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Eames enjoys undercover work more than he reasonably should. Detective work, sure, but the real fun is in donning suits and hats and personas of people he invents for more than just a false identity. In each of his roles, a part of him lays, and he would have it no other way.
Especially tonight, when he is Jameson, rich and upstanding, an empire built on railways, monocle at his eye as he mingles through a party among whom there is a murderer. What fun. A dainty woman asks him if he'd like to join the forray of people dancing, and were the situation slightly less dire- no, were Jameson's left thigh not ailing him, he may have accepted.
He ponders the feeling of a soft beauty like her under his palms, and then his pondering is interrupted by a fiercer beauty that presses close to his body with nary more than a smirk and a dip of a smart grey trillby. Jameson says nothing, for he is a man of fewer words than Eames, but he dances; how can he not?
The man in his arms says nothing either, and his intrigue only grows. He doesn't fail to note the slight indent of a holster in the man's side when he twists, and avoids echoing the twist lest he reveal his own. So caught up is he, in the romance of Jameson and the stranger, that he doesn't see the approach of a stranger until they are behind his newfound beloved, gun nearing his temple.
The man notices Jameson's distraction, and hastily, perhaps too hastily, he beseeches him, "Don't look back, sugar."
His soft brown eyes widen under the brim of his hat and if Eames weren't distracted by the gunshot, he may have let Jameson drown in them.