THE PROBLEM WITH CONCEALING A weapon beneath a day dress at a social gathering became all too apparent to Lady Juliette Thorndike the moment she sat beside the Dowager Duchess of Haverly. Juliette had only worn the pistol because, following her abduction last month, Uncle Bertie had insisted she never again go anywhere unarmed. Though she couldn’t think of a single reason she would need a weapon at a small party hosted in her parents’ home, she had decided to humor him. And now here she was, less than a half hour into that party, and the strap holding the pistol against her thigh had shifted and loosened, the gun parting company with her leg.

At least she hadn’t been standing when the defection occurred, but now what?

A flutter of panic arrested her breathing. She imagined herself rising, the gun clattering to the floor, and the entire guest list for the Venetian breakfast gasping in horror. The dowager would first stare and then glare, and Uncle Bertie would roll his eyes and issue a statement forthwith that she was an embarrassment and completely untrainable. As her primary instructor in the art of spy craft—as well as the possessor of a dry, sharp wit—he would not let such a faux pas pass without censure.

Not to mention what her parents might say. The Earl and Countess of Thorndike had tailored the guest list especially to bring certain people into countenance with one another, to gauge reactions and elicit information without the subjects being aware they were under study by several agents of the Crown. If Juliette caused a ruction, today’s mission would be disrupted.

Juliette gripped her fingers in her lap. She couldn’t exactly hike her skirts and apprehend the fugitive weapon. How was she to rectify the situation?

“It’s a lovely party. Though with your mother as hostess, I would expect no less.” The dowager sipped her tea. “Do you think Duke Heinrich von Lowe will remain in England for the rest of the Season? It has been pleasant having him at these social functions. He lends such a continental flair to the gatherings.”

Juliette nodded, barely taking in the dowager’s words while inching her hand alongside her leg, hoping to pin the pistol with her palm. At least the firearm was encased in a holster. Her only prayer was that she wouldn’t accidentally fire the gun, piercing either herself or the velvet upholstery of her mother’s settee. But the satin of her dress worked against her, sliding and slipping, failing to give purchase.

Twenty-five guests filled the drawing room of her parents’ London townhouse, nibbling hors d’oeuvres and chatting. Midday sun slanted through the tall windows, and on one of the sofas, Juliette’s mother held court with the guest of honor, Duke Heinrich von Lowe of Brandenburg.