“Was. He. Blackmailing you?”

The words were uttered with such force they dragged the answer from her. “Yes—no! That is…” She stopped.

“Which?” He took a half step nearer, towering over her, menacing, intimidating. Aggression poured from him.

And ignited her temper. She straightened to her full height, tipped back her head, met his piercing black gaze. “Whichever, it is no concern of yours.”

“Think again.”

The low growl skittered over her nerves; she dug her heels in even deeper. “I beg your pardon?” Outraged, she held his gaze, absolutely determined not to quail. “You, my lord, are skating on thin ice. Don’t think to browbeat me!”

For an instant, they stood, all but toe to toe, certainly will against will, then, to her surprise and immense relief, he eased back. Reined in the sheer male power that beat against her senses.

Yet he didn’t shift back; his eyes didn’t leave hers. When he spoke, his tone was dark, definite, but harnessed, fractionally more civilized.

“I’ve been asked to investigate Ruskin’s death. I want to know what your connection with him was.”

She stared. “Why? Who—?”

“Just answer the question. What was your connection with Ruskin?”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “We didn’t have any—I told you!”

“Yet he was blackmailing you.”

“No—at least, not in the way you mean.”

He opened his eyes wide. “What other way is there?”

She had to reply; there was clearly no option. “It wasn’t about money. He wanted me to marry him.”

He blinked. His tone lost a little of it sureness. “He was blackmailing you to marry him?”

Lips tight, she nodded. “He…offered me a carte blanche. I refused, and he offered marriage. When I refused that… he thought to pressure me into agreeing.”

“With what?”

She searched his eyes; his demand was precise, implacable. Who was he?—she didn’t really know. “He’d learned something about us—about me—that if it became common knowledge, would make establishing Adriana…very difficult. It’s nothing nefarious or terrible, but you know what the gossipmongers are like.”

“Indeed.” The word was clipped, imbued with meaning. “You spoke with him immediately before he left Lady Amery’s drawing room. I want to know what was said, and exactly what happened to result in you going into the garden and finding his body.”

Whoever he was, he knew far too much. The thought chilled her. He also knew how to interrogate; even restrained, there was a threat in his manner—avoiding his questions wasn’t going to be possible. She had absolutely no doubt his claim of being asked to investigate was true.

“I…” Her mind slid back to that moment in the drawing room, when Ruskin had threatened to pull the rug from under their future. “As I said, I’d declined his offer of marriage. That evening, he came up and requested a private interview. I refused—I was watching Adriana. He insisted, so we retreated to the side of the room. He told me he lived near Bledington, and had seen us last Christmas, in the square at Chipping Norton.”

She refocused on the black eyes fixed so intently on her face. “He’d seen us—we hadn’t seen or met him. Not then. Only after we came to London.”

“What was it he knew of you?”

Feeling compelled to keep her eyes on his, she considered, eventually moistened her lips. “It’s not anything to do with his death. It can’t be. It doesn’t concern anyone but me.”

Tony held her gaze for a full minute; she didn’t waver, didn’t offer anything more. She was no longer so defiant, but on that one point intractable; she wasn’t going to tell him. He forced himself to look away, over her head, forced himself to take a deep breath and think. Eventually, he looked down at her. “Does anyone else in London know of this thing that Ruskin knew?”

She blinked, thought. “No.” Her voice strengthened. “No one.”

He digested that, accepted it. “So he propositioned you—threatened you with exposure.” He forced himself to say the words, ignoring the violence the thought evoked. “What then?”

“I asked for time, and he agreed to twenty-four hours. He said he’d call on me the next evening.” Remembered horror flitted through her eyes; he wondered what she wasn’t telling him. “Then he walked away.”

When she said nothing more, he prompted, “What then?”

“I was upset.” She seemed not to notice the hand she raised to her throat. “I asked for a glass of water, sat, then I started to think again, and realized he…that it might be possible to buy him off. I stood and saw him slip out of the terrace doors. I decided to follow and speak with him—at least convince him to give me more time.”

Remembered fear tinged her voice. Swallowing an oath, he suppressed the urge to haul her into his arms; she’d probably struggle. “So you followed him out?”

She nodded. “But first I crossed the room to Adriana. I told her where I was going.”

“Then you went onto the terrace?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t there. It was chilly—I looked around and saw movement beneath that huge tree. I assumed it was he, so I went down. Then I found him…” She paused. “You know the rest.”

“Did you see anyone else go out on the terrace before you did—or before Ruskin did?”

“No. But I wasn’t watching the doors.”

Regardless, it was unlikely a gentleman wearing a coat and hat would leave Amery House via the drawing room and the terrace doors. Fitting her information with his, it seemed clear what had happened.

She’d taken advantage of his silence to regroup.

He met her gaze. “I take it Ruskin made no mention of going to meet anyone.”

“No. Why? Oh…I suppose he must have met someone.”

“He did. As I came up Park Street, I saw a gentleman in a coat and hat leave by the garden gate. He was too far away for me to identify, but he definitely came out of that gate. Allowing time for you to walk to the tree, and for me to walk to the gate, it must have been he—that man— you saw moving beneath the tree.”

She paled. Looked at him, stared at him. After a long moment, she asked, “Who are you?”

He let two heartbeats pass, then replied, “You know my name.”

“I know I have only your word that there was another man, that it wasn’t you who stabbed Ruskin.”

The accusation pricked; holding her gaze, he softly said, “You might want to consider that I’m all that stands between you and a charge of murder.”

The instant he uttered the words, he wished them unsaid.

Her head snapped up. She stepped back. “I do not understand what right you have to question me—interrogate me—or my family.” Her eyes blazed; her tone was scathing. “In future, please leave us alone.”

She turned.

He caught her hand. “Alicia—”

She swung on him; fury lit her eyes. “Don’t presume to call me that! I have not given you leave—and I won’t.” She looked down at his fingers circling her wrist. “Please release me immediately.”

He had to force his fingers to do it, to slide from her skin; she snatched her hand away, backed two steps, watching him—as if she suddenly saw him for what he truly was.

Her eyes had widened; for an instant, he glimpsed a vulnerability he couldn’t place.

Alicia fought to subdue the emotions roiling inside her. Her stomach was knotted, her lungs tight. He’d played with her brothers, interrogated them and Adriana, flirted quite deliberately with her. All because… and she’d thought he was honest, that he was trustworthy, genuine…how foolish she’d been.

When he said nothing, she dragged in a breath. “I’ve told you all I know. Please”—for the first time, her voice quavered—“don’t come near me again.”

With that, she whirled and walked quickly away.

Tony watched her go. Then he swore comprehensively in French and strode off in the opposite direction.

He hailed a hackney and headed into the city. Resting his head against the squabs, he closed his eyes and concentrated on getting his temper under control and his thoughts straight; it had been years since they’d been so tangled.

He’d stalked into the park furious with her for concealing from him such a potentially dangerous connection. Not because that concealment interfered with his investigation, but purely because the damned woman hadn’t availed herself of his abilities—his protection.

Because she deliberately hadn’t trusted him.

Stalking out of the park, he’d been furious with himself. She’d questioned who he was, his integrity, and he’d reacted by taking a high hand, which any fool could have predicted would fail miserably—in his case, spectacularly.

He hadn’t meant it to sound as it had, hadn’t in the least meant to threaten her.

Eyes still closed, he sighed. In thirteen years of operations, he’d never let his personal life interfere with his duty. Now the two were inextricably entwined. She hadn’t killed Ruskin, but courtesy of whoever had started the rumors, she was now involved. Worse, he had a nasty suspicion that the person who had started the rumors would prove to be Ruskin’s killer. If threatened, he might kill again.

He spent the rest of the day in the city, using his erstwhile talents to gain access to Ruskin’s banking records. A combination of suggestion and implied threat, together with his title and the supercilious arrogance he’d learned long ago worked so well with those whose status depended on patronage, got him what he wanted.

His first stop was Daviot & Sons, the bank Ruskin had favored, exclusively as far as the notes in his rooms went. Ten minutes, and he’d gained access to all documents relating to Ruskin’s dealings. The records revealed no major sums credited to Ruskin’s account, only a trickle of income the bank verified came from Gloucestershire, believed to be derived from Ruskin’s estate. There were no large deposits, nor any large withdrawals. Wherever the wealth Ruskin had used to pay off his considerable debts hailed from, it had not passed through the hands of the Messrs Daviot.

He proceeded to check all the likely banks; they were located in close proximity, scattered about the Bank of England and the Corn Exchange. Using his success at Daviots to pave the way, he encountered no resistance; by afternoon’s end, he’d established that the city’s legitimate financiers had not facilitated the flow of pounds to Ruskin’s gaming acquaintances.

Hailing a hackney, he headed back to Mayfair. On the evidence of Ruskin’s IOUs, the man had been not only a poor gambler but an addicted one. He’d lost steadily for years, yet there was no indication of any panic in his dealings. He’d paid off every debt regularly…

Muttering a curse, Tony tapped on the roof; when the jarvey inquired his pleasure, he replied, “Bury Street— Number 23.”

There had to be—had to be—some record somewhere. Ruskin was a clerk by nature; the contents of his desks, both in his office and his rooms, testified to his compulsive neatness. He’d even kept those old IOUs in chronological order.

The hackney halted in Bury Street; Tony swung down to the pavement, tossed a coin to the jarvey, and strode quickly up the steps of Number 23. This time, an old man let him in.

“I’m from Customs and Revenue—I have to check Mr. Ruskin’s rooms for something I might have missed when I checked yesterday.”

“Oh, aye.” The old man stood back. “You’ll know the way, then.”

“Indeed. I have his key. I’ll be a few minutes—I can see myself out.”

The old man merely nodded and shuffled back into the downstairs front room. Tony climbed the stairs.

Once in Ruskin’s rooms with the door shut and re-locked, he stood in the center of the rug and looked around. He imagined himself in Ruskin’s shoes; assuming he’d kept a record of his illicit dealings and had wanted to keep that record secret, where would he have hidden it?

The room was clean, neat, dusted; the furniture was polished and well cared for. Someone came in to clean. Whatever secret hole Ruskin had, it would be somewhere not likely to be found by a busy char woman.

Behind the solid skirting boards was unlikely; the cleared floor space, even under the rugs, would be too risky. Working as silently as he could, Tony shifted the heavy furniture and checked beneath and behind, but found only solid walls and solid floorboards, and dust.

Undeterred, he checked inside the small closet, shifting the items he’d searched before. He pressed, prodded, gently tapped, but there was no hint of any secret place. Next, he examined the door and window frames, searching for any crevice opening into a useful gap within the walls. There wasn’t one.