A Gentleman's Honor

SEVENTEEN

AS HE’D PROPHESIED, SO IT PROVED. MIRANDA ARRIVED agog to meet the lady who had finally, as she put it, snared him.

An openhearted lady of considerable charm, her husband’s early death had left her sincerely bereft.

“Although I doubt that will last forever.” Blond curls framing her heart-shaped face, she looked up at Tony as he stood before the fire in his drawing room. “Meanwhile, I’m on pins, positive pins, waiting to meet this widow of yours. Dare I guess she’s ravishingly beautiful?”

Tony fixed her with a not entirely mock-severe glance. “You will behave. Furthermore, you will not regale Alicia with tales of my youth, nor yet of my childhood.”

Miranda’s grin deepened. “Spoilsport.”

He snorted, and turned to the door. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed—twelve tings. “I’ll go and inform her of your great willingness to make her acquaintance.”

At the door, he paused, glanced back. “Just remember—she and I haven’t yet formally discussed our marriage.” By which he meant she hadn’t yet, in so many words, agreed.

Miranda looked both intrigued and delighted. “Don’t worry—I won’t scuttle your punt.”

Feigning disbelief, he left.

The atmosphere reigning in Waverton Street was as close to pandemonium as anything he’d experienced. He stood in the front hall transfixed by the activity. Crates lay open on the tiles; the green baize door stood propped wide, and a hum of noise pervaded the house. The boys were rushing up and down the stairs, calling to each other, ferrying books and toys, clothes and shoes, stuffing them joyously into the crates before, pausing only to flash him wide grins, racing up the stairs once more.

Through the open dining-room door, he saw Cook and Fitchett carefully wrapping glassware. A sound drew his attention to the gallery; he watched as Maggs, a heavy case on one shoulder, slowly descended the stairs.

“Madhouse, it is.” Depositing the case beside two closed crates, Maggs grinned at him. “Almost as bad as one of your mama’s journeys.”

“Heaven forfend,” Tony muttered. “Where’s Mrs. Carrington?”

“In her room packing.” Maggs stepped aside as the boys came whooping down once more. “Think she’s nearly done, but she did say as she’d be out to organize these three devils betimes.”

The boys looked up from where they were carefully squeezing slippers and dressing robes in around their toys. They grinned.

Tony fixed them with a direct look. “Do you three devils still need your eldest sister to organize you?”

“’Course not.” David shrugged. “But she does anyway.”

The other two nodded.

Tony raised his brows. “So if I take her away, you’ll be able to manage on your own? My cousin is waiting to meet her, and I thought it might be easier if Alicia came first, on her own.”

David and Harry exchanged glances, then nodded encouragingly.

“Good idea,” Harry opined. “Then she won’t be here to fuss over us.”

Matthew looked less certain; Maggs lumbered forward and held out a hand. “Here then, I’ll help. We can get you all packed, and meanwhile your sister can go and make Mrs. Althorpe’s acquaintance, and make sure she’s ready to meet you three, heh?”

Nodding, Matthew took Maggs’s hand, but he kept his gaze on Tony’s face. “So we’ll come to your house later?”

Tony hunkered down, lightly squeezed Matthew’s other hand. “I’ll send my coach around for you as soon as I get home. It’s large enough to take all of you at once, and the luggage can follow. That way, you’ll be in Upper Brook Street, in my house, all the sooner.”

“Hooray!” David and Harry turned and raced up the stairs. Grinning, reassured, Matthew dashed after them. Maggs brought up the rear.

Tony watched until they disappeared along the corridor, then he went up the stairs and along to Alicia’s room.

She was bending over a box at the foot of her bed; straightening with a sigh, she shut the lid.

Smiling, he strolled in. “Finished?”

Alicia looked at him, returned his smile, then glanced distractedly around the room. “Yes—I think that’s it for in here.”

“Good.” Halting before her, he reached for her.

Before she realized what he intended, he’d caught her, bent his head, and was kissing her… thoroughly. Her head spun pleasurably… then she remembered and struggled.

He ended the kiss; raising his head, he looked down at her. “What?”

She wriggled from his hands, firm about her waist. “The boys!” She peeked around him at the door, but there was no sign of them.

Tony met her warning look with a quizzical one, then he glanced around. “I came to take you to meet Miranda.” His gaze returned to her. “She’s waiting, so she assured me, on pins.”

“Already? Oh.” She scanned the room, but she had indeed packed everything. “But the boys aren’t yet ready and—”

“The boys assured me they had their packing under control. Maggs has elected to watch over them, and you know Jenkins will as well, and Fitchett and Adriana.” He fixed her with a direct look. “So there’s no reason you can’t come with me now. I’ll send my carriage once we reach Upper Brook Street, so they’ll all be only an hour or so behind.”

She frowned. “But—”

“And don’t forget the engagements we have tonight. You’ll need to settle in, and then we have a meeting at two o’clock in the library—Jack sent word he’s got what we wanted—I’m assuming you still wish to attend?” Innocently, he looked inquiringly at her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Of course.”

He inclined his head. “And then we’ve dinner at Lady Martindale’s followed by two balls, so we’ll be out again within a few hours. I think you should look over the rooms before the others arrive, just in case there’s any difficulty, anything you’d like changed.”

Lips setting, she looked into his black eyes; she’d seen that expression of immovable purpose before—knew he wouldn’t change tack, not easily… and perhaps he was right.

She grimaced. “Your cousin—she only has two daughters?”

Tony nodded; taking her elbow, he turned her to the door. “If you’re worried she’ll have the vapors over the boys’ antics, you can rest easy—Miranda was a tomboy to the depths of her soul. We spent much of our childhood together—we were both only children. If anything, she’ll be in her element with your brothers—and, incidentally, so will her daughters. If I’m any judge, they’ll give your three a run for their money.”

That distracted her, enough for him to steer her to the stairs. But—

“I must speak with Fitchett, and Cook, too, before I can leave.”

At least she was going down the stairs. He went with her, resigned yet on guard. Stoically, he stuck to her side, determinedly herding her back to the front hall. Finally there, he picked up the pelisse she’d left lying on a chair and helped her into it.

Taking her hand, he drew her out of the front door, pulled it shut, then led her down the steps to where his curricle stood waiting. One of his grooms was holding his matched bays. He helped her in, waited while she’d settled her skirts, then climbed up beside her. Nodding to the groom, he set the horses pacing. Glancing at her, he saw her watching his hands on the reins, watching the horses, still skittish, coquettish.

He realized she was nervous; he kept the horses to a slow trot. “Don’t worry—they won’t bolt.”

She glanced at him. “Oh—I just…have rarely had occasion to be behind such beasts. They’re very powerful, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but I have the reins.”

The comment took a moment to sink in, then she relaxed. She looked at him. “You haven’t driven me anywhere before.”

He shrugged. “There hasn’t until now been a need.”

But today was different; he wanted her to himself, free of her family. When she first crossed the threshold of his house, he wanted to be with her, just her and him alone, without any distractions. He wanted to have that minute to himself; he refused to waste any time wondering why.

Luckily, she accepted his comment without question; relaxing a trifle more, she looked around as he took her deeper into the heart of Mayfair.

The moment, when it came, was as simple and as private as he’d wished; only Hungerford was there, holding the door as, his hand at her elbow, Tony guided her into his front hall.

She glanced at Hungerford, nodded, and smiled, then looked up, ahead, and around, and paused, stopped.

Hungerford closed the door, but hung back in the shadows. There was no footman hovering in the hall, no one else to intrude.

Pivoting, she looked around; Tony wondered how she would see it, how she would react to his home.

After a moment, she met his gaze. She sensed his waiting, and smiled. “It’s much less intimidating than I’d imagined.” Her smile deepened, softened; she glanced around again. “More comfortable. I can see people here—children…it’s a welcoming house.”

Her relief was transparent. It warmed him, eased a small knot of trepidation he hadn’t until then acknowledged he carried. Joining her, he took her hand. “This is Hungerford. He’s the ultimate authority here.”

Hungerford approached and bowed low. “At your service, ma’am. Should you need anything—anything at all—we are at your disposal.”

“Thank you.”

Hungerford stepped back.

Tony gestured to the drawing-room door. “I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Swithins, the housekeeper, later—she can show you the rooms they’ve prepared. But first, come and meet Miranda.”

Buoyed by her impression of the hall, Alicia went forward eagerly. Entering the drawing room, she glanced around—and was again struck by the house’s warmth. Without consciously considering it, she’d been expecting a house like him, coolly, austerely elegant, but that wasn’t the pervading atmosphere here. The furniture was not new, far from it; every piece looked antique, lovingly polished, the tapestry and brocade upholstery and hangings carrying the rich, jeweled tones of a bygone age.

An age that had valued comfort and convenience as well as luxury, that had expected pleasure and enjoyment to be part of daily life. Hedonistic, but rich, warm, and very much alive.

Like the bright-eyed lady rising from a chair by the hearth. She came forward, smiling widely, hands extended.

“My dear Mrs. Carrington—Alicia—I may call you Alicia, may I not? I’m Miranda, as Tony’s doubtless told you. Welcome to Torrington House—may your stay be long and happy.”

Miranda’s smile was winning; effervescent laughter lurked in her blue eyes. Alicia gave her her hands, smiled back. “Thank you. I hope you won’t be too inconvenienced by our descent.”

“Oh, I certainly won’t be, and I doubt anyone could inconvenience Hungerford—he’s terrifyingly efficient— all the staff are.” Miranda looked at Tony. “You may take yourself off—we want to talk, and we’ll do so much more readily without you. I’ll take Alicia to meet Mrs. Swithins, so you’re relieved on that score, too.”

Alicia barely smothered a laugh. She glanced at Tony, saw chagrin briefly flare in his eyes as he sent Miranda a sharp glance, then he turned to her. “I’ll send the carriage around for your family.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

He hesitated, then, reluctant to the last, nodded and left them.

“Now!” Miranda turned to her, curiosity and delight in her face. “You must tell me all about your family—you have three brothers and a sister, that’s all Tony’s told me.” Waving her to a chair, Miranda resumed her seat.

Alicia sank into the velvet comfort of an armchair, felt a solid sense of safety and security reach for her and wrap her about. Meeting Miranda’s expectant gaze, she smiled and assembled her thoughts.

By the time Hungerford brought in the tea tray and she and Miranda had shared a pot, they’d progressed from acquaintances to friends, to newly found bosom-bows. The fictitious nature of her widowhood notwithstanding, they shared many interests—family, country pursuits, household management, and social necessity.

Miranda sent for her daughters; the girls arrived and made their curtsies, then asked polite but curious questions about her brothers. Alicia answered, inwardly heaving a sigh of relief; the girls were well-brought-up, well-bred young ladies, but not in the least sweet, retiring, or weak. They would, indeed, give her brothers pause.

Then it was time to meet Mrs. Swithins and look around the rooms before the others arrived. After performing the introductions, Miranda hung back, letting the housekeeper, a woman of considerable age but imposing presence, softened by a twinkle in her eye, guide Alicia through the house.

“We thought your young brothers would be most comfortable up here, ma’am.” Mrs. Swithins led the way into the schoolroom; she waved to rooms opening off the central room. “There’s three beds in the long room, and two in the next, so they can sleep together or separate if they wish.” She smiled at Alicia. “We weren’t sure, so both rooms are prepared.”

Alicia frowned. “They’re used to being together, but David is twelve.”

Mrs. Swithins nodded. “We can leave it to them to decide what’s most comfortable.”

With a grateful inclination of her head, Alicia allowed herself to be led on to view the bedrooms for Fitchett and Jenkins.

“So they’ll be close enough should the boys have need.” With an airy wave, Mrs. Swithins sailed on.

The rooms on the first floor that had been prepared for her and Adriana filled Alicia, not with surprise, for she’d expected something of the sort, but with a sense of having stepped into a fairy tale, or, more specifically, into her own dreams.

Her room lay in the central wing of the mansion, above the long ballroom and overlooking the rear gardens. A wide, spacious chamber, it possessed a sitting area with two chairs before the fireplace, a delicate escritoire against one wall, a bank of large windows with a padded window seat beneath, a gigantic armoire, and a huge four-poster bed hung with pale green silks and covered with an ivory silk coverlet embroidered in green.

“The master mentioned your maid was not with you, so I’ve assigned Bertha.” Mrs. Swithins beckoned to a young girl, who came forward and shyly curtsied. “She knows her way around a lady’s wardrobe and is quick with her hands.”

Alicia returned Bertha’s smile, a trifle shy herself. She’d never had a maid, just Fitchett, not quite the same thing.

“I’ve hung your gowns in the armoire, ma’am.” Bertha’s voice was soft, carrying a country burr. Greatly daring, she glanced up and met Alicia’s eye. “Absolutely stunning, they be.”

“Thank you, Bertha.” Alicia hesitated, then added, “I’ll need you this evening to help me dress—we’ve a dinner and two balls to attend.”

“Oh?” Miranda pricked up her ears; she came forward to link her arm in Alicia’s. “What’s this? Tony gadding about in society? Whatever next? You must tell.”

Alicia laughed. She thanked Mrs. Swithins, then let Miranda sweep her back downstairs.

The others arrived just in time for luncheon. Emerging from a room Alicia took to be the library, Tony joined the melee in the front hall, then shepherded her family into the dining room, where Miranda waited with her daughters.

Introductions between children could sometimes be awkward; in this case, the arrival of the luncheon dishes cut short any difficult moment. Quickly wriggling onto the chairs to which Tony and Miranda directed them, both her brothers and Miranda’s girls were at first on their best behavior, their responses stilted. That lasted only until the platter of sausages was uncovered. Thereafter, needing to ask each other to pass this or that, they quickly lost their shyness in the quest for sustenance.

Margaret and Constance were sturdy young ladies with long blond plaits; both ate heartily, showing no overt sign of consciousness of the boys. That piqued David’s and Harry’s interest enough for them to extend an invitation to go kite flying in the park.

The girls exchanged looks, then agreed.

When three faces turned up the table to Alicia, and two to Miranda, at the table’s other end, the ladies exchanged pleased glances and nodded permission; with just one whoop—from Harry, valiantly smothered—they all pushed back from the table, bobbed curtsies or bowed, then, dismissed with nods, they headed in a bumbling crowd for the door, and Maggs, Jenkins, the park, and the sky.

“Well,” Miranda said, turning back from watching them go, “they seem to have fallen on their feet.”

Tony shrugged. “Why not?” His gaze went to Alicia, sitting beside him, lingered, then he looked down the table at Adriana, seated beside Miranda. “The others should be arriving any minute.” To Miranda, he explained, “We’re holding a council of war, so to speak, in the library this afternoon, to discuss the latest developments in our search for A. C.”

Miranda’s eyes opened wide; she glanced at Alicia. “Is this a private meeting, or can I listen in?”

Tony grimaced. “All in all, it might be as well if you did.”

A knock sounded on the front door, and he rose. He didn’t trust A. C., not on any level; given Miranda was here with her girls, sharing his roof with Alicia and her family, it was only fair she knew the whole score.

He ushered the three ladies, all determined to attend the gathering, into the front hall as Hungerford opened the door. Members of the Bastion Club streamed in. Tony nodded in greeting; beside him, Miranda murmured, “Well, well—you didn’t mention them. And they are?”

The introductions took a few minutes, by which time Tristan and Leonora, Geoffrey, and, most importantly, Jack Hendon and Kit, had arrived. Once everyone was comfortably seated in the library, the large room looked unusually full.

A knock fell on the front door; it opened. A deep voice, not Hungerford’s, was heard. An instant later, the library door opened, and Charles walked in. Seeing all eyes on him, he raised his brows. “Am I late?”

Tony waved him to a chair. “I thought you were away.”

“No such luck.” Charles drew up a chair and sat. “Merely a visit to Surrey with my sisters, sisters-in-law, and dear mama. I got back”—he glanced at the clock—“two hours ago, but matters are so fraught in Bedford Square, I dared not remain. I took refuge at the club, and Gasthorpe told me of the meeting.”

His dark gaze, along with a piratical smile, swept the room. “So, what do we have?”

Alicia followed that sweeping glance around the faces, saw in each an impatience, an eagerness, a determination to get on with the business of unmasking A. C. They were quite a crowd, five ladies and eight gentlemen, an intelligent and talented company focused on their common goal.

“So what did you find?” Tony’s gaze rested on Jack Hendon.

Jack had settled on a straight-backed chair. “I got the information from Lloyd’s, unfortunately not as much as I’d have liked. There’s a watchman who goes around every half hour. I could only chance three passes—I had to put out the light every time he came by. Without it, I couldn’t see to make copies of the bills of lading.” He drew a sheaf of papers from his inside coat pocket. “I got the full details of six ships before I called it a night. However—”

He distributed the papers, handing three to the men on his right, three to his left; the ladies, on the two chaises perpendicular to the hearth, had to contain their curiosity until the men had scanned the pages and passed them their way.

“As you can see,” Jack resumed, as the men finished with the papers and looked up, “there’s nothing obvious, no particular goods or commodities that were carried on all six ships.” He paused, then added. “I’m not sure where that gets us. I was assuming there would be something in common.”

The men frowned; they looked at the six sheets, now in the ladies’ hands.

“How did you choose which ships to examine?” Christian asked.

“More or less randomly over the years ’12 to ’15.” Jack grimaced. “I thought that would be most useful, but now I wonder whether whatever’s the crucial element changes over time. One thing for so many months, another later.”

Gervase Tregarth leaned forward, peering at the lists Kit and Alicia had spread on a low table before the chaise. “Is there definitely no item in common?”

Kit, Alicia, and Leonora shook their heads.

One of the men muttered something about the seasons.

Alicia tapped an item on one list. “Three hundred ell of finest muslin. Remember how expensive muslin was? The price is much better now, but when this was brought in, it would have been worth a small fortune.”

“Hmm.” Leonora studied the entry. “I never thought of it before—one simply grumbles and pays the price—but it must have been due to the war.”

“Supply and demand,” Kit said. They were speaking quietly, their lighter voices a counterpoint against the men’s rumblings. “Jack says it’s the merchants who best supply the demand who get on in business.”

“True,” Miranda put in, “and during the war, the demand was always there, never satisfied. Anything imported was by definition expensive. Just think how the prices of silks—”

“Let alone tea and coffee.” Alicia tapped another entry on one list.

Miranda nodded; so did the others. “All those things became hideously dear….” Her words faded.

Their gazes met. They all exchanged one long wondering glance, then looked at the lists.

“You don’t think…?”Adriana leaned nearer.

All five ladies bent over the lists again.

The gentlemen continued to reassess and revisit their reasoning, trying to see a way forward.

Alicia straightened. “That’s it.” She pointed triumphantly to items listed on each of the six bills of lading. “Tea and coffee!”

“Yes—of course!” Kit snatched up one of the lists and checked the entry, then reached for another.

“Ah—I see!” Leonora, face lighting, picked up another list.

Tony, Tristan, and Jack exchanged glances. “What do you see?” Tristan asked.

“The item in common.” Alicia picked up another list and pointed to a line. “Tea—one thousands pounds of finest leaves from Assam.”

Handing that list to Tony, she picked up another. “On this one, it’s coffee—three hundred pounds of best beans from Colombia.”

Kit sat back. “So sometimes it’s coffee, and sometimes it’s tea—one from the West Indies, the other on ships from the East.”

“But they’re often both handled by the same merchant,” Leonora informed the men as the lists made their way around the circle again. “Not necessarily sold through the same shops, but it’s usually the same supplier.”

“Which supplier?” Christian asked.

The ladies exchanged glances. “There are many, I imagine,” Miranda replied. “It’s a profitable area, and fashionable in its way.”

“But it’s the price that’s so important.” Alicia looked around the male company. “It’s always difficult to get good-quality coffee and tea—there never is enough brought into the country, even now. As Kit said, it’s supply and demand, so the price always remains high.”

“For good quality,” Adriana stressed.

“Indeed.” Kit nodded. “And that, perhaps, is where A. C. might have made his money. During the war, certainly over the years ’12 to ’15, the price of tea and coffee—the better-quality stuff—fluctuated wildly. It was always high, but sometimes it reached astronomical heights.”

“Because,” Leonora took up the tale, “you men always insist on your coffee at the breakfast table, and we ladies, of course, must have our tea for our tea parties, and the ton wouldn’t go around if those things weren’t there.”

There was an instant’s silence as the men all stared at them.

“Are you saying”—Charles leaned forward and fixed them with an intent look—“that during the war, the price of tea and coffee was often driven high—very high— because of sudden shortages?”

All five ladies nodded decisively.

Miranda added, “Only the best-quality merchandise, mind you.”

“Indeed. But tea and coffee—the finest quality—appears on each of those lists? One or the other at least?”

Again, the ladies nodded.

“That,” Alicia concluded, “seems the only link—the only thing in common, so to speak.”

“Held to ransom over our breakfasts.” Gervase gathered the lists and shuffled through them. “Doesn’t bear thinking of, but it certainly looks—and sounds—right.”

Tristan was looking over his shoulder. “Two ships from the West Indies with coffee, the other four, all East Indiamen, carried tea.”

“These prices.” Jack fixed his wife with a questioning glance. “How much of an increase are we looking at— prices twice as high, three times?”

“For the best coffee?” Kit glanced at Leonora and Alicia. “Anything from ten, to even fifty times the usual price, I would say.”

“For tea,” Miranda said, “it could easily be from ten to thirty times the price before the war—and even that price was always high.”

“How high?” Tristan asked.

The ladies pursed their lips, then tossed around figures that made the men blanch. “Good God!” Charles stopped, calculating. “Why that’s…”

“One hell of a lot of money!” Jack growled.

“One hell of a lot of profit,” Gervase said.

“One very good reason to ensure that the supply failed at critical times.” Tony fixed the ladies with an inquisitorial look. “From what you’re saying, the person who would stand to gain—”

“Is the merchant who had brought in a cargo of tea and coffee safely just before any shortage occurred.”

It was Jack who had spoken. Tony looked at him. “Before?”

Jack nodded. “The warehouses and docks know when a ship and its cargo doesn’t arrive, and the merchants mark up the prices of the goods they have in stock accordingly—that I know for fact.”

“So…” They all sat and thought it over, then Tony called them to order. “Assuming the answer is tea and coffee, how do we go on from here?”

“We first check the waybills of the other ten ships we know were lost courtesy of Ruskin’s information.” Jack glanced at Tony. “Two of us, now we know what we’re looking for, could probably check all the waybills at once.”

Tony nodded. “We’ll do it tonight.”

“Meanwhile,” Christian said, “the rest of us can start investigating the merchants who specialize in tea and coffee. The connection to A.C. must be through them.” He frowned, then glanced around. “What could the connection between A.C. and a merchant be, given we know, or at least can surmise, that A.C. is one of the ton?”

Charles grimaced. “Can we surmise that, do you think? That he is one of us?”

“I think that’s beyond question,” Tony answered.

“Who else would have known how to manipulate the ton against Alicia? And Dalziel confirmed that the third round of information against her had been laid through the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs. There seems little doubt A. C. is a member not just of the ton, but the haut ton—our circle.” A memory floated through his mind; he grimaced. “Indeed, I suspect I’ve seen him.”

“You have?”

“When?”

He briefly explained, describing the man he’d seen through the mists in Park Street all those nights ago.

“Astrakhan—you know, that’s not all that common,” Jack Warnefleet said. “A point to remember, especially if he didn’t know you’d seen him.”

“That leaves us still facing the final question,” Christan said. “What link could there be between a tea and coffee merchant and a member of the haut ton?”

The room fell silent; only the ticking of the mantelpiece clock could be heard, then Charles looked at Tony. “It couldn’t be that, could it—the reason behind Ruskin’s murder?”

“It’s certainly feasible.” Tristan leaned back in his chair. “There’s many in the ton would move heaven and earth to hide any contact with trade.”

“Add to that the illegality involved, let alone its treasonous nature…” Gervase glanced around. “That’s a powerful motive for removing Ruskin.”

“And then going to any lengths to cover his tracks.” Tony’s gaze was fixed on Alicia.

There were slow nods all around. Charles leaned forward, hands clasped. “That’s it—we might not yet be able to see the player, but that assuredly is the game. A. C. is directly involved in trade via some tea and coffee merchant.”

Suddenly needing to move, Tony rose. Crossing to the fireplace, closer to Alicia, he braced an arm on the mantelpiece and looked around the circle. “Let’s recapitulate. A. C. is at the very least a sleeping partner with a merchant who imports the finest tea and coffee. In order to increase profits by driving up prices, he sets out to manipulate the supply of tea and coffee through having ships carrying competitors’ supplies taken by the French.”

He looked at Jack Hendon. “How did he know which ships to target?”

Jack shrugged. “Easy enough if you’re inside the trade. The merchants know each other, and each merchant usually has contracts with only one or at most two shipping lines, and the ships run by each line are listed in a number of registers, none hard to access. It wouldn’t have been difficult.”

Tony nodded. “So he knows which ships to target to make his plan work. With the information from Ruskin, he knows when each returning ship will not be under frigate escort, and thus an easy and vulnerable target for a foreign captain.”

His voiced hardened. “So A. C. arranges for the target ships to be taken, then sits back in London and counts the inflated return from the cargo he’s already landed.”

A long silence followed, then Christian straightened. “That’s how it worked. We need to identify all possible merchants, then investigate which one had safe cargoes to exploit.”

“And from there,” Jack Warnefleet murmured, “we dig until we uncover A. C.—there’ll be some track leading back to him, one way or another.”

The soft menace in his tone was balm to them all.

Christian looked at Tony. “I’ll act as coordinator in the search for the merchant, if you like.” He glanced at the other members of the club. “We can take that on. I’ll let you know the instant we identify the most likely firm.”

Tony nodded. “I’ll go with Jack tonight and confirm that the link holds good—if there’s any ship taken that wasn’t carrying tea or coffee, it might give us a link to another aspect of A. C.’s trade interests.”

“True.” Christian stood. “The more links we can get to A. C.’s trading activities, the easier it’ll be to identify him conclusively.”

The men rose. The ladies did, too, exchanging plans for meeting that evening at the balls they’d attend.

As the group emerged into the front hall, Charles paused beside Tony, his gaze uncharacteristically bleak. “You know, I might have understood if A. C.’s motive was in some way…well, patriotic even if grossly misguided. If he was the sort of traitor who sincerely believed England should lose the war and follow some revolutionary course. But be damned if I can understand how any Englishman could so cold-bloodedly have sent so many English sailors to almost certain death at the hands of the French”—he met Tony’s gaze—“all for money.”

Tony nodded. “That’s one point that sticks in my craw.”

Along with the fact A. C. had cast Alicia as his scapegoat.

Expressions grimly determined, they made their farewells and parted, all convinced of one thing. Whoever A. C. was, the man had no soul.