Claire didn’t look back to see if Andrew followed her. She knew he would, though likely some time behind so as not to alert anyone watching that they were about the same business. She only hoped her plan proved fruitful, as she doubted they would get another shot at uncovering this plot.

She slowed to a stroll as she reached the card room. Just before passing through the doors, she stopped to take a calming breath. She also plucked her little lamb muff from its pouch and cradled it beneath her arm like a silly prop for an even sillier costume. In truth, she just wanted easier access to her gun should she need it. Then she pinched her cheeks, pasted a smile on her face, and entered.

The Balfours’ impromptu card room sparkled with light and hummed with conversation. Several tables were scattered throughout, filled with guests trying to best one another for a bit of coin. While more sedate than what she’d witnessed at the Devil’s Den—and without games like hazard or roulette, which would be improper in a London ballroom—the room nonetheless reminded her of the gaming hell. Many women graced the tables, either encouraging the men or playing themselves.

Good. She should fit right in.

Her eyes sought out Miguel Ducos. He and another man had just joined a mixed group at a table in the far corner and were being dealt a hand.

It took everything in her not to cut a path directly there. But no. She needed to be circumspect in her approach, lest she draw suspicion.

She cut her eyes to the party at Ducos’s table, who looked to be engaged in whatever game they played, himself and his companion included. She was going to have to take a gamble and work her way slowly around the room, hoping that no serious discussion took place between the two men until they’d settled in a while.

And so, against every natural instinct, Claire joined a table in the completely opposite direction.

Over the next quarter hour, she flitted from game to game, doing her best to make herself seem flighty and a tad ridiculous. She simpered, she cooed, she lost games on purpose and pouted mightily. And all the while, she made her way closer and closer to the table where Ducos still sat.

The Spaniard and his companion remained at their original table, but other people had come and gone from the seats near them—which was good for her. They should think nothing of it when she sat down.

She saw her chance when a silver-haired matron laid down her cards and gathered her reticule. Claire made her way over as the older woman departed the seat two down from Miguel Ducos. Her heart thumped like a jackrabbit, but she ignored it. It was now or never.

“Ooooh, what’s this game?” she trilled as she lowered herself into the recently vacated chair, plopping her little lamb on the table in front of her.

“Faro, miss,” said the liveried servant who must be acting as dealer and banker tonight.

Ducos flicked his gaze at her, but Claire dared not let herself look at him. Instead, she turned to the handsome gent on her opposite side. “Is it anything like loo?”

The man gave her a patient smile. “Not at all.”

Claire twisted her lips. “How about piquet, then? Is it like piquet? I enjoy piquet.”

She almost felt the man’s eyes roll as he shook his head.

And her impression as a brainless flibbertigibbet was set.

Ducos looked away from her and returned to his hand of cards. Perfect.

“Ah, well,” she said with an annoying giggle. “I’ll give it a go anyway.”

Play resumed, and Claire did her best to live up to that impression. She made silly mistakes and asked ridiculous questions, and all the while she kept an ear tuned towards Ducos. Problem was, he wasn’t really speaking to anyone. He just played the game.

When the man sitting between her and Ducos decided to call it a night, Claire scooted over to his seat. “Perhaps this chair will be more lucky,” she declared with a laugh.

Finally, she’d insinuated herself right next to the man she believed to be the Duc de San Carlos.

And still, nothing.

Had she missed whatever exchange might have happened by taking her time getting here? What if she’d been wrong about the man sitting next to her? What if he wasn’t San Carlos after all? They’d have to start over again in their hunt for Clarence’s and Uncle Jarvis’s killer.

She fretted over all of that as she played her next cards, and as time passed without Ducos saying anything of interest, she began to wonder how long she should continue to sit here.

But then a tall gentleman, dressed in the colorful Andalusian costume of a matador, made his way to the table. He discretely tapped the man seated on the other side of Ducos on the shoulder. Without a word, that man stood and left the table, and the torero took his place.

“Ducos,” the newcomer murmured.

Miguel Ducos leaned back in his chair, while keeping his cards fanned out before him like a shield. “Señor Embaixador,” he replied softly.

Claire’s breath stilled. The matador who’d joined the table was the current Spanish ambassador to London. Which meant she’d been right. Ducos was San Carlos. Her hand shook as she laid out her card, and she squeezed her fist to stop it. She had to stay calm. This was what she’d been waiting all night for, and she couldn’t spoil it now.

She turned and laughed at something a woman on the other side of her said, angling her shoulder away from San Carlos to give him a greater sense of privacy in hopes he would be more free with his words. Then she settled in to listen.

With the noise of the room and the raucous game play around her, Claire struggled to follow the quietly spoken conversation, but she deduced right away that the men weren’t speaking Spanish, but Galician—a sort of blend of Portuguese and Spanish that originated from Vulgar Latin in the Middle Ages and was still spoken in some parts of Spain. Luckily, she understood enough to get by.

“Recoméndolles que saca de Londres inmediatamente—” San Carlos was saying.

He was advising the ambassador to make preparations to leave London?

“Your play, miss,” the dealer’s voice pulled her out of the conversation.

“Of course,” Claire replied, pretending to dither over what card to put down…and went back to listening.

“Si, o tratado xa está en camiño, atravesando Catelonia coa axuda de Copons—”

A burst of laughter from the table beside them drowned out the rest of whatever San Carlos was saying, and all of what the ambassador replied.

“—segunda foi enviada con Palifax, no caso de que o primeiro sexa interceptado—” she heard a bit later.

Claire could only catch snatches here and there of the whispered conference, but even so, she’d soon heard enough. Not only had hers and Andrew’s theory been correct, it was worse than they’d thought.

She had to find him and tell him what she’d learned. Now.

When it came her turn to play, Claire pushed her cards into the center of the table.

“That will do it for me, I’m afraid,” she said as she stood. She picked up her little lamb muff and waggled it. “I do believe I’ve been flee-ee-ee-eeced enough.”

A few chuckles followed her as she left the table.

Claire discretely glanced around for Andrew, but didn’t see him in the card room anywhere—which didn’t surprise her overmuch. He’d likely concealed himself in case the killer was watching him, so as not to draw attention to what she was doing. So she made her way back to the ballroom, fully expecting him to rejoin her the moment she cleared the card room doors.

After a full turn about the place, she still hadn’t found him. Unease snaked its way around her middle. It had cost Andrew to let her go after San Carlos on her own, to admit that he had to rely on her to protect herself as she carried out their mission. There was no way he wouldn’t be by her side now that she was finished—not if he was able.

Still, she took her crook between her hand and rolled it between her palms in the signal they’d agreed to, hoping it called him to her side like the proverbial lost sheep.

But it didn’t. Her unease flared into alarm. Where was he? And what was she supposed to do without him?

Go to one of the Bow Street Runners. That’s what Andrew had told her to do.

And say what? Precious time would be wasted trying to get someone to believe her, she was certain. She had to get the information she’d gleaned to someone in the War Department right away.

But… Her stomach churned with fear for Andrew. She needed to find him, too.

In the end, the choice was made for her. As she turned to search out one of the runners-turned-footmen for help, her arm was caught in a punishing grip.

“If you want to see Sedgewick alive again,” a familiar voice growled in her ear, “you’ll walk out of here with me. Without making a scene.”