I'd never had occasion to dance with a young man before. Practicing the waltz with a Sure-Step Debonair Dance-Tutor and its creaking, mechanical pacing was hardly the same as waltzing with a tall, arrogant, ginger-haired, freckled Scot.
My palms were damp beneath my fingerless gloves, and my bare digits had turned to ice. My stomach fluttered as Grayling maneuvered us out onto the dance floor and turned me to face him. His movements were careful and deliberate, almost as if he wasn't any more sure of himself than I was. Or, more likely, as if he were expecting me to somehow trip again.
He put his right hand lightly on my waist and collected my fingers in the left. His hand, despite its white glove, was warm around mine. This proximity affirmed that not only was he nearly a head taller than I, but that his shoulders were so broad I could hardly see around them. He was so solid. I drew in a deep breath, trying to steady my pulse. He smelled pleasant, like German cedar, lemon, and Mediterranean sandalwood, with an underlying scent of-mechanical grease? Of course. From the steamcycle.
My other hand had settled on his shoulder, my fingertips sensing the soft bristle of wool and the movement of shoulder muscle beneath them. My skirts swayed, rustling between us as he stepped into the rhythm of the waltz. It was more of a hitch than a confident step, and the second one was just as jerky and abrupt.
"Miss Holmes," he murmured, his mouth just above my temple, "if you would allow me to lead, we might perhaps find ourselves waltzing a bit more gracefully."
"Oh, yes, of course." I forced myself to relax and allow him to dictate our movements.
Soon, to my astonishment, we were gliding about the dance floor in a sedate but smooth rhythm. If it weren't for the full layers of my skirts, our legs might have brushed against each other. He was so close to me I could feel the warmth of his body, and I found myself having to gaze fixedly over his arm to keep from staring up at the smooth skin of his clean-shaven neck and chin. The sandalwood and lemon scents were likely from his shaving lotion. And we must have been moving more energetically than I realized, for I found it hard to catch my breath.
"I must apologize for putting you in such an awkward situation," I blurted out.
Grayling pulled back a bit to look down at me and made a slight misstep that told me he wasn't quite as accomplished a dancer as he seemed. I wasn't sure why I felt a surge of gratification at that realization.
"I don't know what you mean."
I didn't know what I meant either, and I felt ridiculous. My thoughts simply seemed to disintegrate when I tried to make conversation with a member of the opposite gender. I hoped I wouldn't be required to interrogate many of them as part of my work for Her Royal Highness. Although I seemed to have no problem interrogating and conversing with Mr. Eckhert.
"I had no intention of dancing tonight," I replied. "I have other reasons for being here."
"As do I." His voice took on that Scottish burr and its proximity sent little prickles over my temple. "But taking a turn around the dance floor is a convenient way to observe the room and get my bearings."
"Indeed." So it wasn't that he had the desire to dance with me. He merely wanted an excuse to look around the room. My cheeks were hot again, and I felt the weight of my hair shifting as if one of my clockwork gears was coming loose. "I'm delighted I was able to be of assistance," I added crisply.
"Miss Holmes, I-"
"You need say no more, Inspector Grayling. I presume you've observed enough that you might release me to my own devices? Do you perhaps know where I might find some cool refreshments?"
I felt him swallow hard, then he seemed to release a pent-up breath. "My apologies, Miss Holmes. I meant no insult. Perhaps-oow-mph." He stifled a cry of surprise as my pointed copper heel landed on one of his toes.
The misstep was an accident, but I cannot say I regretted it.
Grayling looked down at me, his expression of exasperation mingled with apprehension and perhaps a bit of chagrin. "Very well, then," he said. "You've made your-ah-point. Perhaps you'd prefer to get some lemonade on the Star Terrace instead of finishing this dance? I'm quite certain my toes, at least, will appreciate it," he added not quite under his breath.
The Star Terrace?
My aggravation evaporated. "What time is it?"
"It's ten of nine. Did you not hear the clock chime the quarter hour?"
"I must go." I pulled away. "To-ah-attend to something."
He frowned but didn't release my hand. "Miss Holmes, I do hope you aren't about to get involved in something you shouldn't be."
"I'm quite certain," I said, pulling free of his fingers, "that you haven't any idea with what I should and shouldn't get involved. Good evening, Inspector Grayling."
With one well-placed query to a handsome young waiter, I learned that the Star Terrace was on the same level as the ballroom, but on the east side of the building.
Just as the clock struck nine, I broached the terrace in question. It was aptly named, for natural stars glittered above in a wide swath, and there were few lights to distract from those celestial bodies. Small sparkling lights hung around the edges of the space, but the area was darker than the main terrace, where Evaline and I had made our arrival.
Miss Stoker had disappeared into the crush of people shortly after our conversation with Lord and Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. I didn't have time to search for her, and even if I had, I would have done so only cursorily. She might have been pressed into service just as I had, but she was also more comfortable in these social gatherings than I. Aside from that, I preferred to work alone and saw no need to constantly point out information and data to someone who couldn't see it herself.
I turned my attention from thoughts of Miss Stoker-who was probably chattering happily with some other young ladies, her dance card (unlike mine) filled with the names of partners for the evening-and observed the area. There was, as Grayling had suggested, a long table filled with libations at one end of the terrace. People stood nearby, talking, laughing, and drinking their lemonade-strawberry punch. Others strolled around the terrace. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to draw my attention.
Then I noticed a movement near the dark line of arborvitae and thick dwarf pines separating the stone terrace from the rest of the grounds. A well-hidden someone was standing there. As I watched, a young woman approached. She walked up to the figure, handed over something white and flat, then progressed past and into the shadows.
My heart began to pound, and excitement made my mouth go dry as I made my decision. I had the fake invitation. I was going to use it.