Page 8 of A Trickster’s Temptation

‘… Yes.’

‘I have an invitation to the Warbury ball next week. Not as myself, of course.’

‘As who?’

‘It really doesn’t matter. What matters is who you will be, if you attend.’ Mr. Hart’s long pause contained a world of unspoken words. ‘Will you attend?’

Yes.Her body had already made its own decision. Mary struggled with herself for a brief, painful moment before speaking.‘Considering that you have blackmailed me so neatly with my desire for a kiss, Mr. Hart, I can do nothing but assent to your request.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve lost track of which kiss belongs to who, Miss Fine. You can’t put the next choice you make down to my blackmail, or even your original attempt to blackmail me.’ Mr. Hart’s voice carried a hint of seriousness beneath his habitual, easy tone. ‘If you truly intend to come to the Warbury gathering as someone else, it will be because you want to.’

You wanted to kiss him at the ball. You wanted him to kiss you here in the kitchen.Mary’s inner voice didn’t sound sympathetic.And now you want to go to this gathering while pretending to be a completely different woman.

Just what on earth will you want to do next?

‘Yes.’ The answer came immediately.

‘Yes, you agree, or yes, you’ll come?’

‘I never agree with you about anything.’ It was important to maintain at least an atom of self-possession, even while every other atom in her body wanted to throw herself into Mr. Hart’s arms again. To taste even a little of the coarse, perilous excitement that flooded her veins whenever such a desperately unsuitable man kissed her. ‘But, yes. I’ll come. Or rather, someone else will.’

Soon afterwards, the door at the servants’ entrance opened. The bookseller from Minton Road walked out, giving a courteous tip of his hat to the smiling kitchen maid who had opened the door for him, and walked up the narrow path that led to the road without looking back.

Then, as soon as he was sure no-one was looking at him, he jumped into a large bush that bordered the road. After a few short minutes and a number of faintly unsettling sounds, Adam Hart emerged from the bush.

He stood on the path for a moment. Then, with a muttered, oath, he jumped back into the bush and emerged again with a pouch under his arm.

The various paints and pieces of soft wax he used to change his face in subtly different ways had been gathered over many years, purchased piecemeal, and the whole collection would be an enormous prize for any enterprising thief that happened upon it. Clothes weren’t likely to be remembered, unless one was pretending to be someone of a certain class; it was the face that mattered, the idiosyncrasies of one’s features, that people recalled later…

… and he had almost left his near-priceless collection in a bush. Adam clutched his pouch tightly under his arm, walking away from the house with considerable speed.

He hadn’t gone to the Fine townhouse with the intention of inviting Mary to the Warbury ball, let alone in disguise. He hadn’t gone with any intention other than teasing her—and yes, perhaps another kiss, but who cared about that now? Who could care about anything but what had actually happened with Mary, that fiery conversation, that swooning encounter that could barely be described with the simple wordkiss?

Fuck. He was becoming poetic. Adam stopped in the middle of the street, suddenly queasy, and looked wildly around for the nearest pub.

Perhaps if he drank enough, he’d forget that he’d done something this stupid. Not only had he kissed Mary Fine, kissed her twice, but he’d invited her to an engagement that he’d intended to go to alone. Preferably dressed up as someone who could sell a great number of ladies and gentlemen a great deal of useless trinkets for far more money than was necessary, before vanishing into the night with a burst of carefree laughter and the delicate clinking of coins.

Now he was going with Mary Fine. Not only going, but… excited about it. More excited than he could remember being about anything in recent history, and Adam’s recent history included at least two brothels and a memorable encounter in a theatre box.

Hereallyneeded a drink. Needed several drinks, in fact, and very possibly a hammer to hit himself over the head with. Adam crossed the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a horse and carriage, and ducked into the nearest pub without even bothering to look at the name on the sign.

He pointed expressively at the beer mugs stacked behind the counter. A weary publican in a dirty apron nodded; Adam slid into the darkest booth in the filthiest, most untouched corner of the pub, wishing that he had kept at least one or two elements of his disguise.

He didn’t like going anywhere using only his own face. With Marcus it was all right, and one or two other close friends, but the impersonal eyes of strangers felt vicious without a comforting layer of falsehood between them and himself.

And… and Mary, now that he thought about it. He was comfortable enough being barefaced with Mary. Adam slumped onto the sticky table without him, wordlessly leaving a couple of coins on the wood when his beer was brought to him.

He’d make a mistake. A terrible mistake. Adam brought the beer to his lips, downed half of the mug in a single gulp, and put the mug back down with a thud.

‘And I’m excited.’ He murmured the words so quietly to himself that they were almost the same in the world. ‘For fuck’s sake, I’m excited.’

The Fine townhouse looked even more splendid in evening light than it did during the day. The freshly-painted black door shone with the last of the sun, the stone of the walls gleaming with quiet refinement as the city beyond its iron railings settled into a bustling, end of the day.

‘Oh, my!’ Winnie clasped her hands together, staring at Mary with a rapturous sigh of excitement. ‘My dear, you look absolutelydivine.’

Mary scowled. The expression was difficult to do; her hair had been pinned so tightly that almost every movement of her eyebrows hurt, and she felt a good deal of internal excitement that had to be concealed at all costs. Still, she was almost sure she had done a serviceable job. ‘There’s no need to exaggerate, Winnie.’

‘Our Winnie is often given to exaggeration, but in this case her delight is more than warranted.’ Abigail smiled from her armchair in the corner of the bedroom, her hands clasped gently over the swell of her stomach. ‘You look beautiful, Mary. Truly.’

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