A Spy in the House by Y. S. Lee Read Free Book Online Page B

crowded her mouth, but she was determined not to speak until he did. After the heat of his body, her back felt cold.
    He strode to the door, produced a key from his pocket, and unlocked it. Seeing that the corridor was unoccupied, he turned back to her and made a courtly gesture with his other hand. “After you.” It was that same damned conversational tone.
    Mary stared at him.
What the devil . . . ?
    He glanced into the hall again, then back at her impatiently. “Quickly, now.”
    Standing her ground, she shook her head slowly. “No. After you.”
    “Come, now — are we really going to squabble?” His tone was distinctly patronizing.
    “I have no intention of squabbling,” she said loftily. Now that he was talking, she felt more certain about holding her ground. “If you wish to leave, I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”
    He closed the door again and glared at her. “My dear girl, just what are you playing at?”
    She looked at him haughtily. “You are hardly in a position to ask such a question.”
    The corners of his mouth twitched again. What an odd gentleman.
“Touché.”
He paused and stared at the ceiling, as though for inspiration. “Very well, then. Might I propose that we leave the room simultaneously?”
    Mary considered this. They could hardly remain. Apart from the risk of someone returning to the office, she would soon be missed at the party. He might be as well — assuming he was actually a guest. She inclined her head graciously. “An excellent idea,” she murmured, mimicking his polite tone.
    She glided toward the door, which he held open for her. They slipped into the corridor, and she watched while he locked the door again, then pocketed the key. It was a proper house key. How had he pinched that?
    He glanced down at her, eyebrows rising arrogantly. “Well? Hadn’t you better run along to the drawing room?”
    Mary suppressed a powerful urge to hit him. With as much dignity as she could muster, she turned on her heel and walked quickly down the hall.

Why hadn’t she screamed bloody murder in that closet? As he stalked through the crowds in the drawing room, considering his next move, James Easton spotted his mystery lady assisting Angelica Thorold in the pouring of tea. They made a lovely contrast: Miss Thorold, with her blond ringlets and pink-and-white complexion, and Miss Closet (as he’d come to think of her), with her black hair and fierce eyes. What color were those eyes — hazelnut brown? It had been difficult to tell by candlelight. It was a distinctly un-English look that set off Miss Thorold’s doll-like beauty to great advantage. Which was almost certainly the point.
    Miss Closet must have paused to repin that hair. It was scraped back severely now, when a few minutes ago it had been tumbling round her shoulders. Her scent came back to him — clean laundry, lemony soap, girl. He’d been surprised by the absence of perfume and then grateful for it in that small space.
    He considered her from the opposite end of the room. Her gown, plain and high-necked, made it clear that she was not a debutante. And her hair was wrong, too: the fashion for young ladies this season was a cascade of ringlets pinned high over each ear. Her role at the tea table seemed to confirm all that. Miss Closet kept back slightly, her gaze lowered, and poured cup after cup of tea. Miss Thorold, in contrast, stood forward, daintily adding cream and sugar to the cups and passing them to a string of guests — mainly admiring bachelors. James’s elder brother, George, was part of the pack.
    As though she could feel his open stare, Miss Closet suddenly raised her head and met his gaze. A prickle of energy, both pleasant and startling, rippled up and down his body. He had to force himself to remain still and expressionless. Her look was defiant when it should have been ashamed. She gazed at him a moment longer — taking his measure? — and then looked away haughtily, as though she had seen all she