

Dragon didn’t reply, only wandered restlessly around her.

Pandora watched the couples dancing, admiring their grace and quickness. She liked the way the abundant skirts swirled around the gentlemen’s legs before whipping around in the opposite direction. A graceful woman tripped slightly on a patch of flooring just a few yards away, and her partner automatically compensated. It made Pandora feel slightly better about her own dancing. If an accomplished woman like that could make a mistake—

Her thoughts were interrupted as Dragon came to stand by the bench. He ran his hand lightly over some of the wall paneling, pushed on it, even gave it a knock or two.

“What are you looking for?” she asked, perplexed.

“Don’t know.” He continued to pace.

“Why don’t you sit?”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I feel itchy.”

“Dragon, I’m not unsympathetic, but footmen really shouldn’t mention their personal—”

“Not that kind of itch. And I’m a bodyguard tonight, not a footman.”

“You’re right,” Pandora said. “As a matter of fact, you look the perfect gentleman.” She noticed another couple having difficulty on the same area of the floor. This time it was the gentleman who stumbled, as if his shoe had caught on the edge of a plank. “Perhaps some lovely woman will see you from across the room,” Pandora continued, “and say to herself, ‘who is that stranger with the dashing beard? I wish he would ask me to dance.’”

“I don’t dance.”

“Neither do I.” More couples waltzed past them, Pandora frowned as she saw yet another woman trip. “Dragon, how difficult would it be to lift up one of these floor planks?”

“Not difficult. It’s a temporary floor. But they won’t like it if I rip it up during a dance.”

“Perhaps when there’s a lull in the dancing, you might help me look at something. I’ve seen three couples trip in the exact same place on the floor. Right over there. I’m sure it’s only a badly laid plank. But now I understand what you mean about feeling itchy.”

The strains of the waltz dwindled, and the orchestra struck up “God Save The Queen” to announce the Prince of Wales’ arrival on the Guildhall grounds. As etiquette demanded, everyone stood in the room, arms at their sides, and sang along with the anthem.

Dragon, however, wasn’t at all concerned about etiquette. He walked around and between the earnestly singing couples, staring down at the planks. Pandora went to join him. With her thin-soled slippers, she could feel a slight looseness in some of the boards . . . and a definite edge where one hadn’t been installed properly.

“It’s this one,” she whispered, testing it with her foot. A few people shot affronted glances at her—it was very bad form not to sing the anthem.

Reaching into his formal evening coat, Dragon withdrew a slender, well-worn leather roll, shook out a sturdy metal pick, and knelt on the floor.

Four trumpeters entered the room, followed by a quartet of stewards with silver wands. The orchestra played as the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress proceeded to the dais, followed by city officers, aldermen, and members of the Common Council.

As Dragon pried at the edges of the plank, people around them began to protest.

“May I ask what you’re doing?” one man demanded in outrage. “You’re interfering with the Lord Mayor’s speech, and furthermore—” He stopped as Dragon pulled up the board and set it aside.

Pandora looked down at the row of neat brass cylinders fitted into the space between the temporary floor and the original stone floor beneath. “What are those?” she asked Dragon, although she was afraid she already knew the answer. “I hope they’re some kind of ventilation device.”

“They are,” Dragon muttered, pulling up another floor plank to reveal another row of gleaming cylinders. “They’ll ventilate the roof right off the building.”