Chapter One

Abigail sipped her third glass of champagne and casually scanned Lady Bingley’s crowded ballroom. Extravagant balls such as this were as natural to her as breathing—if she were attending as Lady Abigail, wayward daughter of the Marquess of Buchman, or even as Carlotta Durand, daughter of Richard Durand, wealthy French merchant. Attending a ball as Lady Abigail, dutiful daughter of John Matheson, the Marquess of Buchman, was another matter.

Here in Inverness, she was just a marquess’s daughter—well, more than that now. Six weeks ago, her cousin, the most recent Marquess of Buchman, went and died of a fever. As a result, Abigail had become the Marchioness of Buchman, heir to her father’s title, lands and money—and all the headaches that position entailed. The transition from spy to marchioness had come as a shock.

Melancholia chilled her heart. Even after five years, she missed her father so badly her heart ached. When her cousin Daniel had inherited the title, she’d married Iain Young, intent on never returning to the memories of Lochland Manor. A year after their marriage, her husband got himself shot gambling in a hell, and then six weeks past, Daniel died. His Majesty might not insist she marry, but he wasn’t keen on the new Marchioness of Buchman risking her life as a spy. Returning home without her father present had been like plunging a knife through her heart.

Abigail finished her champagne and searched for a waiter. At half past twelve, the night was young. The ball would continue at least till two, perhaps even three a.m. By the time she left, she very well might be drunk.

Her gaze snagged on the lead violinist of the orchestra, a strikingly handsome man. How long since she’d indulged in anything tall, dark and handsome?

“That is your third glass of champagne,” her friend Fanny said.

At last, a waiter appeared. Abigail stopped him, set her empty glass on the tray, took a full glass, then waved him on.

She faced Fanny. “Who’s counting?”

“Clearly, not you.”

Abigail sipped the champagne. “And I shan’t begin now.”

“You’re worried that when you marry, your husband will put a stop to your wild ways.”

Abigail laughed. “I have only just returned to Scotland. The last thing on my mind is marriage. Besides, my first marriage was quite enough.”

Fanny sipped her champagne—as every lady should—and peered at Abigail over the rim of her glass. “The widow of Mr. Young may choose not to remarry, but His Majesty will have something to say about the Marchioness of Buchman not marrying.”

Abigail shrugged. Her particular relationship with His Majesty would save her from the marriage mart.

Fanny leaned close and whispered, “Don’t look now, but I believe the owner of your next dance is on the way to claim his set.”

Abigail frowned. Which dance was this? The fourth. Good God, Viscount Havisham had signed her dance card for the fourth dance. Fanny nodded ever so slightly at something behind Abigail. She turned casually and caught sight of the viscount plowing his way through the crowd. God help her. Abigail faced Fanny.

Fanny’s eyes twinkled. “I have heard that a lady who dances with Lord Havisham…well, her toes are never quite the same afterwards.”

Abigail narrowed her eyes. “You have a perverse streak, Fanny.”

She nodded, her expression neutral, but her eyes flashed with devilish delight. “One would think the reason was because my parents didn’t love me. But in fact, they loved me very much.”

Abigail bit back a laugh—and a retort—for the gentleman in question had reached hearing distance. At first opportunity, she would speak with Lady Bingley. Abigail had arrived at the ball to find her hostess had filled her dance card. Clearly, Lady Bingley had taken it upon herself to find Abigail a suitable husband.

Lord Havisham reached them, out of breath after his charge across the room. “My lady, I believe the next set is mine.”

Abigail glimpsed laughter in Fanny’s eyes an instant before her friend dropped her gaze. Abigail suddenly had the suspicion that it wasn’t only Lady Bingley playing matchmaker. Fanny’s delight was more than mere amusement at Abigail’s expense. One would think that Fanny had better taste than to pair Abigail with a portly viscount who probably had never walked farther than the distance between his carriage and his club. Lady Bingley wasn’t the only person Abigail needed to set straight. Longing rose for ballrooms where men sought to charm their way into a woman’s bed, not drag her down the aisle.

Abigail assumed a wilted expression and fanned her face with her hand. “Sir, it is intolerably hot in here.” As expected, his eyes brightened. He believed she intended to ask him to escort her to the balcony. The poor fool. She lowered her voice, “Would you mind very much if I asked a favor?”

“Of course not, my dear.” He started to angle his arm toward her.

“Would you fetch me some champagne?”

He blinked. “I beg pardon? Champagne?” He glanced at the glass in her hand.

She smiled. “This champagne is warm. Cool champagne does wonders for a body, do you not agree?” She leaned toward him an inch and added in a sultry voice that had yet to fail her, “It always puts me in the best of moods.”

He straightened as if he were a puppet and the puppeteer had yanked his strings. “Indeed, my lady, it would be my pleasure.” He looked around the room for a passing waiter. As Abigail knew was the case, no waiter was visible. Indecision creased his brow.

“The champagne in the refreshments room is always the coolest.” Abigail looked up at him with adoring eyes. “The party is a crush. Can you reach the refreshments room and return unscathed?”

His indecision lingered for another instant, then manly pride surfaced. “Of course. For you, it is no trouble.”

She sighed in genuine relief. “You are too kind.”

He bowed, then turned and began to plow his way toward the refreshments room, located on the other side of the large ballroom.

“By the time he returns, the set will be over,” Fanny said.

And I will be gone, Abigail thought. There were two more parties she could attend tonight. She needn’t return home before two, if she chose. She cast a glance at the violinist. Even those broad shoulders weren’t worth Havisham’s company for the night.

“Wherever did you learn to make such awful moon eyes?” Fanny asked. “I expected him to drop to one knee and profess undying love, then offer to slay any dragon you named.”

Abigail finished her champagne. Glass number four. “You are one to talk. I seem to remember you insisting that Charles bring you cakes from downtown Inverness during the heat of an August day.”

Fanny shrugged. “That was different. I was in love with Charles.”

Abigail grimaced. “Lucky Charles.”

Fanny narrowed her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Indeed, I do. You wanted to see how long the poor fellow would let you torture him before he cried foul.”

Fanny gave small shrug. “Something like that.”

Abigail lifted a brow. “How long did it take?”

A mischievous grin tugged the corners of Fanny’s mouth. “I’ll let you know when he does so.”

Abigail’s gaze snagged on a woman who paused near the hallway to the refreshments room. What was Lady Elana Galloway doing in Inverness—at this party? They’d last parted in Paris. Something was wrong. Abigail hadn’t expected to ever again see the spymaster known as The Raven.

Lady Elana turned, started down the hallway, and disappeared from view. Abigail returned her attention to Fanny. Her plans had changed. No more champagne. She would need her wits about her.