A Gentleman's Honor

FIFTEEN

THEY’D ANTICIPATED SOMETHING OF THE SORT, BUT Tony was nonetheless surprised and made uneasy by how swiftly the expected had arrived.

Jack demanded the number of Alicia’s house, then parted from him on the pavement outside the club, saying he’d meet him there. Together with Christian and Charles, Tony piled into a hackney; Tristan intended to join them, but just at that moment Leonora, his wife, emerged from the garden next door—her uncle’s house where she’d been visiting. She saw them, and instantly wanted to know what was going on.

Tristan stopped to talk to her; behind his back, he waved to them to go on without him. They did.

In Waverton Street, Tony jumped down from the hackney. Collier, masquerading as a street sweeper, was lounging on the railings close by the Carrington residence.

The heavily built man tipped his cap as Tony paused beside him. “Five redbreasts, m’lord. Never seen the like in all my born days—they pushed in like it was a thieves’ den. Pompous little sort leading from the rear.”

Tony murmured his thanks. “Keep watching.”

“Aye.” Collier eased upright. “I will that.”

Christian had paid off the hackney; he and Charles followed as, jaw set, Tony strode up the steps. He didn’t knock, but flung the front door wide and stalked in.

A young Runner standing before the drawing room door started, instinctively snapping to attention, then pausing, confusion in his face.

From the direction of the parlor, a stocky sergeant barreled forward, belligerence in every line. “Here, then! Who’d you think you are? You can’t just barge in ’ere.”

Tony reached into his coat pocket, and withdrew a card. “Viscount Torrington.” Face impassive, he handed the card to the sergeant, gestured to Christian and Charles. “The Marquess of Dearne and the Earl of Lostwithiel. Where are Mrs. Carrington and her family?”

The sergeant fingered the expensive card, tracing the embossed printing. “Ah…” His belligerence fled. He glanced at his junior barring the drawing-room door. “The inspector placed the lady and her household under guard, m’lord. Took ’em all into custody, like.”

“Your inspector seems to have overlooked the point that Mrs. Carrington is already in my custody, a fact of which the local office of the Watch is well aware.” Tony let his fury ripple beneath his words, subtly scathing.

Yielding to instinct, the sergeant came to attention, eyes fixed forward. “We’re not local, m’lord. We came directly from headquarters—Bow Street.”

“That’s no excuse. Who’s in charge here? What’s your inspector’s name?”

“Sprigs, m’lord.”

“Fetch him.” Tony caught the hapless sergeant’s eye.

“I’m going to check on Mrs. Carrington, to make sure neither she nor any member of her household has suffered any ill effects from your inspector’s reckless action. Your inspector better pray they haven’t. When I return here, I expect to find him waiting, along with every member of your force currently within this house. Is that clear?”

The sergeant swallowed. Nodded. “Yessir.”

Tony turned on his heel and made for the drawing-room door. The young Runner gave way, hurriedly stepping back. Tony opened the door; pausing, he scanned the room, then released the knob and walked in.

Relief flooded Alicia; she jumped up from the chaise and went quickly to meet Tony. Two other gentlemen followed him in; from their appearance and actions, they were friends. The one with black curling hair moved to intercept their guard, struggling out of the armchair he’d commandeered with a weak “Hey!”

Tony turned his head and looked at the man.

Suddenly the object of two unnerving gazes, he stopped, apparently paralyzed by caution.

She reached Tony; his gaze returned to her, searched her face. He took her hands, squeezed lightly. “Are you all right?”

His gaze had gone past her to the boys, Adriana, and all their staff gathered about the chaise.

“Yes.” She glanced back to see them all on their feet.

“Just a trifle shocked.” In truth, she was furious, still seething; the inspector’s insinuations had made her blood boil. Looking back at Tony, she lowered her voice. “Is this about the letters?”

He squeezed her fingers again; instead of answering— an answer in itself—he kept his attention on the others. “This is all a mistake—we’re here to sort it out. I want all of you to stay here quietly. There’s nothing to fear.”

Adriana nodded; forcing her lips to curve, she sat down again. The boys glanced at her, uncertain, then looked again at Tony.

He nodded. “Stay here with Adriana. Alicia and I will be back in a few minutes.” She was close enough to sense the tension that held him, yet he smiled with beguiling charm at her brothers. “I promise I’ll explain all later.”

The smile and that promise reassured them; with fleeting if brittle smiles, they went to cluster around Adriana.

Alicia noted the look Tony exchanged with Maggs, and more briefly with the new footman, Scully, both of whom had refused to be shifted from her and her family’s sides, then he took her arm and turned her to the door.

The other two gentlemen flanked them. Beside her, the larger smiled, as charming in his way as Tony, and half bowed. “Dearne. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carrington, even in such trying circumstances. Rest assured we’ll have this settled in short order.”

She bobbed a brief curtsy.

“Indeed,” the second gentleman said. He saluted her. “Lostwithiel, for my sins.” His grin was unrepentant. “We can deal with the introductions later.”

Tony shot him a glance as he opened the door.

They emerged into the front hall just as the inspector, a short, red-haired man of uncertain temper with an aggressive attitude and an abrasive tongue, came charging up from the direction of the parlor. “What the devil’s going on here?” The demand fell just short of a raging bellow.

Fixing on their company, his eyes momentarily widened, then he recovered. “Scrugs! Dammit, man— don’t you know better than to allow visitors in?”

He rounded on the sergeant, who held his ground. Scrugs nodded at Tony. “This here’s his lordship, what I told you about, sir. And the marquess and the earl.” There was enough emphasis in Scrugs’s tone to convey the fact that if his superior didn’t know when to back off, Scrugs certainly did.

“Inspector…Sprigs, is it?” The words were mild, Tony’s tone was not. It cut.

Sprigs swung to face him, glaring belligerently. “Aye. And I’ll have you know—”

“I assume you checked with the local Watch supervisor before barging onto his patch? Elcott, that would be.”

Sprigs blinked; faint wariness crept into his piggy eyes. “Aye, but—”

“I’m surprised Elcott didn’t inform you that Mrs. Carrington is already in my custody.”

Sprigs cleared his throat. “He did mention it—”

“Indeed?” Tony raised his brows. “And did he also happen to mention that my orders in this matter come from Whitehall?”

Sprigs drew himself up. “Be that as it may, my lord, the information we’ve received—’deed, the people we received it from—well, we couldn’t hardly ignore such, Whitehall or no.”

“What information?”

Sprigs pressed his lips together, glanced at Alicia, then ventured, “That Mrs. Carrington here had hired some villains to do away with this man Ruskin, on account of she was in league with the French. Word had it that if we searched this house thoroughly, we’d find evidence enough to prove it.”

“From whom did this information come?”

Again Sprigs hesitated; again the stretching silence forced him to answer. “Brought to us indirect, it was.” He saw Tony’s welling contempt and rushed on, “From the gentlemen’s clubs. Seems a number of the high-and-mighty heard the story—wanted to know what we were doing about it. Questions were asked. They even had the commissioner himself in to explain.”

Sprigs glanced at Charles and Christian, then looked at Tony. “It’s treason we’re talking about here. Don’t suppose toffs like you care all that much, but if you’d served in the recent wars—”

“I wouldn’t suppose quite so readily, Inspector.”

The voice, languid, even soft, chilled. Everyone looked toward the front door. They’d left it partially open. A gentleman stood just inside; he walked forward as they stared.

His dark eyes remained fixed on Sprigs. Alicia had grown used to Tony’s elegance—this man was equally impressive, moving with innate grace, slim, dark-haired, dressed in dark clothes that exuded that same austere style, a reflection of bone-deep confidence, of their assurance in who they were.

There was one difference. While Tony’s tones could cut, whiplike, this man’s voice projected a patently lethal threat, quietly efficient, like a scimitar slicing, unhindered, into flesh.

Suppressing a shiver, she glanced at Tony, then at his friends, and realized the newcomer was both known to them and accepted by them. An ally, definitely, yet she sensed he was someone around whom even they trod carefully.

Sprigs swallowed. He glanced at Tony. Behind him, the sergeant and his other two men were rigidly at attention.

“Dalziel.” The newcomer answered Sprigs’s unvoiced question. “From Whitehall.” He halted at Tony’s side and looked the unfortunate Sprigs in the eye. “I’ve already spoken with your superiors. You are to report back to Bow Street immediately, taking all your men, leaving this house in precisely the same state as it was when you, so unwisely, entered. You will not remove so much as a pin.”

He paused, then continued, “Your superiors have been somewhat forcefully reminded that, together with Lord Whitley, I am handling this matter, and that contrary to their suppositions, Bow Street’s mandate does not extend to countermanding or interfering with Whitehall’s actions.”

Sprigs, now all but at attention himself, nodded. “Yes, sir.” He sounded strangled.

Dalziel let a moment pass, then murmured, “You may go.”

They went with alacrity. At a nod from Sprigs, the junior stuck his head into the drawing room and summoned his companion; in short order, the five men from Bow Street were clattering down the steps, routed by a superior force.

All four gentlemen—Tony, Dalziel, Dearne, and Lostwithiel—stood in and about the front door and saw them off, watched them go. Trapped behind, screened from the sight by their broad shoulders, Alicia waited, somewhat impatiently. She knew the instant they all let down their guards.

Tony and Dearne visibly relaxed.

“Importunate devils,” Lostwithiel quipped.

“Indeed,” Dalziel replied.

They all started to turn inside—

Then paused.

Along with the others, Tony watched two carriages come clattering up, one from each end of the street. Both carriages pulled up before the house. The carriage doors swung open. Tristan sprang down from one carriage; from the other, Jack Hendon stepped down to the pavement. Both turned back to their respective carriages; each handed a lady down.

Kit, Jack’s wife, and Leonora, Tristan’s wife.

Barely pausing to shake out their skirts, both ladies swept toward the house—and saw each other. At the bottom of the steps, they met, exchanged names, shook hands, then, as one, turned and, beautiful faces decidedly set, swept up the steps.

On the pavement, Jack and Tristan exchanged long-suffering glances, and followed in their wakes.

All four men at the door gave way.

With barely a glance at them the ladies swept in. They saw Alicia, and pounced.

“Kit Hendon, my dear.” Taking Alicia’s hand, Kit waved toward Jack. “Jack’s wife. How terribly distressing for you.”

“Leonora Wemyss—I’m Trentham’s wife.” Leonora waved vaguely at her husband, too, and pressed Alicia’s hand. “Are your family quite all right?”

Alicia found a smile. “Yes—I believe so.” She gestured to the drawing room.

“It’s quite insupportable,” Kit declared. “We’ve come to help.”

“Indeed.” Leonora turned to the drawing room. “This is going to need action to set right.”

Together, the three entered the drawing room. The door shut behind them.

All six men in the front hall stared at the door, then glanced, briefly, at each other.

Dalziel sighed, pityingly or so they all took it, and turned to Tony. “I take it you have whatever Bow Street’s minions were sent to find?”

“Yes.” Succinctly, Tony described the letters, and how they fitted the scenario they now thought most likely, confirming that A. C. had used Ruskin’s information to arrange for merchantmen to be captured by the enemy.

At the end of his explanation, Dalziel, still and silent, stared out, unseeing, through the open door. Then, quietly, he said, “I want him.”

He glanced at Tony, then at the others. “I don’t care what you have to do—I want to know who A. C. is. As soon as possible. You have my full authority, and as for Whitley, suffice to say he’s ropeable. If you have need of his name, you have permission to use that, too.”

Briefly, he glanced at them again, then nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He walked to the door. On the threshold he paused, and looked back. At Tony. “Incidentally, the information against Mrs. Carrington—there’s no way to trace it. I’ve tried. Whoever this man is, he’s extremely well connected—he knew exactly in whose ears to plant his seeds. When asked, every concerned soul said they heard it from someone else. I’ll continue to keep my ears open, but don’t expect any breakthrough on that front.”

Tony inclined his head.

Dalziel left, going lightly down the steps, then striding away along the street.

The five men in the front hall remained where they were until his footsteps had faded, then all dragged in a breath and glanced at each other.

“I’m suddenly very grateful I only had to deal with Whitley,” Jack said.

“Indeed, you should be.” Tony stepped forward and shut the door.

Charles met Tony’s gaze as he rejoined them, then glanced at Christian and Tristan. “How did he know?”

Christian raised his brows, openly resigned. “I suspect he knows one of our staff at the club rather well, don’t you?”

“Our club?” Charles looked pained. After a moment, he shook his head. “I don’t even want to think about that.”

Tristan clapped him on the shoulder.

They turned to the drawing room. The door opened; Maggs, Scully, Jenkins, Cook, and Fitchett all slipped out, bobbing before disappearing through the green baize door.

With a glance, Tony halted Maggs. “Check the parlor—I doubt the good inspector’s men had time to put their mess right.”

Maggs nodded and headed down the corridor.

Tristan opened the drawing-room door and led the gentlemen in.

Kit and Leonora were seated in armchairs facing Alicia and Adriana on the chaise. All four heads were together; they glanced up as the men entered, but the comments that clearly hovered on their tongues had to wait—the three boys had been crowding around the front window; seeing Tony, they flung themselves at him.

“Are they gone?”

“What did they want?”

“Who was that man? The one who just left.”

Tony looked down into three pairs of hazel eyes, all very like Alicia’s. When he didn’t immediately reply, Matthew tugged at his sleeve.

“You promised to tell us.”

He smiled and hunkered down to be more on their level. “Yes, they’ve gone, and they won’t be coming back. They’d been given false information, and thought there were documents hidden here—those letters I found. That’s what they were searching for. And that man who just left was from the government—he came to tell them they’d made a big mistake, and that they weren’t to bother you or your sisters anymore.”

Three pairs of eyes searched his, then all three boys smiled.

“Good!” Harry said. “It might be exciting, but they weren’t nice.”

“And they worry Alicia and Adriana,” David whispered.

Both his younger brothers nodded solemnly.

Smiling, Tony rose, ruffling Matthew’s hair. “You’ll do.” He exchanged a fleeting glance with Alicia; with her eyes, she indicated upstairs. He looked back at the boys. “Now you’d better go and see if they searched your rooms.” He lowered his voice. “You could help Jenkins and Maggs make sure there’s nothing around to upset your sisters.”

The boys exchanged glances. Solemnly nodded again.

They looked at Alicia. “We’re going upstairs,” David said.

She smiled encouragingly. “You can come down for tea.”

Everyone waited while the three boys filed out and closed the door behind them.

“Thank heavens,” Kit said. She looked at the men, still standing in a loose gathering in the center of the room.

“Now! We need to move quickly on this. The damage has to be contained—better yet, turned around.”

Jack and Tristan strolled forward.

Tristan shrugged. “I don’t know that it’s all that serious.” He glanced at the other men. “I can’t see that A. C. is likely to gain much from this—”

“Not your investigation!” Leonora glared at him. “That isn’t what we’re concerned about.”

Tristan blinked at her. “What, then?”

“Why the potential social disaster, of course!”

They were right—that was the most urgent threat arising from Sprigs’s visit; this time, Bow Street had come calling in daylight, and there’d been considerable activity visible from the street. Luckily, their counterstrategy was easy to devise and quickly set in train. Aside from Alicia and Adriana, there were seven of them in the room; each had multiple contacts among the grandes dames, contacts they normally avoided, yet contacts who, in this instance, once they were apprised of the situation, were very ready to come to their collective aid.

By the time that evening’s entertainments commenced, all was in place, the cannons primed.

Tony, accompanied by Geoffrey, made privy to the latest developments, escorted the ravishing Mrs. Carrington and her even more ravishing sister to a formal dinner, followed by three major balls.

They’d barely entered the first ballroom, Lady Selwyn’s, when he overheard his godmother spreading the word.

“It is quite beyond the pale!” Lady Amery’s tones were hushed yet outraged. “This secretive gentleman seeks to manipulate us, those of the haut ton, with rumors and sly tricks, to make us turn on Mrs. Carrington and drive her from town so that her fleeing our wrath will appear an admission of guilt, and so confuse the authorities and hide his infamous deeds.”

Lady Amery twitched her shawl straight, both the action and her expression indicating absolute disgust. “It is beyond anything that a gentleman should seek to use us thus.”

Wide-eyed, the Countess of Hereford had been drinking in her eloquence. “So none of the rumors is true?”

“Pshaw!” Lady Amery flicked her fingers. “Nothing more than artful lies. The reason he has focused on Mrs. Carrington is purely because she had the ill fortune to be the last person poor Ruskin spoke with before going to his death—at this very man’s hands, no less! She was attending a soirée—I ask you, what is one supposed to do at a soirée if not talk to other guests? But now the devil seeks to deceive and deflect the authorities, and to use us to accomplish his evil ends.”

“How diabolical!” The countess looked shocked.

“Indeed.” Lady Amery nodded significantly. “You can see why we—those of us who know the truth—must be vigilant in ensuring these lies are quashed.”

“Unquestionably.” Transparently horrified, Lady Hereford laid a hand on Lady Amery’s arm. “Why, if the ton could be used so easily as an instrument of harm…”

Her thoughts were easy to follow: no one would be safe.

Lifting her head, the countess patted Lady Amery’s arm. “You may rest assured, Felicité, that I’ll correct any idle talk I hear.” She gathered her skirts. “Poor Mrs. Carrington—she must be quite prostrate.”

Lady Amery waved. “As to that, she is one of us and knows how to behave—she will be here this evening, I make no doubt, and with her head high.”

“I sincerely wish her well.” Lady Hereford stood. “And will do all I can to aid her and bring this dastardly plot to nought.”

With a regal nod, which Lady Amery graciously returned, Lady Hereford stepped into the crowd.

From where he’d halted, two paces behind the chaise where his godmother sat, Tony moved quickly forward, drawing Alicia, another fascinated observer, with him. Courtesy of the dense crowd, neither recent occupant of the chaise had noticed them. Now he rounded the chaise and bowed to his godmother, then bent and kissed her cheek.

“You were superb,” he murmured as he straightened.

Lady Amery humphed. “It’s hardly difficult to act outraged when I am.” She held out her hands to Alicia, and when she took them drew her down to the chaise. “But you, chérie—I vow it is unconscionable.” She looked at Tony. “You will find him soon, yes? And then this nonsense will be over.”

“There’s a crew of us pursuing him—we’ll unmask him, never fear.”

“Bon!” Lady Amery turned to Alicia. “And now you must tell me how that lovely sister of yours is faring. Has Geoffrey Manningham truly turned her head?”

Standing beside the chaise, Tony scanned the company. A number of senior hostesses had nodded pointedly their way, their acknowledgment marked and openly so. Others less prominent had stopped by to assure Alicia of their support. The tide was already turning.

He saw Leonora and Tristan arrive, and promptly start circulating. Deeming Lady Selwyn’s event well covered, he summoned Geoffrey and Adriana with a glance, and they moved on through the crowded streets to the next major event.

The Countess of Gosford’s ball was in full swing by the time they arrived. There, they met more hostesses, more grandes dames, all supportive. Lady Osbaldestone summoned them with an imperious wave of her cane; she gave them to understand that she hadn’t had so much fun in years, and fully intended to make “the blackguard’s” attempt to use the ton against Alicia a cause célèbre.

“A judgment of sorts on our malicious ways—we’d be fools not to see it.” Her black eyes locked on the golden green of Alicia’s, she nodded curtly. “So you needn’t think to thank us—any of us. Do us the world of good to realize we’ve created a system so amenable to such dastardly manipulation. Help keep us honest.” She grimaced.

“Well, more honest.”

Switching to Tony, she fixed him with a basilisk gaze. “And how long do you expect to take to lay this villain by the heels?”

“We’re doing all we can—some things take time.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Just as long as you don’t at the last seek to sweep this blackguard’s name under any rug.” Her expression was a warning. “Rest assured we—none of us—will stand for that.”

Tony smiled urbanely. “Rest assured,” he returned, “no matter who else might think otherwise, I won’t be a party to protecting him.”

His answer gave Lady Osbaldestone pause; she searched his face, then humphed, apparently appeased. “Very good. You may now take yourselves off. Indeed, I suggest a waltz—that ought to be one starting up now. Last thing you want to appear is too concerned to enjoy yourselves.”

Tony bowed; Alicia curtsied, and he led her away. To the dance floor.

She went into his arms readily. After three revolutions, his hand tightened on her back. She dutifully shifted her attention to his face.

“What is it?” There was a frown behind his eyes.

She smiled—more easily than she’d ever imagined she would be able to in such circumstances. “I just… find it all a trifle unreal. I’ve been transported Cinderella-like to an unimagined place. I never expected so many would so readily give me their support.” She blushed lightly. “For all that it’s you, and Kit and Leonora and the others asking the favor, it’s me they have to agree to back.”

His smile was slow, genuine and warming. “You take too little credit to yourself.” He looked up as they swept into the turn. “Consider this.” He drew her closer, bent his head so his words fell by her ear. “You’ve made few, if any, enemies—you and Adriana have been openly friendly, you’ve made many real friends over the last weeks. You’ve been pleasant companions; you’ve not sought to cut others out, nor to blacken anyone else’s name. You’ve not lent your standing to any less-than-admirable social thrust; you’ve avoided all scandal.”

He caught her eye as they whirled out of the tight turn. Lips curving, he raised a brow. “Indeed, you’re the epitome of a lady of whom society is pleased to approve— one of those the grandes dames delight in holding up as an example to others less adept, living proof of the type of lady they are happy to acknowledge.”

Except she wasn’t. She returned his smile lightly and looked over his shoulder as if accepting his description. Inside, the small kernel of disquiet that had been with her for weeks—ever since he’d first singled her out in some long-ago ballroom—grew, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it, not then.

After the waltz, she and Tony strolled the ballroom, eventually rejoining Geoffrey and Adriana; together, they left for their last port of call.

The Marchioness of Huntly was one of the ton’s foremost hostesses. When they arrived, Huntly House was ablaze with lights. A theme of white and gilt was repeated throughout the imposing reception rooms; the ballroom was festooned with white silk sprinkled with gilt stars and looped back with gold cords. The light from three brilliant chandeliers winked and glinted in the jewels circling ladies’ throats and encrusting the combs in their coiffures.

Born a Cynster, Lady Huntly had been watching for them; she swept forward to greet them, and strolled down the ballroom chatting amiably, then handed them into her sister-in-law’s care.

The Duchess of St. Ives positively glowed with social zeal. She smiled brilliantly at Alicia. “He is defeated, you see.” Irrepressibly French, she gestured about them. “Oh, it may take a day or so more to complete what we have begun, but there will be no repercussions. He will not succeed in using us in so cowardly a way to attack you, and thus hide his own infamy.”

Here, the company were the crème de la crème; only those accepted into the most rarefied of tonnish circles were present. The duchess remained with them for some time, introducing them to numerous others. Her generosity and determination added to the weight bearing down on Alicia’s conscience.

Then a waltz started up, and Tony swept her onto the floor and into an interlude of pleasant distraction. She knew better than to think of the nebulous worry dogging her, not while in his arms; he was guaranteed to notice, and question, then interrogate further, and that she was not ready for.

So she laughed and smiled at his witticisms, eventually insisting he return her to Adriana’s side. They joined her sister’s circle. Although in this venue the attractions of those who had gravitated into Adriana’s orbit was exceptional, it was clear, at least to Alicia, that her sister’s decision to lean on Geoffrey Manningham’s arm was not affected in the remotest degree.

Inwardly sighing, she made a mental note to arrange to speak with Geoffrey soon, to explain their financial state. Oddly, the prospect did not fill her with the dread she’d once thought it would.

Brows faintly rising, she realized she now knew Geoffrey too well to imagine mere money, or even their scheme, would weigh overmuch with him. His devotion to Adriana had remained unwaveringly constant throughout the weeks; indeed, it had only strengthened and grown. Adriana, at least, would achieve the goal they’d aimed for.

Her thoughts turned to herself; feeling a stir beside her, she abruptly pushed them aside, away, and turned.

“My dear Mrs. Carrington.” Sir Freddie Caudel bowed and shook the hand she offered. He glanced around, then met her gaze. He lowered his voice. “I can’t tell you how distressed I am to have learned of the problem besetting you.”

Alicia blinked; the phrasing sounded rather strange, but Sir Freddie was one of the old school, somewhat formal in his ways.

“However, it seems the ladies of the ton have rallied to your cause—you must be grateful to have gained the support of such champions.”

She’d learned that many gentlemen disapproved of the social power the grandes dames wielded; the edge to Sir Freddie’s words suggested he was one. “Indeed,” she replied, calmly serene. “I can’t tell you what a relief it’s been. The ladies have been so kind.”

He inclined his head, looking away over the crowd. “It’s to be hoped this man will be identified soon. Is there any information as to who the blackguard is?”

She hesitated, then murmured, “There are a number of avenues of investigation in hand, I believe. Lord Torrington could tell you more.”

Sir Freddie glanced at Tony, on her other side, presently engaged with Miss Pontefract. Sir Freddie’s lips curved lightly. “I don’t believe I’ll disturb him—it was purely an idle question.”

Alicia smiled and turned the conversation to the latest play, which she hoped to see during the next week. Sir Freddie remained for several minutes, urbanely chatting, then he excused himself and moved to Adriana’s side.

Turning back to Tony, Alicia saw he’d been tracking Sir Freddie. She raised her brows quizzically.

“Has he spoken—or even hinted—yet?”

“No—and don’t speak of it. I’m hoping not to tempt fate.” On a spurt of decision, she made a silent vow to speak with Geoffrey as soon as possible. There was no need to put Sir Freddie to the trouble of asking for Adriana’s hand—no need for her to have to face the ordeal of politely refusing him.

To her relief, the evening rolled on in pleasant vein. Nothing of any great note occurred, no difficult situation arose to challenge her, or them. The small hours of the morning saw them heading back to Waverton Street, tired but content with the way their plans had gone. Geoffrey parted from them at their door. Tony accompanied them in, ultimately accompanying her up the stairs to her bedchamber, and her bed.

Tony shrugged off his coat, dropped it on the chair, felt very much as if he was shedding some physical restraint along with his social facade.

I don’t like this. No more do I.

Charles’s words, his answer. A statement that grew more accurate with each passing day. Despite his erstwhile occupation, its shadowy nature and often nebulous threats, he and his colleagues had always, ultimately, dealt with foes face-to-face. Once the engagement had commenced, they’d always known the enemy.

Never had he had to cope with a situation like this. The action had commenced with Ruskin’s murder; subsequent acts, strikes at their side, had been mounted and executed with impunity, causing damage and difficulty in their camp. A. C. had forced them to respond, to deploy to meet his threats and the actions he’d unleashed, yet even though they’d managed thus far to weather all he’d thrown at them, they’d yet to sight his face.

An unknown enemy, with unassessed capabilities, made the battle that much harder to win.

Yet it was a battle he could not lose.

Glancing across the darkened room, he watched Alicia, sitting at her dressing table, brush out her long hair.

He couldn’t even contemplate conceding a minor skirmish; there was too much here that was now too precious to him.

Yanking his shirt from his waistband, he looked down, started sliding buttons free. Beneath the loosening linen, he shifted his shoulders, aware of muscles subtly easing in one way, tensing in another. A primitive want welling as the civilized screen fell.

I want him.

Dalziel’s tone had been lethal, yet no more than an echo of his own resolve. Whatever it took, he would find A. C. and ensure he was brought to justice. The villain had focused on Alicia, struck at her not once but multiple times; for him, there could be no rest until A. C. was caught.

Yet they did not, after weeks of searching, even know his name.

He shrugged off his shirt and felt the last shreds of social restraint fall from him. For a long moment, he stood, his shirt bunched in his hands, staring unseeing at the floor, inwardly watching the volcano of his emotions surge and swell.

The scraping of wood on wood snapped him out of his state. Alicia stood, pushing back her dressing stool.

He dropped his shirt on the chair; unbidden, he padded barefoot across the room to help with her laces.

She glanced at his face, then gave him her back. He could feel his need building; rapidly, with far less than his customary languid sophistication, he unpicked the knots, hooked the laces free.

He glanced up, met her gaze in the mirror.

Saw that she’d sensed the change in him.

She searched his face, then looked down.

Normally, he would have stepped back, given her space to remove her gown…he didn’t move.

Nor did she. Instead, she looked up, again met his eyes.

Her gaze was direct, questioning, waiting.

He dragged in a slow, deep breath, and reached for her.

Stripped the gown from her, let it and her chemise pool about her feet. Murmured darkly as he stepped close and wrapped his arms about her, locking her silken back to his bare chest, spreading his hands and claiming her glorious bounty. He shifted evocatively against her. Bending his head, he whispered, half in French, half in English, asking her to put her foot on the stool and remove her ruched garters and silk stockings.

Her breath shuddered as she breathed in, and complied.

While she did…he let his hands roam. Let them take and claim as his need willed, set his senses free to wallow and seize all she surrendered to him, would surrender to him, in that moment, and the moments to come.

One arm crossing her body, his palm covering one breast, fingers evocatively kneading, with his other hand, he lightly gripped her nape; as she bent forward to roll the first garter and stocking down, he traced her supple spine, possessively stroking down, over the back of her waist, through the indentation below it, smoothly stroking over the swell of her bottom, down and around to caress the soft, slickly swollen flesh between her thighs.

With one foot on the stool, she was open to him. He parted the soft folds and found her, flagrantly caressed, then worked two fingers deep.

By the time she’d paused, gathered herself, changed legs, when she finally dropped the second stocking to the floor, Alicia was hot, wet and quivering with need.

Her foot still on the stool, her body riding the repetitive probing of his fingers, she looked into the mirror, from under heavy lids met his gaze.

Breasts swollen and full, peaks tight and aching, her skin heated, her breathing already ragged, she waited.

Withdrawing his hand, he grasped her waist; the instant she straightened and her foot touched the floor, he turned her.

She’d expected something else. Instead, he stepped back, drawing her with him, with one hand unbuttoning the flap of his trousers, the only clothing he still wore.

The backs of his thighs hit the bed. He paused only to free his fully engorged staff from the folds of his trousers, then he lifted her. Ignoring her smothered gasp, he sat and brought her slowly down, setting her on her knees astride his hips.

With the broad head of his staff nudging into her body.

She could feel him there, throbbing, sense the promise of all that was to come. The hot, aching emptiness within her swelled.

She looked into his face, into his black, fathomless eyes. Raising her hands, she framed his face as his hands closed hard about her hips. Under mutual direction, their lips met. Clung, held.

Beneath his control she sensed all he held back, sensed the power, the desperate need.

She shifted fractionally on him. He caught his breath, broke from the kiss. Screened by their lashes, their eyes met.

He whispered against her lips, his breath a hot flame. “Take me. Give yourself to me.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Be mine.”

Gravelly, rough, another seduction, a dark temptation to a deeper level of giving.

She didn’t hesitate. Drawing in a breath, tightening her hands about his face to anchor her, she angled her head, set her lips to his, and slowly eased down.

Inch by slow inch, she took him inside her, gloried in the feel of him filling her, stretching her. She’d never before been so aware of how her body closed about him, enclasped him. Took him in.

His hands were hard as iron about her hips as he ruthlessly guided her down; he let her set the pace only until he was fully seated within her, then he took the reins, took control, and the giving began.

Hard, hot, and complete.

Without restrictions, limits, or reservations.

Their bodies merged deeply, compulsively riding a wave of sensual desire higher than any before, a tide of need more desperately urgent, more powerful. More addictive.

Their tongues tangled, their mouths feeding in frenzy. He took her as he would, seizing and claiming every sense she possessed, demanding more even as she gave him all.

In the end, on a gasp, she surrendered completely, opened her body, her soul, her heart, and let him plunder.

Let him capture, take, and make her his.

Beyond all thought. Beyond all denial.

Beyond this world.

She was his. Forever. He would never allow anyone to take her from him.

When he slumped back on the bed, drained, replete, to the very depths of his soul sated, the darker side of his nature for the moment wholly satisfied, as he tumbled her down with him, then kicked off his trousers and wrapped them in the covers, those were the only thoughts to cross Tony’s mind.

They were the only thoughts that mattered.