Ms. Longshot. Sylvie Kurtz

at the table. That couldn’t be good. My stomach took a sharp dive south.

      Renee’s hair was pulled into a French twist. The hint of gray snaking through her auburn locks here and there merely added to the air of dignity that surrounded her. The winter white of her Chanel suit complemented her creamy complexion. As always, her smile was warm and welcoming and her striking royal blue eyes assessing.

      The reason I’d joined Renee’s secret agency was to prove to myself that I could do anything I wanted—even catch bad guys. Not to mention the promise of excitement—which, I should mention, had failed to materialize. Unless you counted poring through piles of business reports as exciting—which I did not. For some reason, Renee insisted on treating me as if I were Swarovski crystal.

      Frankly, I don’t know why Renee asked me to join the Gotham Rose Club when she barely made use of my skills. My guess was that it was some sort of employer requirement—round out the roll call with a token cripple and get patted on the head for following all the equal-employment opportunity rules. She knew how I felt, and that didn’t make me one of her favorite agents.

      I often thought that the illusive Governess was the one who’d insisted Renee hire me, and Renee had done so only reluctantly. Of course, who the Governess was and what she had at stake in this cloak-and-dagger agency was as mysterious as why Renee had agreed to play front woman for the agency. I had to admit curiosity was one of the things that kept me coming back.

      Renee pushed away a file and rose. A small smile lifted the corners of her lips. “Come in, Alexa. Sit. Tea?”

      A file was a good sign, right? Unless it contained a list of my transgressions.

      I greeted Renee with a stiff air kiss. A vintage linen tablecloth covered the round Charles X table set with Hewitt Gold bone china and Pelham Gold flatware. Scones from my favorite bakery on Madison crammed a three-tiered silver Tiffany tray. Steam curled from the blue-and-white Lynn Feld porcelain teapot. White tea roses in a Lalique vase spiced the air. Renee had impeccable taste and it served as a perfect veil for the true work she did here. Still, I couldn’t help wanting to throw a Tupperware tub on the table at one of the functions just to hear the proper ladies gasp.

      “I’d love a cup of tea.” I took the chair across from Renee’s. Fragrant bergamot scented the air as Renee poured hot Earl Grey tea with slow precision into pale-blue, gold-trimmed cups.

      “Where is everyone else?” I asked. Tea with Renee usually meant dealing with Tatiana Guttmann, Becca Whitmore and one or two more of the agents. I didn’t have anything against them personally, but they got all the good assignments.

      “It’s just the two of us today.” Renee slanted me another one of her cryptic smiles as she served me a cup.

      “Oh.” I forced my fingers to relax against the china. Was she going to fire me before I ever got any of that promised excitement? I tried to delay the inevitable. “How is Emma doing?”

      Emma Bromwell, another agent who’d gone through the same training class I had, suffered a severe arm fracture and a concussion during an explosion at a post-Oscar fund-raising party for the Miller Children’s Home in California a couple months ago.

      Renee glanced away. A certain sadness seemed to weigh on her soul. I figured the sadness existed because her husband, Preston, whom she dearly loved, was serving prison time for fraud. Five years ago the case made headlines in all the papers. But asking about Emma seemed to carve deeper grooves into that sadness, aging her. Was she taking Emma’s accident personally? Was this sense of personal responsibility why Renee never gave me a real assignment?

      “Emma’s doing as well as can be expected,” Renee said. “She’ll have to have physical therapy for a bit longer, but she’ll regain full use of her arm.”

      “That’s good.” When I noticed my hand unconsciously rubbing at the edge of my socket, I snapped it back to the warmth of the teacup. “She was worried she wouldn’t be able to play the piano anymore. And that brought her such joy.” I knew how I’d felt when I’d thought I’d never ride again.

      “How are the preparations for the Horses of Hope Foundation wine-and-cheese party going?” Renee asked.

      “Fine.” I placed my cup back on its saucer. “Tickets are selling well and sponsors are lining up to host a table, including the esteemed mayor of our city, Mr. Siegel.”

      “Can your assistant handle the rest of the preparations?”

      Ah, so that was it. An assignment, not an indictment on my lack of propriety at Charles de Gaulle. My shoulders sagged with relief. “Yes, of course she can.”

      “Good.” Renee added a slice of lemon to her tea. “The Governess has asked me to send you on an assignment. I’ll take over your hostessing duties at the show.”

      Send? As in field? I sat up a little straighter, and anticipation shot through my veins. Thank you, Governess! At least someone had faith in me.

      None of the agents had ever met the mysterious Governess, not even Renee. The only thing we could agree on was that, whoever she was, she was well connected. And when the equally mysterious Duke entered the conversation, you’d think we were a book club discussing an old Victoria Holt novel.

      The Duke was said to be some sort of Godfather-like figure who ran in elite circles and had fingers in all sorts of dirty dealings. If you believed the rumors, he had a hand in everything from corruption to gambling. I had a suspicion he was one of the reasons the Gotham Rose Club was started. But if Renee knew who he was, she wasn’t spilling the secret.

      It was all supposed to be hush-hush, but I’d heard that Renee had struck a deal with the Governess to create and run the Gotham Rose Agency in exchange for her husband, Preston’s, early release from prison. Someone had to go to jail for the Sinclair family’s illegal business dealings and poor Preston was the scapegoat.

      “Have you been keeping up with the news of the show circuit?” Renee asked, reaching for a scone.

      “No, not really.” What was the point of salting a wound? I got my fix of horses through my foundation and my weekly trips to my estate in Darien, Connecticut, where I kept two horses. “Why?”

      “A string of accidents have happened this winter on the Palm Beach show-jumping circuit. Canterbury Crown died of a heart attack while going over a jump and his rider was hurt from the fall. Drug testing showed cocaine in the horse’s blood.”

      “Cocaine?” Who would do such a thing? Of course, some people would do anything to win—even hurt a defenseless animal. “What happened?”

      “The police investigated but came to no conclusion.”

      I leaned forward, my heart fluttering against my ribs. “You want me to look into it,” I said hopefully.

      “A few weeks later, a barn fire killed four horses, including the current National Horse Show champion, Total Eclipse.”

      Just thinking about the terror those poor animals had to endure raised my blood pressure and sparked my anger. But I bit my tongue. This was definitely my kind of assignment, but Renee was obviously not asking for my opinion.

      “The latest victim is Monica Lightbourne, daughter of the media heiress,” Renee continued. “Someone injected her horse, Blue Ribbon Belle, with a drug that caused a neurological reaction so violent the horse had to be put down.”

      “That’s awful. How do you want me to help?”

      “The Metropolitan Spring Classic Charity Horse Show begins in a week.”

      “You want me to investigate at the show since I’ll be there for my foundation’s charity event.” Yes! This I could do. No stretch at all.

      “Not exactly.” Renee sipped her tea, humor glinting in her eyes. “As you know, the mayor’s daughter participates in show jumping. Elliot Siegel is afraid his daughter, who’s a front runner to win the Grand Prix, will be the Horse Ripper’s next victim and that he’ll strike some