A Gentleman's Honor

TWO

HE REGRETTED NOT ASKING HER NAME, BUT INTRODUCTIONS over a dead body simply hadn’t occurred to him, so all he had was her physical description. The notion of asking his godmother occurred, only to be dismissed; alerting Tante Felicité to any interest on his part—especially when he wasn’t sure of his ground—didn’t appeal, and the lady might have arrived with others. Felicité might not know her personally.

Over breakfast, he applied his mind to the question of how to track the lady down. The idea that occurred seemed a stroke of genius. Ham and sausages disposed of, he strode into his hall, shrugged on the coat Hungerford held, and headed for Bruton Street.

The lady’s gown had been a creation of considerable elegance; although he hadn’t consciously noted it at the time, it had registered in his mind. The vision leapt clearly to his inner eye. Pale green silk superbly cut to compliment a lithe rather than buxom figure; the fall of the silk, the drape of the neckline, all screamed of an expert modiste’s touch.

According to Hungerford, Bruton Street was still home to the ton’s most fashionable modistes. Tony started at the nearer end, calmly walking into Madame Francesca’s salon and demanding to see Madame.

Madame was delighted to receive him, but regretfully—and it truly was regretfully—could not help him.

That refrain was repeated all the way down the street. By the time he reached Madame Franchot’s establishment at the other end, Tony had run out of patience. After enduring fifteen minutes of Madame’s earnest inquiries regarding his mother’s health, he escaped, no wiser.

Going slowly down the stairs, he wondered where the devil else one of his lady’s ilk might obtain her gowns. Reaching the street door, he opened it.

And saw, large as life, walking along the opposite side of the street, the lady herself. So she did come to Bruton Street.

She was walking briskly, absorbed in conversation with a veritable stunner—a younger lady of what even to Tony’s jaded eye registered as quite fabulous charms.

He waited inside the doorway until they walked farther on, then went out, closed the door, crossed the street, and fell in in their wake, some twenty yards behind. Not so close that the lady might sense his presence, or see him immediately behind her should she glance around, yet not so far that he risked losing them should they enter any of the shops lining the street.

Somewhat to his surprise, they didn’t. They walked on, engrossed in their discussion; reaching Berkeley Square, they continued around it.

He followed.

“There was nothing you could have done—he was already dead and you saw nothing to the point.” Adriana stated the facts decisively. “Nothing would have been gained and no point served by you becoming further involved.”

“Indeed,” Alicia agreed. She just wished she could rid herself of the niggling concern that she should have waited in Lady Amery’s drawing room, at least for the gentleman to return. He’d been uncommonly sensible and supportive; she should have thanked him properly. There was also the worry that he might have become embroiled in difficulties over finding a dead body—she had no idea of the correct procedures, or even if there were correct procedures—yet he’d seemed so competent, doubtless she was worrying over nothing.

She was still jumpy, nervy, hardly surprising but she couldn’t allow even a murder to distract her from their plan. Too much depended on it.

“I do hope Pennecuik can get that lilac silk for us—it’s a perfect shade to stand out among the other pastels.” Adriana glanced at her. “I rather think that design with the frogged jacket would suit—do you remember it?”

Alicia admitted she did. Adriana was trying to distract her, to deflect her thoughts into more practical and productive avenues. They’d just come from visiting Mr. Pennecuik’s warehouse, located behind the modistes’ salons at the far end of Bruton Street. Mr. Pennecuik supplied the trade with the very best materials; he now also supplied Mrs. Carrington of Waverton Street with the stuffs for the elegant gowns in which she and her beautiful sister, Miss Pevensey, graced the ton’s entertainments.

A most amicable arrangement had been reached. Mr. Pennecuik supplied her with the most exclusive fabrics at a considerable discount in return for her telling all those who asked—as hordes of matrons did and would when they clapped eyes on Adriana—that insisting on the best fabric was the key to gaining the most from one’s modiste, and the fabrics from Mr. Pennecuik’s were unquestionably the best.

As she patronized no modiste, the presumption was that she employed a private seamstress. The truth was she and Adriana, aided by their old nurse, Fitchett, sewed all their gowns. No one, however, needed to know that, and so everyone was pleased with the arrangement.

“Dark purple frogging.” Alicia narrowed her eyes, creating the gown in her mind. “With ribbons of an in-between shade to edge the hems.”

“Oh, yes! I saw that on a gown last night—it looked quite stunning.”

Adriana prattled on. Alicia nodded and hmmed at the right points; inwardly, she returned to the nagging possibility that continued to disturb her.

The gentleman had stated he wasn’t the murderer. She’d believed him—still did—but didn’t know why. It would have been so easy…he might have heard her on the path, propped Ruskin against the tree, hid in the shadows and waited for her to “discover” Ruskin, then walked up and “discovered” her. If anyone asked, she would be honor-bound to state he’d come up after she’d found Ruskin already dead.

Already stabbed.

The memory of the dagger sliding out…she shivered.

Adriana glanced at her, then tightened their linked arms, pressing closer. “Stop thinking about it!”

“I can’t.” It wasn’t Ruskin she was thinking most about, but the man who had emerged from the shadows; despite all, it was he who lingered most strongly in her mind.

Determinedly she redirected her thoughts to the crux of her worries. “After all our luck to date, I can’t help but worry that some whisper of my involvement with so scandalous a thing as murder will out, and will affect your chances.” She met Adriana’s gaze. “We all have so much riding on this.”

Adriana’s smile was truly charming; she was no giddy miss, but a sensible female not easily influenced by man or fate. “Just show me the field and leave the rest to me. I assure you I’m up to it, and while I’m swishing my skirts, you can retreat into the shadows if you wish. But truly, I think it unlikely any news of this murder, much less your part in it, will surface, beyond, of course, the customary ‘How unfortunate.’”

Alicia grimaced.

“Now,” Adriana continued, “I gather from Miss Tiverton that there’ll be quite a different crowd at Lady Mott’s tonight. Apparently, her ladyship has a wide acquaintance in the counties, and what with everyone coming up to town early, there’s sure to be many at her ball tonight. I think the cerise-and-white stripes will be best for me tonight, and perhaps the dark plum for you.”

Alicia let Adriana fill her ears with sartorial plans. Turning into Waverton Street, they headed for their door.

From the corner of the street, Tony watched them climb the steps and enter, waited until the door shut, then ambled past. No one watching him would have noticed his interest.

At the end of Waverton Street he paused, smiled to himself, then headed home.

Lady Mott’s ball had been talked of as a small affair.

The ballroom was certainly small. The ball, however, was such a crush Alicia was grateful that the size of Adriana’s court gave them some protection.

As was her habit, after delivering Adriana to her admirers, she stepped back to the wall. There were chairs for chaperones a little way along, but she’d quickly realized that, not truly being chaperone material, it behooved her to avoid those who were; they were too inquisitive.

Besides, standing just feet away, she was near if Adriana needed help in dealing with any difficult suitor or avoiding the more wolfish elements who had started to appear at the periphery of her court.

Such gentlemen Alicia showed no hesitation in putting to rout.

The strains of the violins heralded a waltz, one Adriana had granted to Lord Heathcote. Alicia was watching, relaxed yet eagle-eyed as her sister prettily took his lordship’s arm, when hard fingers closed about her hand.

She jumped, swallowed a gasp. The fingers felt like iron.

Outraged, she swung around, and looked up—into the dark, hard-featured face of the gentleman from the shadows.

Her lips parted in shock.

One black brow arched. “That’s a waltz starting— come and dance.”

Her wits scattered. By the time she’d regathered them, she was whirling down the room, and it was suddenly seriously difficult to breathe.

His arms felt like steel, his hand hard and sure on her back. He moved gracefully, effortlessly, all harnessed power, hard muscle and bone. He was tall, lean, yet broad-shouldered; the notion that he’d captured her, seized her and swept her away, and now had her in his keeping, flooded her mind.

She shook it aside, yet the sensation of being swept up by a force beyond her control, engulfed by a strength entirely beyond her power to counter, shocked her, momentarily dazed her.

Tangled her tongue.

Left her mentally scrambling to catch up—and filch the reins of her will back from his grasp.

The look on his face—one of all-seeing, patronizing, not superiority but control—helped enormously.

She dragged in a breath, conscious of her bodice tightening alarmingly. “We haven’t been introduced!” The first point that needed to be made.

“Anthony Blake, Viscount Torrington. And you are?”

Flabbergasted. Breathless again. The timbre of his voice, deep, low, vibrated through her. His eyes, deepest black under heavy lids, held hers. She had to moisten her lips. “Alicia…Carrington.”

Where were her wits?

“Mrs. Carrington.” She dragged in another breath, and felt the reel her wits had been whizzing through start to slow.

His eyes hadn’t left hers. Then he slipped his shoulder from under her hand, and that hand, her left, was trapped in his. His fingers shifted, finding the gold band on her ring finger.

His lips twisted fleetingly; he replaced her hand on his shoulder and continued to whirl her smoothly down the room.

She stared at him, beyond astonished. Inwardly thanking the saints for Aunt Maude’s ring.

Then she blinked, cleared her throat, and looked over his shoulder into safe oblivion. “I must thank you for your help last evening—I hope the matter was concluded without any undue difficulties. I do ask you to excuse my early retreat.” She risked a glance at his face. “I fear I was quite overcome.”

In her experience most men accepted that excuse without question.

He looked as if he didn’t believe it for a moment.

“Quite overcome,” she reiterated.

The cynical scepticism—she was sure it was that—in his narrowing eyes only deepened.

Theatrically, she sighed. “I was attending with my unmarried younger sister. She’s in my care. I had to take her home—my responsibility to her came first, above all else, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

For a full minute, not a muscle moved in his classically sculpted face, then his brows rose. “I take it Mr. Carrington was not present?”

A whisper of caution tickled her spine; she kept her eyes on his. “I’m a widow.”

“Ah.”

There seemed a wealth of meanings in the single syllable; she wasn’t sure she approved of any of them. Her tone sharp, she inquired, “And what do you mean by that?”

He opened his eyes wider, the heavy lids lifting; his lips, thin, mobile, the lower somewhat fuller, seemed to ease. His black gaze held hers trapped; he made no move to answer her question.

Not with words.

She suddenly felt quite warm.

Flustered—she was actually flustered.

The music reached its conclusion; the dance ended. She’d never been so thankful of any event in her life. She stepped out of his arms, only to feel his hand close once more about hers.

His gaze on her face, he set her hand on his sleeve. “Allow me to escort you back to your sister.”

She had little choice but to accept; she did so with a haughty inclination of her head, and permitted him to steer her up the room, tacking through the crowd to where Adriana had returned to the safety of her court.

Taking up her position a few steps away, close by the wall, she lifted her hand from Torrington’s sleeve and turned to dismiss him.

His gaze had gone to Adriana; he glanced back at her. “Your sister is very lovely. I take it you’re hoping to establish her creditably?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “There seems no reason she shouldn’t make an excellent match.” Especially now Ruskin was gone. The recollection had her meeting Torrington’s black gaze; it seemed fathomless, but far from cold.

Oddly intriguing. His gaze seemed to hold her, yet she didn’t, in fact, feel trapped. Just held….

“Tell me.” His expression eased a fraction more. “Have you seen the latest offering at the Opera House? Have you been in town long enough to do so?”

He glanced away; she blinked. “No. The opera is one experience we’ve yet to enjoy.” Studying him, she couldn’t see him enthralled by opera or a play. Couldn’t resist asking, “Have you succumbed to its lure recently?”

His lips twitched. “Opera isn’t my weakness.”

Weakness—did he have one? Given all she could sense, it seemed unlikely. She realized she was gazing at him, trying hard not to stare, not to show any consciousness of him, of the potent masculine aura of which, as the confines of the crowded ballroom necessitated them standing mere inches apart, she was very much aware.

She’d been going to dismiss him. She drew in a breath.

“I thought you’d want to know that the proper authorities were informed of Mr. Ruskin’s sad end.” Those fascinating black eyes returned to hers; he’d lowered his voice so only she could hear. “In the circumstances, I saw no need to implicate you. You knew nothing of the situation leading to Ruskin’s death—or so I understood.”

She nodded. “That’s correct.” As if in support of his judgment, she added, “I have no idea why he was stabbed, or by whom. I had no connection with him beyond a few social exchanges.”

Torrington’s black gaze remained steady on her face, then he inclined his head and looked away. “So from which part of the country do you and your sister hail?”

Given he’d just informed her he’d been instrumental in protecting her from precisely the sort of imbroglio she’d been frantic to avoid, she felt compelled to answer. “Warwickshire. Not far from Banbury.” She and Adriana had decided it would be wise henceforth to avoid all mention of Chipping Norton.

“Your and Miss Pevensey’s parents?”

“Are no longer alive.”

That earned her a glance, black and sharp. “She has no guardian other than yourself?”

“No.” She lifted her chin. “Be that as it may, I believe we’ll muddle through.”

He registered her acerbic tone; he glanced again at Adriana. “So you’re solely responsible for…” He looked back at her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve taken on?”

She raised her brows, no longer amused. “As I said, I believe we’ll manage nicely. We have until now, and quite well, I would say.”

His black gaze held hers with a disturbing intensity. “I would have thought your husband would have had some hand in that.”

She blushed. “Yes, of course, but he’s been dead for some years.”

“Indeed?” Torrington’s black eyes gleamed. “Might one inquire from what he died?”

“An inflamation of the lung,” she snapped, not at all sure to what in his question she was reacting. She looked away at the surrounding crowd, tried to realign her thoughts with the requirements of her charade. “It’s unkind of you to remind me, sir.”

After a moment came the dry comment, “My apologies, my dear, but you don’t appear to be a grieving widow.”

She made the mistake of glancing at him.

He caught her gaze, held it.

After a moment, she narrowed her eyes, then, deliberately, looked away.

Fought to ignore the soft, very masculine chuckle that fell, a distractingly warm caress over her senses.

“Tell me.” He’d lowered his voice and shifted closer; the deep rumble teased her ear. “Why aren’t you joining your sister in hunting for a husband?”

“I have other matters in hand, other responsibilities. I don’t need to add a husband to the list.”

She refused to look at him, but sensed she’d said something to make him pause.

Not for long. “Most ladies in your position would look to a husband to shoulder their responsibilities for them.”

“Indeed?” Still surveying the crowd, she raised her brows as if considering, then shrugged. “Perhaps, but I have no ambitions for myself in that direction. If I can see my sister comfortably established, married to a gentleman worthy of her, then I’ll retire from this Season well pleased.”

Glancing at Adriana’s court, she noted one particular gentleman who was making every attempt to monopolize her sister’s attention. The surprising thing was he appeared to be succeeding.

“Well pleased from a guardian’s point of view perhaps, but as a lady of some experience, a widow’s lonely existence can hardly be fulfilling.”

Distracted, she heard the deep, drawled words, but wasted no wit on divining their meaning. Frowning, she turned to him. “Instead of twitting me, you might attempt to be useful—who is the gentleman with my sister?”

Tony blinked. Thrown entirely off his stride, he looked. “Ah… there’s at present seven gentlemen surrounding your sister.”

She made a frustrated sound—the sort that intimated he was being willfully obtuse. “The one with wavy brown hair speaking with her now. Do you know him?”

He looked, and blinked again. It was several seconds before he replied, “Yes. That’s Geoffrey Manningham, Lord Manningham.”

An instant later, his prey prodded his arm. “Well? What can you tell me about him?”

He glanced at her. Far from observing the stiff formal distance she’d been working to preserve between them, she’d shifted closer; he could smell the perfume wafting from her throat. If he shifted his head just an inch, he’d be able to touch his cheek to her hair.

She’d been staring, frowning, at Geoffrey; now she glanced up at him, pointedly opened her green eyes wide.

“His estate is in Devon. It shares a partial boundary with mine. If I know anything of Geoffrey, and I’ve known him since childhood, then his estate, houses, and finances will all be in excellent condition.”

Her green eyes narrowed. “You…” She glanced at Geoffrey.

“No.” It was comforting to be with a woman he could read so easily; she made very little effort to hide her thoughts. “Geoffrey didn’t send me to distract you so he could waltz your sister off from beneath your careful nose.”

She looked up at him, still suspicious. “And why should I believe that?”

He held her gaze, then caught her hand, lifted it to his lips. Kissed. “Because I told you so.” Her eyes flashed; he smiled, and added, “And because Geoffrey and I haven’t met in over ten years.”

Perfectly aware that with the simple caress he’d fractured her concentration, he gestured to the circle a few feet away. “Shall we join them?”

She gathered herself and managed a regal nod. Delighted, entranced, he tucked her hand in his arm and steered her to Geoffrey’s side.

“Manningham?”

Geoffrey looked up from his pursuit of the lovely Adriana. The rivalry that in their youth had never been far beneath their surfaces instantly leapt to his eyes.

Tony smiled. “Allow me to present Mrs. Carrington— Miss Pevensey’s sister and guardian.”

Geoffrey’s gaze deflected, then he threw Tony a speaking glance and made haste to bow and shake Alicia’s hand. Others made hay of his distraction and reclaimed Adriana’s attention. Tony noted that while she showed no partiality to those anxious to gain her approbation, she did sneak swift glances at Geoffrey, engaged by her sister in the customary social niceties.

Content to observe, he made no attempt to extricate Geoffrey. Instead, he listened to Alicia Carrington craftily confirm all he’d told her, and elicit a few details more. Her protectiveness toward her younger sister, her determination to ensure she was in no way taken advantage of, rang true and clear. Not one of the men gathered about Adriana could doubt it; her sister would always stand as her protector.

With her single-minded focus, she reminded him of a lioness watching over her cubs; woe betide any who dared threaten them. She was calm, determined, sensible, and strong-willed, mature yet not old; she was as chalk to cheese to the young misses he’d been exposed to over the past weeks—the contrast was a blessed relief.

Via the groom he’d sent to chat in the mews near Waverton Street, he’d learned that Mrs. Carrington hired her carriage from the nearby stables, and also that, as was her habit, she’d sent her evening’s instructions to the coachman at midday. Armed with the information, he’d arrived early, much to Lady Mott’s delight; he’d been in the ballroom waiting when Alicia Carrington had walked in.

He’d watched her for an hour before he’d approached; in that time, he’d seen her dismiss without a blink three perfectly eligible gentlemen who, as he did, found her quieter beauty, with its suggestion of maturity and a more subtle allure, more attractive than her sister’s undeniable charms.

As with all else she’d revealed in response to his probing, her dismissal of marriage rang true. She was truly disinterested, at least at present. She was focused on her task… the temptation to distract her, to see if he could…

He refocused on her; she was still interrogating Geoffrey who, to Tony’s educated eye, was finding the going increasingly grim.

He’d done his duty. He’d convinced himself that his first impression of Mrs. Carrington had been accurate; she hadn’t slid a stiletto between Ruskin’s ribs, and he could see no reason to doubt her assertion that she had known Ruskin only socially. There was nothing there to interest Dalziel.

Mission accomplished, there was no reason he couldn’t retire and leave Geoffrey to his fate. No reason at all to remain by Alicia Carrington’s side.

The distant scrape of bow on string heralded the return of the musicians and an impending waltz. Geoffrey straightened, stiffened, then threw him an unmistakable look of entreaty. Man-to-man. Ex-boyhood-rival-to-rival.

Tony reached for Alicia’s hand. “If you would do me the honor, Mrs. Carrington?” He bowed.

Alicia blinked, startled by the sudden clasp of Torrington’s hard fingers on hers. As he straightened, she glanced at Lord Manningham only to discover his lordship had grasped her single moment of distraction to turn to Adriana, who, from her smile, had been waiting, having already granted him this dance.

She opened her lips—on what words she didn’t know—only to find herself whisked about. “Wait!”

“The dance floor’s this way.”

“I know, but I wasn’t going to accept your offer.”

He threw her a black glance, not irritated but curious.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to waltz.”

“Why not? You’re passably good at it.”

“It’s got nothing to do with… I’m a chaperone. Chaperones don’t waltz. We’re supposed to keep an eye on our charges even while they’re waltzing.”

He glanced over her head. “Your sister’s with Manningham. Unless he’s changed beyond belief in the last ten years, he’s no cad—she’s as safe as she can be, and you don’t need to watch.”

They’d reached the floor; the musicians had launched into their theme. He swung her into his arms, then they were whirling down the room.

As before, she found breathing difficult, but was determined not to let it show. “Are you always this dictatorial?”

He met her gaze, then smiled, an easy, warming, simple gesture. “I don’t know. I’ve never been questioned on the subject before.”

She threw him a look she hoped conveyed total disbelief.

“But educate me—I’ve been away from the ton for more than ten years—should your sister be waltzing at all? Wasn’t there some rule or other about permission from the hostesses?”

“She had to get permission from one of the patronesses of Almack’s. I spoke to Lady Cowper, and she was kind enough to give her approval.” Alicia frowned. “But why have you been away from the ton for ten years—and more? Where were you?”

He looked at her for a moment, as if the answer should be obvious, tattooed on his forehead or some such, then his smile deepened. “I was in the army—the Guards.”

“Waterloo?”

The concern in her face was quite genuine. It warmed him. “And the Peninsula.”

“Oh.”

Tony watched her digest that. Despite the fact he waltzed well—always had—the waltz wasn’t his favorite dance; with a woman in his arms, he’d much rather be involved in a romp that heated up the sheets on some bed, rather than a sedate revolution about some tonnish ballroom.

And in this case, the woman in his arms teased and challenged on a level he’d forgotten what it was like to be challenged on. For too many years, women, ladies and all, had come to him easily; generally speaking, he’d only had to crook his finger, and there’d always been more than one willing to slake his lust. He was an accomplished lover, too experienced to be anything other than easy and generous in his ways.

Too experienced not to recognize when his senses were engaged.

Taller than average, supple and svelte, she was less buxom than those ladies who normally caught his eye, yet she hadn’t just caught his attention, she’d fixed it— quite why he couldn’t say. There seemed a multitude of small attractions that made up the whole—the sheen of the candlelight on her perfect skin, a soft cream tinged with rose, a very English complexion, her eyes and their green gaze—direct, without guile, amazingly open—the lush, heavy locks of her dark mahogany hair, the way her lips set, then eased and lifted.

He wanted to taste them, to taste her. To tempt her to want him. And more. With her in his arms, his appetite, along with his imagination, was definitely inclined toward a bed.

Alicia was conscious of an escalating warmth, one that seemed to rise from within her. It was pleasant, even addictive—her senses responded with a wish to wallow and luxuriate. It was something to do with him, with the way he held her, whirled her so easily down the room, with the reined strength she sensed in him but which triggered her innate defenses not at all—that strength was no threat to her.

His effect on her, however, might be; she wasn’t experienced enough to know. Yet it was just a dance—one waltz—and she’d never waltzed like this before, never felt quite like this. Surely it couldn’t hurt. And he was a military veteran, an ex-Guardsman, and a viscount.

Quite what that said of him she wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t all be bad.

He swung her through the turns at the end of the room; her heart leapt as his thigh parted hers. Letting her lids fall, she concentrated on breathing—and on the warmth her senses seemingly craved.

The music slowed, stopped, and they halted. And she realized just how pleasant—how pleasurable—the dance had been. She glanced at him, met his black gaze, and thought she saw a fraction too much understanding in his dark eyes. How black could seem warm she had no idea, but his eyes were never cold…

She looked to where Adriana’s court waited, and saw Adriana on the arm of Lord Manningham ahead of them, moving that way. Torrington took her arm and steered her in their wake.

As seemed normal for him, he didn’t offer his sleeve or ask her permission…

And, as was starting to be normal for her, she’d let him.

She frowned. Not once during the waltz had she thought to check on Adriana and Manningham—her distraction had been that complete.

The man on whose arm she was strolling was dangerous.

Seriously dangerous; he’d managed to make her forget her plan for a full five minutes, in the middle of a ton ballroom, no less.

Tony saw the frown form on her face. “What’s the matter?”

She glanced up. He looked into her green eyes, watched as she debated, then decided not to tell him the truth—that he was disturbing her, ruffling her senses, undermining her equanimity—as if he didn’t know.

Frown deepening, she looked down. “I was just wondering whether my demon brothers had behaved themselves tonight.”

He felt his brows rise. “Demon brothers?”

She nodded. “Three of them. I’m afraid they’re quite a handful. David is a terror—he pretends to be a pirate and falls out of windows. I don’t know how many times we’ve had the doctor to the house. And then Harry, well, he has a tendency to lie—one never knows if the house really is on fire or not. And as for Matthew, he is only eight, you understand, if we could just stop him from locking the doors after people, and slipping around the house at night—we’ve lost three parlor maids and two housekeepers, and we’ve only been in town for five weeks.”

Tony looked into her face, into her green eyes so determinedly guileless, and struggled not to laugh. She was a terrible liar.

He managed to keep a straight face. “Have you tried beating them?”

“Oh, no! Well, only once. They ran away. We spent the most awful twenty-four hours before they came home again.”

“Ah—I see. And do I take it these demons are your responsibility?”

Head rising, she nodded. “My sole responsibility.”

At that, he grinned.

She saw. Frowned. “What?”

He lifted her hand from his sleeve, raised it to his lips. “If you want to scare gentlemen off, you shouldn’t sound so proud of your three imps.”

Her frown would have turned to a scowl, but her sister came up on Geoffrey’s arm and effectively distracted her. Adriana’s court trailed behind; within minutes they were once more part of a fashionable circle, within whose safety Alicia remained, shooting the occasional suspicious glance his way until, deeming his duty on all counts done, he bowed and took his leave.