Chapter 175 - One Hundred-Seventy-Five: Waltzing with the Hawk

//CLARA//

The ballroom had transformed into a living painting of beautiful confusion, which meant my job here was officially fifty percent complete.

The old and the new were wandering between the chrome sculptures while sipping vintage champagne and praying nobody noticed they had zero clue why an eight-foot iron airplane was hovering over their heads.

Meanwhile, Casimir was completely in his element, gliding through the crowd like a six-foot-four void in a custom suit, effortlessly collecting signatures on territory contracts while the old guard was too busy staring at abstract art to actually read the fine print.

My host-zilla Master Plan was executing flawlessly.

Then I caught something that made my blood run cold.

Near the arched entrance to the east gallery, partially obscured by a towering glass pedestal displaying one of Oliver’s tablet sculptures, stood a figure I recognized immediately.

Inspector Harding.

He was dressed in a formal black coat, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room with the movement of a hunter cataloguing his prey. He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t socializing. He was simply observing.

Worse, his little hawk eyes were locked dead onto Casimir, watching him leaning in toward Mr. Marel the exact second he was about to slide a folded parchment into his inner coat pocket.

My skin prickled.

"Who invited him?" I hissed to Gary, who had materialized at my side with a clipboard and a look of barely contained panic.

Gary followed my gaze. His face went pale.

"I—I don’t know. I didn’t send him an invitation. I triple-checked the list. He wasn’t on it."

"Then how did he get past the gate?"

"I don’t know! Maybe he bribed a footman? Maybe he just walked in while everyone was distracted by the giant metal bird?" Gary’s voice pitched higher. "Clara, what do we do?"

I didn’t answer. Mr. Harding’s eyes were already tracking Casimir’s every single movement.

Right now, Casimir was deep in conversation with Mr. Ashworth, whose shipping empire had nearly collapsed three months ago before Casimir quietly bought out his debts. He was waiting. Cataloguing.

The uninvited guest was studying my husband like a specimen under glass.

"Oh, hell no," I muttered. "Not on my watch."

God, I sounded like a budget action hero. But desperate times called for desperate clichés.

"Clara—"

"Stay here. Don’t let Beatrice near the champagne, she gets weepy, and call Oliver."

"Where are you going?"

"To be a distraction."

I crossed the ballroom floor with my emerald gown trailing behind me like a battle flag. The crowd parted, whispers following in my wake. I smiled at the right people, nodded at the right moments, but my focus remained fixed on the intruder.

Mr. Harding noticed my approach. His expression flickered with surprise before settling into something more guarded.

"Miss Thorne." He inclined his head as I stopped before him. "A remarkable evening."

"Inspector." I did not extend my hand. "I don’t recall your name being on the guest list."

His lips curved. "I don’t recall needing an invitation to attend a public charitable function."

"This is a private affair." I kept my tone as pleasant as possible. "Attended by private citizens. You are neither."

"I’m a concerned public servant." He glanced past me, toward Casimir, before returning his attention to my face. "Investigating a murder that occurred very close to these very docks."

"And you thought a ball would be the perfect place to conduct your investigation?"

"I thought it would be the perfect place to observe." He tilted his head. "Your guardian has been very busy tonight. I’ve counted seventeen separate conversations with men whose names appear in my files."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"Mr. Guggenheim is a prominent businessman. He speaks with many people. That’s rather the point of being a prominent businessman."

"Prominent, yes." Mr. Harding’s gaze sharpened. "But there’s prominent and then there’s connected. And your guardian is very, very connected."

"Every wealthy man in New York is connected, Inspector. That’s rather the point of being wealthy."

The musicians, interpreting some signal I hadn’t given, struck up the opening bars of a waltz. Couples began to drift toward the dance floor.

I glanced at Casimir. He had noticed Mr. Harding’s presence. His expression had darkened, and I could see him preparing to abandon his conversation with Mr. Ashworth to intervene.

Absolutely not.

If Casimir confronted the inspector publicly, it would be a scandal. Worse, it would confirm every suspicion Mr. Harding held.

I made a split-second decision.

"Inspector," I said, tilting my head toward the dance floor. "Would you do me the honor?"

His eyebrows rose. "You wish to dance? With me?"

"I wish to give my guests something to gossip about besides the metal sculptures." I smiled, sweetly, like poison. "Besides, you’ve been standing by that pedestal for nearly twenty minutes. A man of your profession should know that hiding in plain sight is rarely effective."

Mr. Harding studied me for a long moment. Then something that looked almost like respect flickered behind his eyes.

"Then I would be honored, Miss Thorne."

He took my hand. I led him onto the dance floor.

The other couples parted as we approached, whispers rippling through the crowd like wind through wheat.

Miss Eleanor Thorne, dancing with a common police inspector. It was a scandal in itself, a deliberate breach of social protocol that would be dissected in every drawing room by morning.

I didn’t care. I had his undivided attention now. And Casimir, across the room, was no longer being watched.

Mr. Harding’s hand settled at my waist. His other hand clasped mine as we stepped into the waltz. He was a competent dancer and I matched his rhythm with ease.

"You’re a very curious woman," he murmured, close enough that his breath brushed my ear. "Dancing with an investigator at your own event."

"Curiosity is my fatal flaw." I met his gaze without flinching. "I find it helps to know one’s opposition."

His lips curved. "Am I your opposition?"

"You’re investigating my guardian for murder. That seems rather oppositional."

The dance turned us, the room spinning in a blur of glittering chrome. I caught a glimpse of Casimir in the crowd, and he did not look happy at all.

Uh—oh.

"I’m investigating the truth," Mr. Harding said carefully. "Which is not always the same thing."

"How philosophical of you." I tilted my head. "What are you really looking for, Inspector? The truth about the murder? Or something else entirely?"

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze narrowing to my face. "You’re very direct. Most ladies of your station prefer to speak in riddles."

"I’m not most ladies."

"No." His gaze flicked toward Casimir, then back to me. "You’re not. Which makes me wonder why a woman of your intelligence would dance with a man who could destroy the family that shelters her."

I held his gaze. "Maybe I’m not as sheltered as you think."

The dance shifted again. We turned, and I caught sight of Casimir again, much closer now. He was no longer in conversation. He was simply standing at the edge of the floor, watching me with an expression that could have frozen the champagne mid-pour.

Mr. Harding leaned closer, his voice barely a breath against my ear.

"Someone with authority is protecting certain interests in this city. Interests that go far beyond a single murdered shipping merchant. I’m trying to figure out who, and why."

My heart hammered, but I kept my voice steady. "That sounds like a dangerous inquiry."

"Most worthwhile inquiries are."

"And what do you expect to find at the end of it?" I met his eyes. "A villain? A conspiracy? Or just a truth you’re not prepared to face?"

His grip on my waist tightened fractionally. "I expect to find justice, Miss Thorne. Whatever form it takes."

The waltz was ending. I stepped back, breaking contact with him as the final note faded. The ballroom erupted into polite applause, but I barely heard it.

"Thank you for the dance, Inspector." I curtsied. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening."

I turned before he could respond—

And walked straight into a wall of hard chest and barely contained fury.

Casimir. His stormy eyes burned on me.

"Come with me," he growled. "Now."

He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked toward the west corridor, the one that led to his private study, expecting me to follow.

I followed.

Because apparently, I had a death wish. Or a husband wish. Same thing.