Claire touched her fabric mask, ensuring it was firmly in place as she joined the crowds making their way into the Balfours’ grand mansion on Berkley Square.

“I’ll help you find your sheep, lass,” rumbled a man’s voice in a faux Scots accent.

She turned to a gentleman dressed as a highland laird—though she was pretty certain his plaid wasn’t tied at all correctly—and smiled prettily at him. He, however, smiled directly at her bosom.

Claire tried not to roll her eyes.

The shepherdess costume she’d borrowed from Rosalie had been one of the least risqué the other woman had owned, but it still put rather a lot of Claire on display.

However, it was also the most practical for her needs. First, she had a wooden crook that she could use as a weapon if need be. Second, the large mobcap completely hid her shorn locks. And finally, it allowed for the most useful prop…

She held up the muff that she’d covered last night with white cotton wool and fashioned to look like a little lamb.

“I thank you, good sir,” she said, waggling the tiny sheep, “but as you can see, I haven’t yet lost it.” She gave him a saucy wink and turned away.

As Claire pushed farther into the room, she clutched the little lamb to her, reassured by the weight of her muff pistol within.

Her smile didn’t fade until she was out of the man’s sight. Tonight, she intended to be seen as a frivolous peahen—and not as the kind of woman who might, say, speak several languages and be able to eavesdrop on a private conversation held in any number of them.

The anger that had been simmering since Andrew had forbidden her to attend the ball last night flared back to life. She was their best chance at overhearing proof of the Miguel Ducos/San Carlos plot. How dare he threaten to lock her away, even to protect her from herself?

Blast it all, her entire life had been ruined by a man who took it upon himself to decide her future without so much as consulting her. She’d be damned if she’d let Andrew replace Clarence as her self-appointed keeper.

As she circulated around the ballroom, Claire kept her eyes—but more important, her ears—open for anyone conversing in one of the languages spoken on the Iberian Peninsula.

She also kept a lookout for Andrew. Not that she had any inkling of what costume he might wear. She imagined he also watched for her. He wasn’t a fool. He knew very well she’d be here tonight—the note she’d left him at the townhouse before she’d fled to Rosalie last night implied as much. Her best advantage to evade a scene was that he wouldn’t know if she was here as Clarence, or as Claire.

A large male hand clasped her upper arm just above her elbow.

“A dance, Miss Peep?” a voice growled in her ear.

Andrew’s voice.

Claire’s stomach both flipped and melted, all at the same time.

“How did you know it was me?” she whispered as she turned to him. She pasted a smile on her face so that she appeared to flirt, if anyone was watching, but inside her heart hammered.

It picked up speed at the sight of him. Lord, he looked beautiful tonight, dressed in stark, close-fitted evening clothes of black.

He also looked furious. Anger simmered in his eyes, not the least bit hidden behind his simple domino.

“I’d recognize that décolletage anywhere,” he said as his eyes dropped to her rather exposed chest.

Claire melted another degree. His voice had dipped low, and while he still sounded angry, passion colored his words. And for a moment, she was intensely glad she hadn’t balked at wearing Rosalie’s provocative shepherdess costume.

Not that she wasn’t still irritated with him.

Andrew steered her toward the dance floor, where lines were forming. Despite the cold outside, the ballroom’s multiple arched windows were open to combat the heat from the crush, and a gauzy red material—swagged with greenery in a nod to the Christmas season, no doubt—floated in the light breeze. Claire was grateful for the cool air, as she’d warmed significantly now that Andrew was near.

They joined the other dancers, pairing up across from one another, as the strains of violins signaled the beginning of an Allemande. Claire tucked the muff that concealed her pistol into her apron’s pouch for the dance.

“How did you secure an invitation on such short notice?” Andrew murmured as he stepped toward her in the first move of the dance.

Claire met Andrew in the center of the aisle and touched her right hand to his as they bowed to one another. “Rosalie knows many people,” she said archly. “And when I’d explained that I needed to be here to catch whoever had killed Clarence, she was only too happy to help.”

Andrew huffed, as if he’d expected such an answer. His gaze held hers as they stood palm to palm, and Claire’s breath snagged just from the intimate touch.

“Don’t look now,” he murmured, “but Ducos is three dancers up the line.”

Claire started. That news certainly broke the sensual spell.

“You’re certain?” she whispered as they circled one another in the dance’s next step.

“Indeed,” he said. “One of Balfour’s men tipped me when Ducos presented his invitation, and I’ve been following him ever since.”

The dance called for Claire and Andrew to turn away from each other at that moment, so she took advantage of the figure eight step that came next to cast a peep at Miguel Ducos.

The short, compact man executed his own steps just a few dancers away. As Claire skirted another figure eight around the woman next to her in the procession, she had to admire the duke’s choice of costume.

He was cleverly disguised as…a Spanish duke in military court dress, with gold epaulettes, elaborate embroidery work along the cuffs, knee breeches, and lapels, and a bright red sash tied jauntily around his waist. The ensemble was finished off with Spanish crosses pinned to his jacket, a mask, and a bicorn hat with feathered flourishes.

Exaggerated military costume was popular masquerade fare, and everyone knew the real San Carlos was in prison in France, so…all in all, an inspired choice, really.

Andrew took her hand as they met once again in the middle, and pulled them into a twirl. The dance brought them closer, hands touching palm to palm and foreheads nearly grazing.

“Have you noticed him speaking overlong to any one person or group?” Claire murmured. She hoped she hadn’t already missed her opportunity.

Another set of figure eights drew Andrew away from her and advanced them up the line. A bubble of anxiety floated into her throat. Was tonight’s mission already for naught?

When a gliding step brought them face-to-face once more, he said, “No. He’s mostly stayed to the edges of the room, taking it in.” They touched hands, then Andrew’s mouth turned down beneath his mask and his voice was harsh as he said, “You scared years off of my life last night, Claire. When I thought—”

The steps of the dance pulled them apart again. Claire joined arms with the woman next to her as a matter of course, but inside she fumed at the reminder of how he’d tried to keep her from coming tonight. Who cared what he thought when he found she’d left him in the cold? Served him right.

She’d almost not left him a note at the townhouse before she’d departed, either, but she hadn’t wanted Andrew to worry…much.

She met him again in the center, and he took her hand for the twirl.

“You left me little choice,” she hissed. “I will not be dictated to by you, or anyone. And at any rate,” she continued as they touched hands in preparation to turn away from one another, “I’m here now, so let us drop the matter and do what we came here for.”

Another loop with the neighboring woman, and they were once again together in the center for the twirl.

“Pax, Claire,” he said, much as he had the first night when she’d insisted to remain as Clarence at Abchurch.

She relaxed as the ending strains of the violins echoed through the air and he turned her in the final twirl. He was coming around to accepting her part in this, which was good. But if they were going to have a chance at a future together, they would have to discuss his propensity to want to protect her at all costs.

If she could get over the fact that he’d been able to walk away from her in the first place.

After the applause for the orchestra, the line of dancers broke up. Andrew settled Claire’s arm on his—rather possessively, she thought. She tried to tug away, wanting to follow San Carlos now that she knew what he looked like.

Andrew squeezed her hand. “No. We’re just watching for now.”

He must have sensed her frustration, because his mouth kicked up a half smile beneath his domino. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re not likely to lose sight of him in that elaborate costume.”

He had a point.

“Is it wise for us to be seen together?” she murmured as he pulled her into a stroll, loosely keeping pace with Ducos on the opposite side of the ballroom.

Andrew shrugged one shoulder. “If the killer suspects us, then he’d be looking for two men together. That makes your costume…”

His gaze dipped to her décolletage once more and his eyes flashed hot.

“…perfection.”

The spark of heat that flew through her was so powerful, she half-expected her wooden crook to shoot lightning bolts.

“Isn’t that why you came as Claire and not Clarence?” he inquired.

She swallowed, having to repeat his question in her carnally distracted mind. “Um, no, actually.”

She told him her plan to get close enough to Ducos to be present to overhear any clandestine conversations.

Claire felt him go rigid, his muscles becoming taut where her hand rested on his arm.

“It’s the only way,” she said before he could mount the argument she saw brewing in his eyes. “Gentlemen are taught several languages as part of their education. Ducos will not speak freely to anyone if you or any other unknown man is hanging about.”

She tightened her grip on his arm. “But me? No one expects a lady to know more than French. They’re less likely to suspect me of being able to understand anything they say, so I have the best chance of learning what we need to know.”

“Christ, Claire,” he muttered, and she sensed him teetering on the edge of picking her up bodily and running for the exit, little lamb and all.

“You know I’m right,” she said. “And I’m not giving you a choice.” She knew it went against everything in him, but she was through being protected. She intended to do what she felt she must in her life. And if Andrew couldn’t live with that… “I’m going after Ducos with or without you.”

He shook his head. He took several deep breaths, no doubt grappling with his masculine instinct to shield her at all costs.

“All right,” he said finally. “But I’ll be close by. And if anything, anything at all makes you uncomfortable, just…” He looked her over. “Roll your shepherd’s crook between your hands and I’ll come to you.”

She nodded.

“And if for some reason I don’t, go immediately to one of the footmen.”

That was an odd request. “Why a footman?”

“Because most of them here are actually Bow Street Runners,” he said. “Apparently Miguel Ducos is not the only person of interest who is in attendance tonight. I’ve been told the authorities are also trying to trap an infamous jewel thief or two.”

“Ah.” Knowing that actually did make her feel better. She put on a brave front for Andrew, but her stomach churned at the idea of crossing men who had so much to lose. They wouldn’t think twice about killing her if she were caught.

From the corner of her eye, Claire noticed Ducos change direction and head for the card room. Another man sidled up to him along the way. The hair stood up on the back of her neck. This was it. She knew it.

“He’s moving,” she said, as energy spiked through her. She let go of Andrew and quick-stepped her way through the milling crowd, making for the parlor that Ducos had just slipped into.