“Victoria Hebert taught me at a military formal.” The memory made her smile. Victoria had so gallantly led as Wren bumbled her way through the steps. Una had had no patience for her ineptitude after Wren had scuffed her boots the year before. “You?”

“Here and there,” he said. “It’s useful for political events.”

“So it is.”

When he spoke again, this fragile romantic illusion shattered. “Do you have the key?”

“Yes. But we’ll need to move quickly and very carefully. I don’t think anyone saw what I did, but they know he’s sick.” She paused as he extended his arm. She spun before snapping back into position. “And Lowry mentioned something about a guest of honor. I have no idea what he meant, but he said it very … threateningly.”

“He’s cornered and bluffing.”

“I hope so. As soon as this song is over, we move.”

“Understood.”

He navigated them through the other dancers and toward the east wing. As she let herself succumb to the steady one-two-three of the music, a small, naïve part of her longed to cling to this moment. She liked the way he held her like something to cherish. This was supposed to be an act, but there was something real there, too. She knew it by the way he kept absently stroking her waist, his warmth sinking into her. By the way his eyes lingered on her mouth when she spoke.

It was torture, denying him. Denying herself. But this had always been temporary. If they succeeded tonight, they’d never see each other again. Wren sucked in a breath, surprised at how much that realization stung. Why did she always want people she could never truly have?

As the last of the music faded, he drew back, and there was a battle in his eyes. “Wren…”

He lifted his hand to her face, but just as it grazed her cheek, a terrible feeling slithered down her spine. Someone was staring at them.

It felt like a blade at the back of her neck.

A shadow fell over them, and Una’s voice was as cold and sharp as the ring of metal. “Mind if I cut in?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

As always, Una was beauty drawn in stark, severe lines.

Her knee-length greatcoat gleamed with heavy buttons and rows of battle-won medals, and the silver fringe of her epaulettes flowed from her shoulders. At her neck was a black bow tie framed by silver collar stays and the night-dark spill of her hair. The sword at her hip, although sheathed in an intricate jeweled scabbard, was not purely ceremonial.

“Una,” Wren breathed. Her heart lurched, ready to tear itself in half as it warred between joy and fear. Her best friend—and her undoing. “Wh-what’re you doing here?”

“I was invited.”

“I mean here, talking to me. I don’t have time for this right now.”