Revealed by Kate Noble

sighed and shook his head. “Mrs. Benning, why not simply tell me what you want?” he said, a half smile playing across his face.
    “Fine.” She leaned back, crossing her arms. “I want to reveal the identity of the Blue Raven at the Benning Ball. It will be the most spectacular event in the Ton, and it will take place at my party. A tremendous triumph.”
    “And you will no doubt be cited in the papers the next day,” he said, nodding along.
    “I’ll be cited in the papers for years! It will be fabulous—a full masquerade, all the men and women masked alike, and then, each person strips off their mask one at a time—the entire hall will be done in capes and shadowed corners, espionage, the thrill of the hunt—”
    “How very gothic you are, Mrs. Benning,” he said wryly. “However, if I were the Blue Raven—and I refuse to confirm that assumption—you would be exposing me to the world and all my enemies. Revealing my identity would very likely get me killed.”
    Phillippa had to admit, he had a point.
    “But . . . the war is over, sir! Your enemies have been vanquished.”
    “Not entirely.”
    “But surely—”
    “Not entirely.” He repeated firmly, standing. “Don’t play coy, Mrs. Benning. I know that you could hear perfectly well in that sarcophagus. Hence your whole . . . maddening curiosity. By the bye, I told you to disregard that conversation.”
    “Which only made me regard it more,” she retorted.
    “In any case,” he said, firmly returning to the subject at hand, “you know that I believe my, er, the Blue Raven’s enemies are still active. Why on earth would I agree to your scheme?”
    At this, Phillippa stood toe-to-toe with him. She looked him dead in the eye and played her trump card. “Because you want something from me.”
    Phillippa held her breath, watching his brow darken. He leaned in to her. “And what could you possibly offer me, Mrs. Benning? A nod and hello? A spot on your . . . guest list?”
    “Exactly,” she said, choosing to ignore his idiotic if somewhat startling innuendo. “You’re correct, sir, in that I could hear very well in that dusty sarcophagus. I heard you have a list of social events that are possibly under attack. May I venture a guess as to what was on that list?”
    At his nod, she continued. “The Whitford Banquet?”
    He nodded again.
    “The Hampshires’ Racing Party?”
    A nod.
    “The Gold Ball at Regent’s Park?”
    He nodded a last time, then eyed her speculatively.
    “How did you deduce—”
    “They are annual events,” she interrupted. “They are exclusive. And the people that throw them . . . really, it wasn’t all that difficult to discern.” Phillippa took a step forward, closing the space between them. “I can get you into all these parties. I can make certain you’re on the guest list.”
    “What makes you think I don’t have invitations already?” he inquired.
    “You’re not good Ton,” she replied matter-of-factly.
    An eyebrow shot up. “Please Mrs. Benning, don’t spare my feelings,” he said drily.
    “Oh, you’re not bad Ton,” she shrugged, “not by any means. But you’re not the best Ton. You’re the second son—”
    “Third, actually.”
    “Even worse. No title and no possible hope of one. Your prospects are modest at best. Your brother’s a rather minor Baron and your sister-in-law’s fervent charity work does not grease the wheels of Society in your favor, does it? These parties—they’re not everyday type things like Almack’s. I wager a thousand pounds that you have no earthly idea of how to get into any of these exclusive events.”
    She smiled. “You need me.”
    He glowered.
    She stepped up to him. Delicately, she placed a hand on his shirt, felt the rise and fall of his chest stutter. “You once told me that to sway you, all I need do is ask you nicely. So, please . Just consider it?” She batted her eyelashes. “That’s all I’m asking right now.”
    His hand came to rest on top