It was mid-March and chilly; she was glad of the shawl. Not surprisingly, there were no others strolling in the still and frosty night. She glanced around, expecting to see Ruskin, perhaps indulging in a cigarillo, but the terrace, overhung with shadows, was empty. Walking to the balustrade, she surveyed the gardens. No Ruskin. Had he chosen to leave the soirée by this route?

She glanced down along the path that, from its direction, she assumed led to a gate giving onto the street.

A flash of movement caught her eye.

She peered, and glimpsed a man-sized shadow in the gloom beneath a huge tree beside the path. The tree was massive, the shadows beneath it dense, but she thought the man had just sat down. Perhaps there was a seat there, and Ruskin had gone to sit and smoke, or to think.

Of tomorrow night.

The idea had her stiffening her spine. Pulling her shawl tight, she descended the steps and set off along the path.

With every step Tony took along Park Street, his resistance to attending his godmother’s soirée and smiling and chatting and doing the pretty with a gaggle of young ladies with whom he had nothing in common—and who, if they knew the man he truly was, would probably faint—waxed stronger. Indeed, his reluctance over the whole damn business was veering toward the despondent.

Not by the wildest, most exaggerated flight of fancy could he imagine being married to any of the young beauties thus far paraded before him. They were …too young. Too innocent, too untouched by life. He felt no connection with them whatsoever.

The fact that they—each and every one—would happily accept his suit if he chose to favor them, and think themselves blessed, raised definite questions as to their intelligence. He was not, had never been, an easy man; one look should tell any sane woman that. He would not be an easy husband. The position of his wife was one that would demand a great deal of its holder, an aspect of which the sweet young things seemed to have no inkling.

His wife…

Not so many years ago, the thought of searching for her would have had him laughing. He hadn’t imagined finding a wife was something that would unduly exercise him—when he needed to marry, the right lady would be there, miraculously waiting.

He hadn’t, then, appreciated just how important, how vital her role vis à vis himself would be.

Now he was faced with that anticipated need to marry—and an even greater need to find the right wife— but the right lady had thus far shown no inclination even to make an appearance. He had no idea what she might look like, or be like, what aspects of her character or personality would be the vital clue—the crucial elements in her that he needed.

He wanted a wife. The restlessness that seemed to enmesh his very soul left him in no doubt of that, but exactly what he wanted, let alone why…that was the point on which he’d run aground.

Identify the target. The first rule in planning any successful sortie.

Until he succeeded in satisfying that requirement, he couldn’t even start his campaign; the frustration irked, fueling his habitual impatience. Hunting a wife was ten times worse than hunting spies had ever been.

His footsteps echoed. Another, distant footfall sounded; his agent’s senses, still very much a part of him, flaring to full attention, he looked up.

Through the mist wreathing the street, he saw a man, well muffled in coat and hat and carrying a cane, step away from the garden gate of… Amery House. The man was too far away to recognize and walked quickly away in the opposite direction.

Tony’s godmother’s house stood at the corner of Park and Green Streets, facing Green Street. The garden gate opened to a path leading up to the drawing-room terrace.

By now the soirée would be in full swing. The thought of the feminine chatter, the high-pitched laughter, the giggles, the measuring glances of the matrons, the calculation in so many eyes, welled and pressed down on him.

On his left, the garden gate drew nearer. The temptation to take that route, to slip inside without any announcement, to mingle and quickly look over the field, then perhaps to retreat before even his godmother knew he was there, surfaced… and grew.

Closing his hand on the wrought-iron latch, he lifted it. The gate swung soundlessly open; passing through, he closed it quietly behind him. Through the silent garden, heavily shadowed by large and ancient trees, the sound of conversation and laughter drifted down to him.

Mentally girding his loins, he drew in a deep breath, then quickly climbed the steep flight of steps that led up to the level of the garden.

Through ingrained habit, he moved silently.

The woman crouching by the side of the man lying sprawled on his back, shoulders propped against the trunk of the largest tree in the garden, didn’t hear him.

The tableau exploded into Tony’s vision as he gained the top of the steps. Senses instantly alert, fully deployed, he paused.

Slim, svelte, gowned for the evening in silk, her dark hair piled high, with a silvery shawl wrapped about her shoulders and clutched tight with one hand, the lady slowly, very slowly, rose. In her other hand, she held a long, scalloped stilletto; streaks of blood beaded on the wicked blade.

She held the dagger by the hilt, loosely grasped between her fingers, pointing downward. She stared at the blade as if it were a snake.

A drop of dark liquid fell from the dagger’s point.

The lady shuddered.

Tony stepped forward, driven by an urge to take her in his arms; catching himself, he halted. Sensing his presence, she looked up.

A delicate, heart-shaped face, complexion as pale as snow, dark eyes wide with shock, looked blankly at him.

Then, with a visible effort, she gathered herself. “I think he’s dead.”

Her tone was flat; her voice shook. She was battling hysterics; he was thankful she was winning.

Tamping down that impulsive urge to soothe her, shield her, a ridiculously primitive feeling but unexpectedly powerful, he walked closer. Forcing his gaze from her, he scanned the body, then reached for the dagger. She surrendered it with a shudder, not just of shock but of revulsion.

“Where was it?” He kept his tone impersonal, businesslike. He crouched down, waited.

After an instant, she responded, “In his left side. It had fallen almost out…I didn’t realize…” Her voice started to rise, became thready, and died.

Stay calm. He willed the order at her; a cursory examination confirmed she was right on both counts. The man was dead; he’d been knifed very neatly, a single deadly thrust between the ribs from the back. “Who is he—do you know?”

“A Mr. Ruskin—William Ruskin.”

He glanced at her sharply. “You knew him.”

He hadn’t thought it possible, but her eyes widened even more. “No!”

Alicia caught her breath, closed her eyes, fought to summon her wits. “That is”—she opened her eyes again—“only to speak to. Socially. At the soirée…”

Waving back at the house, she dragged in a breath and rushed on, “I came out for some air. A headache… there was no one out here. I thought to wander…” Her gaze slid to Ruskin’s body. She gulped. “Then I found him.”

Ruskin had threatened her, her plan, her family’s future. He’d been blackmailing her—and now he was dead. His blood oozed in a black pool by his side, stained the dagger now in the stranger’s hand. It was a struggle to take everything in, to know even what she felt, let alone how best to react.

The unknown gentleman rose. “Did you see anyone leaving?”

She stared at him. “No.” She glanced around, suddenly aware of the deep silence of the gardens. Abruptly, she swung her gaze back to him.

Tony sensed her sudden thought, her rising panic. Was irritated by it. “No—I didn’t kill him.”

His tone reassured her; her sudden tenseness faded.

He glanced again at the corpse, then at her; he waved back up the path. “Come. We must go in and tell them.”

She blinked, but didn’t move.

He reached for her elbow. She permitted him to take it, let him turn her unresisting, and steer her back toward the terrace. She moved slowly, clearly still in shock. He glanced at her pale face, but the shadows revealed little. “Did Ruskin have a wife, do you know?”

She started; he felt the jerk through his hold on her arm. From beneath her lashes, she cast him a shocked glance. “No.” Her voice was tight, strained; she looked ahead. “No wife.”

If anything, she’d paled even more. He prayed she wouldn’t swoon, at least not before he got her inside. Appearing at his godmother’s soirée via the terrace doors with a lady senseless in his arms would create a stir even more intense than murder.

She started shaking as they went up the steps, but she clung to her composure with a grim determination he was experienced enough to admire.

The terrace doors were ajar; they walked into the drawing room without attracting any particular attention. Finally in good light, he looked down at her, studied her features, the straight, finely chiseled nose, lips a trifle too wide, yet full, lush and tempting. She was above average in height, her dark hair piled high in gleaming coils exposing the delicate curve of her nape and the fine bones of her shoulders.

Instinct quivered; deep within him, primitive emotion stirred. Sexual attraction was only part of it; again, the urge to draw her close, to keep her close, welled.

She looked up, met his gaze. Her eyes were more green than hazel, large and well set under arched brows; they were presently wide, their expression dazed, almost haunted.

Fortunately, she seemed in no danger of succumbing to the vapors. Spying a chair along the wall, he guided her to it; she sank down with relief. “I must speak with Lady Amery’s butler. If you’ll remain here, I’ll send a footman with a glass of water.”

Alicia lifted her eyes to his face. To his velvet black eyes, to the concern and the focus she sensed behind his expression, behind the masklike, chiseled, haughtily angular planes. His was the most strikingly attractive masculine face she’d ever seen; he was the most startlingly attractive man she’d ever met, elegant, graceful, and strong. It was his strength she was most aware of; when he’d taken her arm and walked beside her, her senses had drunk it in.

Looking up at him, into his eyes, she drew on that strength again, and felt the horror they’d left outside recede even further. The reality around them came into sharper focus; a glass of water, a moment to compose herself, and she’d manage. “If you would… thank you.”

That “thank-you” was for far more than the glass of water.

He bowed, then turned and headed across the room.

Suppressing an inner wrench, not just reluctance but real resistance to leaving her, Tony found a footman and dispatched him to revive her, then, ignoring the many who tried to catch his eye, he found Clusters, the Amerys’ butler, and pulled him into the library to explain the situation and give the necessary orders.

He’d been visiting Amery House since he’d been six months old; the staff knew him well. They acted on his orders, summoning his lordship from the cardroom and her ladyship from the drawing room, and sending a footman running for the Watch.

He wasn’t entirely surprised by the ensuing circus; his godmother was French, after all, and in this instance she was ably supported by the Watch captain, a supercilious sort who saw difficulties where none existed. Having taken the man’s measure with one glance, Tony omitted mentioning the lady’s presence. There was, in his view, no reason to expose her to further and unnecessary trauma; given the dead man’s size and the way she’d held the dagger, it was difficult if not impossible to convincingly cast her as the killer.

The man he’d seen leaving the grounds via the garden gate was much more likely to have done the deed.

Besides, he didn’t know the lady’s name.

That thought was uppermost in his mind when, finally free of the responsibility of finding a murdered man, he returned to the drawing room and discovered her gone. She wasn’t where he’d left her; he scouted the rooms, but she was no longer among the guests.

The crowd had thinned appreciably. No doubt she’d been with others, perhaps a husband, and they’d had to leave….

The possibility put a rein on his thoughts, dampened his enthusiasm. Extricating himself from the coils of a particularly tenacious matron with two daughters to marry off, he stepped into the hall and headed for the front door.