He felt no remorse for having used the three boys; they’d come to no harm, and he’d learned what he needed. Now he had to interrogate their elder sister. Again.

“Time for your afternoon lessons, boys. Come along, now.” Alicia stood, waving her brothers to their feet.

They rose, casting glances at Tony; knowing on which side his bread was buttered, he gave them no encouragement to defy their sister, but rose, too, and gravely shook hands.

With resigned polite farewells, the boys trooped out; Alicia followed them into the hall, consigning them into Jenkins’s care.

Seizing the moment, Tony turned to Adriana.

She’d risen, too, and now smiled. “I believe you’re acquainted with Lord Manningham, my lord.”

“Yes. He’s an old friend.”

Amusement flashed through her brown eyes, suggesting Geoffrey had painted their association with greater color.

He didn’t have much time. “I wanted to speak with you. Your sister will have mentioned the matter of Mr. Ruskin.” Adriana’s face immediately clouded; like Alicia, she possessed little by way of a social mask. “I gather you hadn’t met him in the country.”

“No.” Adriana met his gaze; her eyes were clear, but troubled. “He appeared a week or so after we arrived in town. We only met him a handful of times in the ballrooms, never anywhere else.”

She hesitated, then added, “He was not a man either of us could like. He was…oh, what is the word…‘importuning’. That’s it. He hovered about Alicia even though she discouraged him.”

From her expression, it was clear that while Alicia was mother lion, Adriana would be fierce in her sister’s defense. He inclined his head. “It’s perhaps as well, then, that he’s gone.”

Adriana muttered a guiltily fervent assent.

Alicia reentered; he turned to her and smiled. “Thank you for an entertaining afternoon.”

Her look said she wasn’t sure how to interpret that. He took his leave of Adriana, then, as he’d hoped, Alicia accompanied him to the door.

Following him into the hall, she shut the parlor door. He glanced about; fate had smiled—they were alone.

He gave her no time to regroup, but struck immediately. “Ruskin lived at Bledington, close to Chipping Norton. Are you sure you never met him in the country?”

She blinked at him. “Yes—I told you. We only met recently, socially in London.” Her eyes, searching his, suddenly widened. “Oh, was he a friend of your friend? The one you mentioned?”

He held her gaze; he could detect not the slightest hint of prevarication in the clear green, only puzzlement, and a hint of concern. “No,” he eventually said. “Ruskin’s friends are no friends of mine.”

The reply, especially his tone, further confused her.

“I understand he’d been bothering you—in what way?”

She frowned, clearly wishing he hadn’t known to ask; when he simply waited, she lifted her head and stiffly stated, “He was…attracted.”

He kept his eyes on hers. “And you?”

Irritation flashed in her eyes. “I was not.”

He felt his lips ease. “I see.”

They remained, gazes locked, for two heartbeats, then he reached out and took her hand. Still holding her gaze, he raised her fingers to his lips. Kissed, and felt the tremor that raced through her. Watched her eyes widen, darken.

She drew in a quick breath, tensed to step back.

He reacted. Tightening his grip on her fingers, he drew her nearer. Bent his head and touched his lips to hers in the lightest, most fleeting kiss.

Just a brushing of lips, more promise than caress.

He intended it to be that, not a real kiss but a tantalizing temptation.

Raising his head, he watched her lids rise, saw surprise, shock, and curiosity fill her eyes. Then she realized, stiffened, drew back.

Releasing her, he caught her gaze. “I meant what I said. I truly enjoyed the afternoon.”

He wondered if she understood what he was saying.

Before she could question him—before he could be tempted to say or do anything more—he bowed and turned to the door.

She saw him out and shut the door.

Gaining the pavement, he paused, letting the last moments fade from his mind, turning instead to running through all he’d learned thus far.

His instincts were pricking. Something was afoot, but just what he’d yet to divine. Turning on his heel, he headed for home and his library. There was a great deal he had to digest.




FOUR

HE SPENT THE REST OF THAT DAY AND THE ENTIRE EVENING analyzing all he’d retrieved from Ruskin’s office and lodgings. Ruskin’s scribbled notes and the receipts of his debts appeared to be the only clues, the only items warranting further investigation.

After assembling a schedule of the dates on which the debts, in groups, had been paid, along with the sums involved, Tony called it a night. At least working for Dalziel gave him an excuse not to attend the ton’s balls.

The next day, just after noon, he girded his loins and dutifully presented himself at Amery House for one of his godmother’s at-homes, to which he’d been summoned. He knew better than to ignore the dictate. Strolling into her drawing room, he bowed over her hand, resignedly noting he was one of only four gentlemen present.

Felicité beamed up at him. “Bon! You will please me and your maman by talking and paying attention to the demoiselles here, will you not?”

Despite the words, there was an ingenuous appeal in her eyes. He felt his lips quirk. Hand over heart, he declared, “I live to serve.”

She only just managed to suppress a snort. She rapped his knuckles with her fan, then used it to gesture to the knots of young ladies gathered by the windows. “Viens!” She shooed. “Go—go!”

He went.

It was a cynical exercise; none of the young things to whom the matrons prayed he’d fall victim had any chance of fixing his interest. Why they thought he might be susceptible escaped him, but he behaved as required, pausing by first one group, then another, chatting easily before moving on. He did not remain by any lady’s side for long; no one could accuse him of being the least encouraging.

He’d scanned the room on entering; Alicia Carrington had not been present. As he moved from group to group, he resurveyed the guests, but she didn’t appear.

While moving to the fifth knot of conversationalists, he caught Felicité’s eye, noted her puzzled expression. Realized he was giving the impression he was searching for someone, waiting for someone.

Mentally shrugging, he strolled on.

He was with the sixth group, inwardly debating whether he’d dallied long enough, when he heard two matrons standing a little apart exchanging the latest gossip—the items they considered too titillating for their charges’ delicate ears.

His instincts flickered; he’d noticed there was some flutter—some piece of avid interest—doing the rounds among the older ladies.

The two biddies a yard behind him put their heads together and lowered their voices, but his hearing was acute.

“I had it this morning from Celia Chiswick. We met at Lady Montacute’s morning tea. You’ve heard about that fellow Ruskin being murdered—stabbed—just along the path there?”

From the corner of his eye, Tony saw the lady point into the garden.

“Well! It seems he was blackmailing some lady—a widow.”

“No! Who?”

“Well, of course no one knows, do they?”

“But someone must have some idea, surely.”

“One hardly likes to speculate, but… you do know who he was speaking with just before he left this room and walked to his death, don’t you?”

“No.” The second woman’s voice dropped to a strained whisper. “Who was it?”

Tony shifted and saw the first lady lean close to her companion and whisper the answer in her ear.

The second lady’s eyes widened; her jaw dropped. Then she looked at the first. “No! Truly?”

Lips thinning, the first lady nodded.

The second flicked open her fan and waved it. “Great heavens! And she with that ravishing sister of hers in tow. Well!”

Tony fought to keep his expression from hardening, from revealing anything of the maelstrom of emotions that rose up and buffeted his mind—and him. Inwardly grim, he spent a few more minutes with the sweet young things, then excused himself and headed for the door.

Only to have Felicité step into his path. “You’re not leaving so soon?” She put a hand on his arm; immediately concern flared in her eyes. She lowered her voice. “What is it?”

He hesitated, then said, “I’m engaged on some business. I have to go.”

Her concern only deepened. “I thought you’d finished with such things.”

His short laugh was harsh. “So did I. But not yet.” He eased her hand from his sleeve and bowed over it. “I must go—there’s someone I have to see.”

Her gaze had flicked to where he’d been, then to the garden. He could see the connections forming in her mind. He stepped away.

She looked back at him. “If you must go, you must, but take care. And you must tell me later.”

With a curt nod, he left. For once, he didn’t stop to consider his plan.

Alicia strolled the clipped lawns of the park in the wake of Adriana and her swains. A morning promenade was becoming a regular event in their schedule. The gentlemen preferred the less-structured, less-cramped encounters such a stroll allowed; it gave them more time to worship at her sister’s feet unfettered by any need to pay attention to any other young lady.

She’d countered that by inviting Miss Tiverton to walk with them. Adriana now strolled beside that young lady while five perfectly eligible gentlemen vied for their attention.

The most prominent, and most assiduous, was Lord Manningham. Alicia studied the undeniably attractive figure he cut in his morning coat, pale, tightly fitting breeches, and black Hessians. His address was polished without being oversmooth, his features were handsome rather than beautiful.

He was turning Adriana’s head, and her sister knew it.

It was time, perhaps, to learn more of Geoffrey Manningham.

Especially as he was apparently a friend of Lord Torrington’s. He who had almost-kissed her, who without provocation let alone permission had deliberately teased her in her own front hall.

The moment flared in her mind; her nerves tensed…

Ruthlessly, she bundled the memory aside—he probably did such things all the time. She refocused on Adriana and her court. Adjusting her parasol, she strolled on.

She had no warning, no premonition of danger, until she heard herself hailed in a voice that cut like a whip.

She whirled, but Torrington was already upon her. Hard fingers closing manacle-like about her elbow, he swung her around and marched her down the lawn, away from the carriageway.

“What—?” She tried to free her arm, but couldn’t. She glared at him. “Unhand me, sir!”

He ignored her. He strode on, forcing her with him; she either had to keep up, or stumble and fall. His face was set like stone, his expression unforgivingly grim. Thunderclouds would have looked more comforting.

She glanced back at the others, strolling on unaware. “Stop! I have to watch over my sister.”

He glanced briefly at her—too briefly for her to read his eyes—then lifted his gaze and looked back at the others. “She’s with Manningham. She’s safe.” Looking forward, he growled, “You aren’t.”

He’d lost his senses. She tugged against his hold, then dragged in a breath. “If you don’t stop this instant and let me go—”

Abruptly, he did both. She’d been strolling along the periphery of the fashionable throng; they were now in an area where no others were walking. They were out of earshot of everyone, too far from the carriageway for any to discern even the tenor of their exchange.

On top of that, he stood squarely between her and the rest of the ton. Cutting her off from the world. Stunned, she raised her eyes to his face.

His black gaze impaled her. “What was Ruskin blackmailing you about?”

She blinked; her eyes grew wide. The world lurched and fell away. “Wh—what?”

He gritted his teeth. “Ruskin was blackmailing you. About what?” His eyes narrowed to obsidian shards. “What was the hold he had over you?”

When she didn’t answer, couldn’t get her wits to stop whirling quickly enough—dear God, how had he found out?—his jaw set even harder. From the corner of her eye, she saw his hands clench; locking eyes, she sensed he wanted to seize her, shake her, but was exercising quite amazing restraint.