A Gentleman's Honor

FIVE

HE KISSED HER.

Her mouth had been open, her lips parted; he slid between, caressed, claimed—and felt her attention splinter. Her hands had gripped his upper arms; they tensed, but she didn’t push him away. She clung, held on.

As a whirlpool of want rose up and engulfed them.

He hadn’t intended it, had had no idea how much he wanted, how much hunger he possessed, or how readily it would rise to her lure. Hands framing her face, he angled his head and flagrantly feasted. Asking for no permission, giving no quarter, he plunged them both into the fire. She was a widow, not a skittish virgin; he didn’t need to explain things to her.

Such as the nature of his want. His tongue tangling with hers, aggressively plundering, he released her face and gathered her to him. Into his arms, against his hard frame. Glorying in the supple softness that promised to ease his ache, he molded her to him, blatantly shifted his hips against hers. He felt her spine soften as she sank into him.

As her bones melted and her knees gave way.

Alicia struggled to cling to her wits, but time and again he ripped them away. Her breath was long gone; with their mouths melded she could only breathe through him—she’d given up the fight to do otherwise.

Her head spun—pleasurably. Warmth, burgeoning heat, spread through her veins. Intoxicating. Shocking. She tried to cling to her anger, rekindle her fury, but could not.

She’d had only a second’s warning, but she’d expected a kiss—a touching of lips, not this ravenous, flagrantly intimate exchange. Mild kisses she could cope with, but this? It was new territory, unknown and dangerous, yet she couldn’t—could not—let her innocence, her inexperience show.

No matter how much her senses swam, how much her wits had seized in sheer shock.

She had nothing to guide her but him. In desperation, she mimicked the play of his tongue against hers, and sensed his immediate approval. In seconds, they were engaged in a duel, in a sensual game of thrust and parry.

Of lips and tongues, of heated softness and beguiling aggression, of shared breaths and, amazingly, shared hunger.

It caught her, dragged at her mind. Drew her in. Held her captive.

He urged her closer still, one hand sliding down her back to splay over her hips, her bottom, lifting her and pressing her to him.

Sensation streaked over her skin, prickling, heated; she clung tight, felt the world whirl.

And she was engulfed in his strength, enveloped by it, a potent masculine power that seemed to weaken every bone in her body, that promised heat and flames so dizzyingly pleasurable all she wanted was to wantonly wallow, to give herself up to them and be consumed.

On one level it was frightening, but she couldn’t retreat—had wit enough left to know she couldn’t panic, couldn’t run.

She was supposed to be a widow. She had to stand there, accept all, and respond as if she understood.

Eventually his aggression eased, the tension riding him gradually, step by step, reined in. Gripping his arms, fingers sunk deep, she felt that drawing back; the kiss lightened, became a more gentle if still intimate caress, lips clinging, teasing, still wanting.

At last he raised his head, but not far.

Her lips felt swollen and hot; from beneath her lashes, she glanced at his eyes. His black gaze touched her eyes, held, then he sighed. Bent and touched his lips to the corner of hers.

“I didn’t intend this. There were people in the corridor. A danger…”

Deep, gravelly, the words feathered her cheek; sensation, hot and immediate, flashed over her.

“I wanted to apologize…” He paused, raised his head. Again she met his eyes, again found them waiting to capture hers. Something predatory flashed in the rich blackness, then he continued, “Not for this. Not for anything I’ve done or even said, but for how what I said in the park sounded.”

His tone was still low, slightly rough, teasing something—some response—from her.

Her gaze had drifted to his lips; his hands tightened on her back, and she looked up, eyes widening as she felt the heat between them flare again.

He caught her gaze, held it. “I’m not Ruskin. I will never hurt or harm you. I want to protect you, not threaten you.” He hesitated, then went on, “Even this—I didn’t plan it.”

This. He was still holding her close, not as tight as before yet just as flagrantly. Only lovers, she was perfectly certain, should ever be this close. Yet she didn’t dare pull back, fought instead to ignore the warm flush the embrace sent coursing through her. What had gone before no longer seemed terribly relevant.

“So—” She broke off, shocked by the sound of her voice, low, almost sultry. She moistened her lips, tried for a normal tone. Didn’t quite manage it. “What had you planned?” She met his eyes, clung to her bold front.

He studied her face, then his lips twisted. “I spoke the truth—I do need to speak with you.”

He made no move to release her. How would an experienced widow react? She forced herself to remain passive in his arms and raised a haughty brow. “About what? I wasn’t aware we had anything to discuss.”

One black brow arched—arrogantly; holding her gaze, he deliberately shifted her against him, settling her in his arms—sending her senses reeling again. “Obviously”— he gave the word blatant weight—“there’s much we could, and later will, discuss. However…”

The room, a small parlor overlooking the gardens, was unlit, but her eyes had adjusted—she could see his face well enough. Although he didn’t physically sigh, she sensed his mind lift from them and refocus on something beyond. A frown in his eyes, he looked down at her, studied her face.

“When did you marry Carrington?”

She stared at him. “Marry?”

His frown grew more definite. “Humor me. When was your wedding?”

“Ah.” She struggled to remember when it must have been. “Eighteen months—no, more like two years ago, now.”

She dragged in a breath, struggled to ignore the way her breasts pressed into his chest, how her nipples tightened, and dragooned her wits into order. He was investigating Ruskin’s death; she couldn’t afford to prod his suspicions. “It was a very short marriage. Poor Alfred—it was terribly sad.”

His brow arched again. “So you’ve been Alicia Carrington for only two years?”

She checked her calculations. “Yes.” She bit her tongue against adding anything more; better to keep her answers short.

He didn’t seem to notice; he seemed, not exactly relieved, but pleased. “Good!”

When she looked her surprise, he smiled rather grimly. “So you can’t be A. C.”

“Who’s A. C.?”

“The person who paid Ruskin for his treasonous services.”

She stared at him. Her lips formed the word twice before she managed to utter it. “What?”

Tony grimaced. He looked around. “Here.” Reluctantly releasing her, he steered her to a chaise. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”

It hadn’t come easily, his acceptance that if he wanted her trust, he would have to tell her, if not all, then at least most of what was going on, how he was involved, how she was involved—how she was threatened. He needed her cooperation for reasons that struck much deeper than his mission; that mission—his investigation—was a whip he could use to command her, but only one thing would suffice to make her trust him. To lean on him as he wished her to.

Appeasement—a peace offering, some gift on his part—was the only way to nudge her onto the path he’d chosen. The most important element between them right now was the truth; as far as he was able, he would give her that.

He waited while, with a suspicious and wary glance, she sat and settled her skirts, then he sat beside her and took her hand in his. Looked down, played with her fingers as he assembled his words.

Then, keeping his voice low yet clear enough for her to easily hear, he told her simply, without embellishment, all he’d learned of Ruskin.

She listened, increasingly attentive, but made no comment.

But when he came to how and where he’d discovered the initials A. C., her fingers tensed, tightened on his. He glanced at her.

She studied his eyes, searched his face. Then she breathed in tightly. “You know I didn’t kill him—that I’m innocent of all this?”

Not so much a question as a request for a clear statement.

“Yes.” He raised her hand to his lips, held her gaze as he kissed. “I know you didn’t kill him. I know you’re not involved in any treasonous use of shipping information.” He lowered their locked hands, then added, “However, you—we—have to face the fact that someone started the rumor I heard.”

“I can’t understand it—how could anyone know?”

“Are you sure, absolutely sure, that your secret, whatever it is, was known only by Ruskin?”

Frowning, she met his gaze, then looked away. Her hand remained resting in his. After a moment, she replied, “It might be possible that, in the same way Ruskin had learned what he had, then someone else might have, too. But what I can’t understand is how that someone could know Ruskin was using the information as he was.”

She looked at him.

“Indeed. Blackmail doesn’t work if others know.” He paused, then added, “From what I’ve learned of Ruskin, he wasn’t the sort to give away valuable information. He’d have charged for it, and—”

Releasing her hand, he stood; he thought better on his feet. “The dates of payments noted in his black book not only match the dates he paid his debts, but also follow by about a week the dates he noted for certain ships.” He paced, caught her eye. “However, there’s no other payment—any unaccounted payment—entered. So I think we’re on firm ground in assuming he hadn’t sold any information other than the shipping directives.”

Halting by the fireplace, he considered her. “So the question remains. Who would he have told about you, and why?”

Her brow creased as she looked at him; her gaze grew distant.

“What?”

She flicked him an impatient glance. “I was just wondering…”

When he moved toward her, she quickly continued, “When he left me, Ruskin was sure—absolutely confident—that I’d agree to his proposal. He”—she paused, blushed, but lifted her head and went on—“was so certain he expected to call the next evening and… receive my acceptance.”

After a moment, she met his eyes. “I didn’t know him well, but given his nature, he probably couldn’t help gloating. About me—I mean, about gaining a wealthy widow as his wife.”

Tony could visualize such a scenario readily, but he doubted it was her wealth Ruskin would have gloated about. Nevertheless…

“That would fit.” He paced again. “If Ruskin, quite unsuspectingly, mentioned his coup—and yes, I agree, he was the type of man to gloat, then…” Bits and pieces of the jigsaw slid into place.

“What?”

He glanced at her, and found her glaring at him; he felt his lips ease. “Consider this. If Ruskin was murdered by whoever he’d been selling his information to—”

“By this A. C., you mean?”

He nodded. “Then if he mentioned he was about to marry, quite aside from any risk from the blackmail going wrong—it’s always a risky business—the knowledge that Ruskin would soon have a wife would have increased the threat Ruskin posed to A. C.”

“In case he told his wife?”

“Or she found out. Ruskin even mentioning knowing A. C., even years from now, might have been dangerous.”

Alicia pieced together the picture he was painting. At one level, she could barely believe all that had happened since they’d entered the room. That searing kiss—it was as if it had cindered, felled, and consumed all barriers between them. He was talking to her, treating her, as if she was an accomplice, a partner in his investigation. More, a friend.

Almost a lover.

And she was reacting as if she were.

She was amazed at herself. She didn’t—never had— trusted so readily. Yet if she was honest, it was why she’d been so furious with him in the park, when, despite her totally unwarranted trust—one he’d somehow earned in a few short days—it had seemed his interest in her and her family had all been fabricated. False.

That kiss hadn’t been false.

It had been a statement, unplanned maybe, but once made, it couldn’t be retracted—and he hadn’t tried. It had happened, and he’d accepted it.

She had no choice but to do the same.

Especially as she, innocent or not, was being drawn deeper and deeper into the web of intrigue surrounding Ruskin’s murder.

“Is this what you think happened?” She didn’t look up, but sensed his attention fasten on her. “Presumably the man—let’s assume he’s A. C.—had arrived in the Amery House gardens via the garden gate. Ruskin went out to meet him—it had to have been an arranged meeting.”

Torrington—Tony—drew nearer. “Yes.”

“So then Ruskin babbled about his soon-to-be conquest—me—but…” Frowning, she glanced up. “Had Ruskin some information to sell, or had A. C. come there with murder on his mind?”

Tony mentally reviewed all Ruskin’s notes on shipping. None had been recent. Even more telling…“I don’t think there could be anything worthwhile for Ruskin to sell. With the war over, the information he had access to wouldn’t be all that useful….”

He was aware of her watching him, trying to read his face, follow his thoughts. He glanced at her. “I haven’t yet defined how the information Ruskin passed on was used, but it’s telling his association with A. C. began in early ’12. That was when naval activity once again became critical. From ’12 up until Waterloo, shipping was constantly under threat. Now, however, there is no significant danger on the seas.”

He was going to have to pursue that angle hard, and soon.

She took up the tale before he could. “If Ruskin no longer had anything of real use to A. C., then…” She looked up at him.

He met her gaze. “A. C., assuming he has a position and reputation to protect, would have been threatened by Ruskin’s continued existence.”

“If Ruskin was not above blackmailing me…”

“Indeed. He may not have called it by that name, but given his debts, he would have needed an injection of capital quite soon, and almost certainly would have looked to A. C.”

“Who decided to end their association.” She nodded.

“Very well. So while Ruskin is gloating, A. C. stabs him and leaves him dead. I come down the path—” She paled.

“Do you think A. C. saw me?”

He considered, then shook his head. “The timing— when I saw him on the street—makes that unlikely.”

“But then how did he know it was me Ruskin was blackmailing? Would Ruskin have told him my name?”

“Unlikely, but A. C.—and I agree, it most likely was he—didn’t need your name to start the rumors.”

She frowned at him. “These rumors—what exactly do they say?”

“That Ruskin was blackmailing some lady—a widow.”

Her frown deepened. “But there are many widows in the ton.”

“Indeed, but only one was seen talking to Ruskin immediately before he died.”

Her gaze remained locked with his, then, abruptly, all color drained from her face. “Oh, good heavens!”

She sprang to her feet; her eyes flashed fire at him as if he was in some way culpable. “If they’ve decided I’m the widow in question, then what …? Good lord! Adriana!”

Whirling, she raced for the door. He got there before her, closing his hand about the knob. “It’s all right—calm down!” He caught her gaze as she paused, impatient before the door. “Manningham’s with her.”

Her eyes flashed again. “You and he planned this.”

He tried to frown her down. “I had to talk to you.”

“That’s all very well, but what’s been happening out there”—she jabbed a finger toward the ballroom—“while we’ve been talking?”

“Nothing. Most will be waiting, wondering where you are, hoping to catch a glimpse but not surprised given the crush that they haven’t yet succeeded.” He took in her wide eyes, the tension now gripping her. “There’s no need to panic. They don’t know it’s you, and they only will know if you behave as if it is. As if you’re frightened, or watchful. Ready to take flight.”

Alicia met his steady gaze. To her surprise, she drew comfort from it. She drew in a breath. “So I have to carry it off with a high head and a high hand?”

“Absolutely. You can’t afford to let those hyenas sense fear.”

Despite all, her lips twitched. Hyenas? The hard line of his lips eased; she realized he’d deliberately tried to make her smile.

Then his gaze flicked up to her eyes.

He lowered his head—slowly; she sucked in a breath.

Held it as her lids fell and his lips touched hers—not in a tantalizing teasing caress, yet neither with their earlier ravenous hunger.

A definite promise; that’s what the kiss was—as simple as that.

Slowly, he raised his head; their lips clung for an instant, then parted.

Lifting her lids, she met his black gaze.

He searched her eyes, then turned the knob and opened the door. “Come. Let’s face down the ton.”

She returned to the ballroom on his arm, calm, her usual poise to the fore. It was all a sham, but she was now an expert in the art of pulling wool over the ton’s collective eyes.

One thing he’d said stuck in her mind: watchful. She had to stop herself from looking around, from searching for signs that people suspected her. She had to appear oblivious; it was the most difficult charade she’d ever performed.

He helped. On his arm, she strolled; he was attentive, charming, chatting inconsequentially as two such as they might. He was a wealthy peer; she was a wealthy, wellborn widow. They didn’t need to hide a friendship.

They progressed down the room; she smiled, laughed lightly, and let her gaze rest on the dancers but no one else. He distracted her whenever the temptation to scrutinize those watching them burgeoned.

At one point, his lips curved rakishly; he bent his head to whisper, “They’re totally confused.”

She met his gaze as he straightened. “About what?”

“About which rumor they should spread.”

When she looked her question, with a self-deprecatory quirk of his lips he explained, “The one about you and Ruskin, or the one about you and me.”

She looked into his black eyes. Blinked. “Oh.”

“Indeed. So all we need do is continue on our present tack, and their befuddlement will be complete.”

Just which tack he meant she discovered a minute later.

She’d expected him to guide her to Adriana’s side; her sister wasn’t on the dance floor, which surprised and concerned her—she hadn’t yet located her among the crowd. Instead, he led her to a chaise midway down the long ballroom. Lady Amery was seated on it, along with an older lady Alicia had previously met.

Nervousness struck; her fingers fluttered on Tony’s sleeve. Instantly, his hand closed, warm and comforting, over hers. Steering her to the chaise, he bowed to the two dames. “Tante Felicité. Lady Osbaldestone.”

Spine poker straight, Lady Osbaldestone nodded regally back.

“I believe you’re both acquainted with Mrs. Carrington?”

Alicia curtsied.

“Indeed.” Lady Amery reached for her hands; her eyes glowed with welcome. “My dear, I must apologize for this dreadful business. I am most distressed that it was your attendance at my soirée that has given rise to such unpleasantness. Why, there are any number of widows in the ton, and as we all know, many of those others are much more certain to have secrets to hide. So foolish of these bourgeoisie”—with a contemptuous flick of her hand she dismissed them—“to imagine you had any connection with Mr. Ruskin beyond the natural one of living nearby.”

Her ladyship paused; bright eyes fixed on Alicia’s face, she surreptitiously pressed her fingers. “Tony tells me you spoke with Mr. Ruskin, but it was purely an exchange about mutual acquaintances in the country.”

In the corridor just before they’d reentered the ballroom, he’d primed her with that tale. Alicia longed to turn her head and glare at him; he hadn’t mentioned this little encounter he’d arranged for her.

“Indeed.” To her relief, the glamor she’d perfected over the last weeks didn’t waver; she smiled with easy assurance tempered with just the right touch of innocent bewilderment. “We hail from the same area. Although we only met recently, here in town, we shared a number of mutual acquaintances. It was they we discussed in your drawing room that evening.”

Lady Osbaldestone humphed, drawing Alicia’s attention. The old black eyes assessing her were a great deal sharper and harder than Tony’s ever were. “In that case, you’ll have to excuse those with nothing better to do than wag their tongues and make mischief. For my money, they’ve hay for brains.

“I ask you,” she continued, “even if Ruskin was blackmailing some widow, what has that to say to anything?” She gave a dismissive snort. “The idea of some lady in evening dress pulling a stiletto from her reticule and stabbing him to death is ludicrous. Aside from the fact he was no weakling, and would hardly have obligingly stood still while she poked him, where would she have carried the blade?” The black eyes flashed, at Tony as well as Alicia.

“That’s what I’d like to know. Have you ever seen one of those things? Pshaw! It’s not possible.”

Apparently entertained, Tony inclined his head. “As you say. I heard the authorities are looking for a man at least as tall as Ruskin.”

“Indeed?” Lady Osbaldestone brightened at the news.

“Not perhaps revealing, but interesting nevertheless.” She rose; although she carried a cane, she rarely used it.

She was a tall woman, taller than Alicia; her face had never been pretty, but not even age could dim the strength of its aristocratic lines. Her piercing black eyes rested on Alicia, then her lips lifted, and she looked at Tony. “Send my regards to your mother when next you bestir yourself to write. Tell her Helena sends her fondest wishes, too.” Lifting her cane, she jabbed it at him. “Don’t forget!”

“Naturally not.” Eyes on the cane, Tony bowed with a flourish. “I wouldn’t dare.”

With a glint in her eye, Lady Osbaldestone regally acknowledged Alicia’s bobbed curtsy and Lady Amery’s salute, then glided away.

“Well, there you are!” Lady Amery beamed at Tony and Alicia. “It is done, and Therese will do the rest, you may be sure.” She lifted a hand, waved it at Tony; he took it and helped her to her feet.

“Bien! So now I am going to enjoy myself, too, and see what a stir I can cause.” She glanced at Alicia, and patted her arm. “And you must go and dance, and pretend not to notice, and it will all blow over, my dear. You’ll see.”

Alicia looked into Lady Amery’s button-bright eyes, then implusively squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

Her ladyship’s eyes glowed brighter. “No, no, chérie. That is not necessary—indeed, it is I who must thank you.” Her gaze shifted to Tony. “I am an old woman, and I have been waiting an age to be asked to help. At last it has happened, and you are the cause. It is good.” She patted Alicia’s hand and released it. “Now go and dance, and I will go and make mischief.”

The first strains of a waltz were percolating through the room; Tony offered his arm. “I suspect your sister will be located most easily on the dance floor.”

Alicia narrowed her eyes at him, but consented to place her hand on his arm. He steered her to the floor; seconds later they were whirling.

She took a few minutes to adjust, to regain her breath, realign her wits and subdue her clamorous senses. The physical power with which he so effortlessly swept her along, the shift and sway of their bodies, the subtle repetitive temptation of their limbs brushing, touching, then moving away—the waltz was a seduction in itself, at least the way he danced it.

Surreptitiously clearing her throat, she looked up; she studied his expression, arrogant, latent charm lurking, yet difficult to read. “Why did you ask Lady Amery to help?”

He glanced down at her. “She’s my godmother. You heard her—she’s been waiting for the bugle call for years.” He looked ahead, then added, “It seemed appropriate.”

“It’s you she wanted to help, not me.”

His lips quirked. “Actually, no—it’s you she’s been waiting all my life to aid.”

She frowned and would have pursued the odd point, but a flash of dark curls caught her eye. Turning, she saw Adriana whirling down the room in Geoffrey Manningham’s arms. Her sister was… the only fitting word was scintillating. She drew eye after male eye, and a good many female ones, too. Her delight seemed to fill her and overflow.

Alicia looked at Tony, caught his eye. “Please tell me your friend is entirely trustworthy.”

He grinned; after whirling her through the turns at the end of the room, he dutifully parroted, “Geoffrey is entirely trustworthy.” He paused, then added, “At least where your sister’s concerned.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he won’t do anything you would disapprove of.”

She blinked at him. “Why not?”

“Because if he makes you unhappy, then I’ll be unhappy, and Geoffrey and I have been down that road before.”

She studied his eyes. A vise slowly tightened about her lungs. Then she forced in a breath, lifted her head, fixed her gaze over his left shoulder, and stated, “If you imagine I’ll be grateful…”

Her courage failed her; she couldn’t go on. But he thought her a widow, and clearly had a certain interest, and just possibly imagined….

He frowned at her; from the corner of her eye she watched…it took a moment for him to follow her reasoning, then his eyes flared. His lips set in a thin line. The fingers about her hand tightened; the hand at her back tensed… then, very slowly, eased.

Eyes narrow, Tony waited; when she didn’t look at him, he looked away, unseeing. After a moment, he exhaled. “You are without doubt the most difficult female I’ve ever—” He bit the words off, abruptly stopped as his temper threatened to erupt. When he had his fury once more in hand, he drew breath and went on, his voice low, tight, very definitely just for her. “I’m not helping you in the expectation of gaining any specific…” He cast about in his mind, but could only come up with, “Service.”

Her eyes flicked to his face, wide, curious, wanting to know.

He trapped her gaze. “I want you, but not as a result of any damned gratitude!”

Her eyes remained on his, then scanned his features. “Why, then”—her voice, too, was low, intensely private—“are you helping me?”

For an instant, he inwardly rocked, then he found the right words—words he could say. “Because you deserve it. Because you and your sister and your demon brothers don’t deserve the censure of the ton, let alone being implicated in a murder.”

For a long moment, she held his gaze, then her lips gently lifted. “Thank you.” She looked away; he only just caught her last words. “You’re a good man.”

He wasn’t quite so good as he would have her believe, but he definitely wasn’t expecting her gratitude to stretch as far as an invitation to her bed. He did expect to be invited to her bed, but not because of his efforts on her behalf.

The next morning, he was still… not so much smarting as ruffled, a disordered sensation he appreciated not at all. A vague disgruntlement that she’d even imagined that he might need to resort to gratitude—

He cut off the thought and headed for the Bastion Club.

Sanity in a disconcerting world—a world with females in it.

He was looking for advice. In the club’s drawing room, he found Christian Allardyce slouched in an armchair, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, a news sheet propped before his face. He lowered it as Tony entered.

“Ho! And here I’ve been wondering about these tales of you stumbling over a dead body.”

Tony grimaced. “All true, I’m afraid, and there’s a deadly twist. The game’s fallen into Dalziel’s lap, and guess who he’s tapped on the shoulder?”

Christian’s brows rose. “And you agreed?”

Elegantly sitting in another chair, Tony shrugged. “Aside from the fact that refusing Dalziel is marginally more difficult than taking an enemy battery single-handed, there were other aspects that attracted me.”

“Quite apart from tripping over the body.”

“Indeed. From what we have, the man was a traitor of sorts.” Crisply, he outlined what he knew of Ruskin, omitting all mention of one lovely widow. After describing the payments made by A. C., he went on, “I wondered if perhaps, if A. C. was truly wise, he might have channeled the payments through a moneylender.”

Christian opened his eyes wide. “Used a moneylender to draw the large sums, then paid them back with numerous smaller amounts much easier to explain from his own accounts?”

“Exactly. Do you think that’s possible?”

Christian nodded. “I would say so.” He met Tony’s gaze. “Certainly worth asking.”

“Next question: who do I ask? I’ve never had any dealings with such gentlemen.”

“Ah! You’ve come to the right source.”

It was Tony’s turn to open his eyes wide. “I would never have imagined you deep in debt and reduced to dealing with moneylenders.”

Christian grinned and laid aside the news sheet. “No, I never was. But I once bailed out a friend, and along the way I made the acquaintance of a good handful of the gentlemen. Enough, certainly, to start you on your way.”

Folding his hands across his waistcoat, Christian leaned his head back; eyes on the ceiling, he started recounting all he knew.

Tony drank it in. At the end of fifteen minutes, he knew exactly who to approach, and even more importantly, how.

Thanking Christian, he left the club and headed into the city.

His interview with Mr. King, the most famous—or infamous depending on one’s point of view—usurer in London was an unqualified success. Mr. King’s office was a stone’s throw from the Bank of England; as Christian had prophesied, Mr. King was perfectly happy to assist the authorities given their investigation in no way threatened him or his trade.

A traitor lost all claim to confidentiality; Mr. King had ascertained that no gentleman with the initials A. C. had borrowed large sums of cash from him. He’d confirmed that the practice of disguising major debts in such a way was not uncommon, and had undertaken to inquire on the government’s behalf among the other moneylenders capable of advancing such sums.

Tony parted from Mr. King on genial terms. Hailing a hackney, he headed back to Mayfair. With the money angle in hand, he had two other avenues of inquiry to pursue; as the carriage rocked along, he considered how best to tackle them.

Nearing the fashionable quarter, he glanced out at the pavement. It was a glorious day, ladies walking, children laughing and dancing.

Temptation whispered.

Reaching up, he thumped on the roof, then directed the jarvey to Green Park.

He arrived to an exuberant welcome, and had just enough time to have a quick turn flying the kite before Alicia, feigning primness, gathered them all and herded them back to Waverton Street.

Although he quizzed her with his eyes, she remained spuriously aloof, walking smartly along, the boys skipping about them.

He matched his stride to hers, inwardly amused, not only with her but with himself. It had been a long time—thirteen years at least—since he’d felt so relaxed, experienced this kind of subtle content. He’d honestly enjoyed his time with her brothers; it was almost as if his military years, especially as he’d lived them, had been taken out of his life, excised, so the youth he’d been at nineteen had more in common with the man he had become.

Or perhaps all he’d seen, all he’d experienced in those thirteen years away, had left him with a deeper appreciation of life’s little pleasures.

Reaching their house, she opened the door. The boys tumbled in.

“Blackberry jam today!” Matthew sang, and rushed for the stairs.

The older two raced after him, laughing and calling. Jenkins, the kite in his arms, smiled and trudged after them.

Alicia called after him, “Do make sure they’re clean before they come down, Jenkins.”

“Aye, ma’am.” Jenkins looked back. “And I’ll let Cook know about tea.”

He nodded deferentially to the presence behind her; suddenly realizing, Alicia whirled. “Oh—yes.” She met Tony’s black eyes; uncertainty flared. “You…er, will stay for tea, won’t you?”

They were suddenly alone in the hall. He smiled, slowly, into her eyes, then inclined his head. “Blackberry jam’s my favorite.”

His gaze dropped to her lips; the image that flashed into her mind was of him licking blackberry jam from them. Heat rising in her cheeks, she quickly turned away. “Adriana will be in the parlor.”

She led the way, with some relief saw Adriana look up as they entered. Adriana and Tony exchanged easy greetings; as was her habit, Adriana was studying the latest fashion plates prior to designing their next round of gowns.

They all sat; a companionable, almost familial ease fell over them. From her corner of the chaise, Alicia watched as Adriana asked Tony’s opinions on various styles depicted in the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée. He responded readily; it was quickly apparent he understood more about ladies’ garments than one might suppose a gentleman would….

She broke off the thought. His attention was on the plates Adriana had spread before him; she seized the opportunity to study him.

She wished she could see into his mind.

Since they’d parted the previous evening, she’d been plagued by one question: how did he think of her? How did he see her—what were his intentions, his expectations? What direction did he imagine they were headed in?

Given the circumstances, those were not only valid questions; learning the answers was vital to maintaining her charade and succeeding in their aim of having Adriana marry well.

Tony—Viscount Torrington—could easily scupper their plans. If he learned of them, and if he so chose. There was, at present, no reason he should stumble on their—her—crucial secret. That secret, however, was precisely the fact that most complicated her way forward.

Along with all the ton, he thought her a widow.

Last night had been a warning. If she was to maintain her charade long enough to establish Adriana, and then disappear, she was going to have to as far as possible restrict her interaction with Torrington.

And what she couldn’t avoid, she was going to have to respond to as if she was indeed a widow; she couldn’t risk all they’d done, all their success to date, by succumbing to any missish sentiment.

The thunder of feet on the stairs heralded her brothers’ arrival. They burst in, full of chatter and exclamations. Jenkins followed with the tray. In seconds, the parlor was filled with rowdy, boisterous warmth and comfort; if anything was needed to remind her why she was playing the role she was, it was there before her in her brothers’ smiling, laughing, happy faces.

Torrington—thinking of him by his title helped to keep a sensible distance between them, at least in her mind— gave his attention to the boys, answering questions, joining in their speculations and wonderings, occasionally teasing in a way the boys not only understood and accepted, but took great delight in.

As the guardian of three males, she’d long known they were incomprehensible beings; watching Tony— Torrington!—slouched on the floor, munching a muffin slathered with blackberry jam only compounded her wonder.

He caught her watching; their gazes touched, locked, then he smiled. A fleeting, wholly personal, even intimate gesture, then he looked again to David, who’d posed the question of when the animals in the zoo were most likely fed.

To the boys’ disappointment, Tony admitted he didn’t know; to their delight, he promised to find out.

It was time to step in. She leaned forward. “Enough, boys! Time for your lessons.”

With artistic groans, they clambered to their feet; eyes alight, each shook hands with Tony. Armed with his promise to let them know what he learned with all speed, they left with remarkable alacrity for their books.

Inwardly frowning, Alicia watched them disappear. Jenkins entered and removed the tray.

As he was leaving, Adriana bounced to her feet. “I want to do some sketching. I’ll be up in my room.”

Before Alicia could think of a suitably worded protest, given he whose presence occasioned that protest was stretched at her feet looking thoroughly at home, Adriana had blithely taken her leave of him, then, without meeting her eyes, her sister whisked out of the room.

And closed the door behind her.