A Gentleman's Honor (19 page)

Five minutes later, he strode up the steps of the Watch House. Two stalwart members of the Watch were heading out on their rounds; they glanced at him—and rapidly got out of his way.

Tony’s heels struck the tiles of the foyer; glancing swiftly around, he fixed his gaze on the supervisor behind the narrow desk, who was already eyeing him with increasing unease. This Watch House was situated on the edge of Mayfair; the hapless supervisor would know Trouble when he saw it. His expression as he hurriedly got to his feet suggested he recognized it bearing down on him now.

“Can I help you, sir—m’lord?”

I believe you have something of mine.

Tony bit back the words, reined in his temper, and quite softly said, “I believe there’s been a mistake.”

The sergeant paled. “A mistake, m’lord?”

“Indeed.” Tony drew out his card case, withdrew a card and flipped it on the desk. “I’m Lord Torrington, and according to Whitehall I’m in charge of the investigation into the murder of William Ruskin, lately of the Office of Customs and Revenue. I understand two of your men in company with a Bow Street Runner visited a private residence in Waverton Street an hour ago and removed,
by force
, a lady—Mrs. Alicia Carrington. The taradiddle I’ve been told—no doubt you and your men can explain it—is that Mrs. Carrington is accused of having stabbed Ruskin to death.”

At no point did he raise his voice; he’d long ago learned the knack of making subordinates quake with a quiet and steely tone.

With his gaze, he pinned the supervisor, who was now holding on to his desk as if he needed its support. “I should perhaps mention that it was
I
who discovered Ruskin’s body. In the circumstances, I would like an explanation and I would like it now, but first, before all else, you will release Mrs. Carrington into my care.” He smiled, and the supervisor visibly quailed. “I do hope you’ve taken exceptionally good care of her.”

The man could barely draw breath. He bowed, bobbed. “Indeed, m’lord—she did mention…we’ve put the lady in the magistrate’s office.” He hurried around the desk, almost stumbling in his haste to conduct Tony thither. “I’ll just show you, then I’ll get ahold of Smiggins—he’s the Runner, m’lord. We was acting under his orders.”

“Very well.” Tony followed the bobbing supervisor.

“What’s your name?”

“Elcott, sir—m’lord, begging your pardon.” Elcott stopped outside a door, and gestured. “The lady’s in here, m’lord”

“Thank you. Please send Smiggins here immediately. I wish to attend to this business and remove Mrs. Carrington as soon as possible. This is no place for a lady.”

Elcott kept bobbing. “Indeed, m’lord. Immediately, m’lord.”

With a curt nod, Tony dismissed him. Opening the door, he walked in.

Alicia was standing by the window, dressed in all her finery for the ball. She swung around as he entered; the pinched look in her face dissolved as she recognized him. “Thank God!”

She didn’t exactly fly to him, but she crossed the room quickly, her hands rising; shutting the door, he grasped them, and pulled her into his arms.

He held her tight, his cheek against her hair. “I came as soon as I could. You needn’t worry about Adriana and the boys—they know I’m here, and Geoffrey’s with them.”

A large part of her tension dissipated; she looked up, pushing back to look into his face. “Thank you. I didn’t know what to do—and I’ve no idea what’s going on. For some reason they think I stabbed Ruskin.”

“I know.” Tony heard footsteps approaching. Reluctantly releasing her, he urged her to the chair behind the desk. “Sit down—try not to say anything. Just listen and watch.”

A hesitant tap sounded on the door.

Resuming his previous, grim expression, he took up a stance beside Alicia’s chair. “Come.”

The door opened; a heavily built man in the distinctive red coat of a Bow Street Runner looked around the edge. He saw Tony; his eyes widened. He cleared his throat. “Smiggins, m’lord. You sent for me?”

“Indeed, Smiggins. Come in.”

Smiggins looked like he’d rather do anything else, however, opening the door wider, he entered, then ponderously shut the door. He turned to face them; meeting Tony’s eyes, he stiffened to attention. “Sir?”

“I understand you saw fit to apprehend Mrs. Carrington this evening. Why?”

Smiggins swallowed. “I had orders to bring the lady in to answer questions seeing as she was said to have stabbed some gentleman called Ruskin. To death, m’lord.”

“I see. I take it Elcott informed you that I have been placed in charge of the investigation into Ruskin’s murder by Whitehall?”

Hesitantly, Smiggins nodded. “That were a surprise, m’lord. We hadn’t been told that.”

“Indeed. Who gave you your orders?”

“Supervisor at Bow Street, m’lord. Mr. Bagget.”

Tony frowned. “I assume a warrant has been issued— who was the magistrate?”

Smiggins shifted; all color fled his cheeks. “Ah—I don’t know about any warrant, m’lord.”

Gaze fixed on the hapless Runner, Tony let the silence stretch, then quietly asked, “Are you telling me you seized a lady from her own house
without
a warrant?”

Smiggins looked green. Spine poker stiff, he stared straight ahead. “Information came in latish, about six, m’lord. Sir Phineas Colby—the magistrate on duty—he’d already left. It was thought…well, the information was that the lady was looking to leave the country, so…”

“So someone had the bright idea to send you, along with two ruffians, to take matters into your own hands and forcibly remove the lady from her home?”

Smiggins trembled and said nothing.

Again, Tony let silence work for him, then softly asked, “Who laid the information?”

It was abundantly clear that Smiggins wished himself anywhere but there. He hesitated, but knew he had to answer. “From what I heard, m’lord, the information came anonymous-like.”

“Anonymous?” Tony let his incredulity show. “On the basis of anonymous information, you acted to remove a lady from her home?”

Smiggins shifted. “We didn’t know—”

“You didn’t think!”

The sudden roar made Alicia jump; she stared at Tony. He glanced briefly at her, but immediately turned back to the now quaking Runner. “What exactly did this anonymous information say?”

“That Mrs. Alicia Carrington presently residing in Waverton Street had stabbed Mr. Ruskin to death and was likely to do a flit any minute.”

His gaze on the Runner, Tony shook his head. “We already know that whoever stabbed Ruskin was taller than he was and had to have possessed the strength of a man, not a woman. Ruskin was nearly as tall as me—taller than Mrs. Carrington. She could not have stabbed Ruskin.”

The Runner glanced at Alicia, then quickly looked forward.

Tony continued unrelenting, his tone lethally quiet. “You, Smiggins, and your supervisor have acted completely outside the law—the law you are supposed to uphold.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“In a moment, I will be taking Mrs. Carrington from here and returning her to her home. Henceforth as far as Bow Street are concerned, she is to be considered as being under my legal protection in this matter—is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, m’lord.”

“And in recompense to Mrs. Carrington for causing her distress, and to me for disrupting my evening, you will undertake, with your supervisor’s full support, to track down the source of your ‘anonymous information.’ You will do nothing else, take part in no other duty, until you have accomplished that and made a full report to me. Do I make myself clear, Smiggins?”

“Yes, m’lord. Very clear.”

“Good.” Tony waited, then quietly said, “You may go. Report to me the instant you learn anything—Torrington House, Upper Brook Street.”

Bowing, Smiggins backed to the door. “Yes, m’lord. At once.”

The instant the door shut behind him, Tony reached for Alicia’s hand. “Come. I’ll take you home.”

She rose with alacrity, more than ready to leave; as he led her to the door, she glanced at his face, at the hard, set planes, heard again his tone as he’d dealt with the Runner.

As she walked beside him out of the Watch House, her hand tucked possessively in his arm, she absorbed the other side of him she’d just seen.

It wasn’t until the carriage moved off from the curb and she relaxed against the well-padded seat that the shock and panic hit her. Until then, she’d been thinking of her brothers, of Adriana, worrying about them; until then, she’d taken everything in, but hadn’t spared any real thought for herself.

She shivered and twitched her cloak closer, huddled into its warmth. If he hadn’t come…a chill washed through her veins.

He glanced at her, then his arm came around her; he hugged her to him, against his warmth.

“Are you truly all right?” He whispered the words against her temple.

Her teeth were threatening to chatter, so she nodded.

Even through their clothes, the solid warmth of him reached her; as the carriage rolled on, negotiating the swell of evening traffic along Piccadilly, her chill slowly faded. His strength, the decisive and effective way he’d dealt with the entire episode, the simple fact of his presence beside her, seeped into her mind, into her consciousness, and reassured.

Eventually, she drew breath, glanced at him. “Thank you. It was just…” She gestured.

“Shock.” He looked out at the passing facades. “We’ll be back in Waverton Street soon.”

Silence descended. A minute passed, then she broke it. “I didn’t stab Ruskin.” She studied his face as he looked at her, but in the dimness couldn’t read his expression. She drew a determined breath. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

Tony gave the word, simple, straightforward, uninflected, and unadorned, its moment, let it sink into her mind. Then he looked down; taking her hand, he played with her fingers. “You heard me tell the Runner, and
Tante
Felicité and Lady Osbaldestone before that. Physically, you couldn’t have killed Ruskin. I—we—knew that from the day after his death.”

Her fingers twined with his. He could almost hear her mind working, hear the questions forming, sense her searching for the words.

“I. We. You told me you’d been asked to investigate, but until this evening, in the Watch House, I didn’t truly comprehend what that meant, that you were investigating at the behest of Whitehall.”

He felt her gaze trace his features. Waited for the next question, wondered how she’d phrase it.

“Who are you?”

When he didn’t immediately react, she drew breath, straightened within his arm. “You’re not just a nobleman the authorities—even less the gentlemen in Whitehall— just happened to ask to look into a matter because you stumbled over a body.” Turning her head, she studied him. “Are you?”

He let a moment pass, then met her gaze. “No. That isn’t how Whitehall operates.”

She didn’t respond, but simply waited.

He looked away, rapidly sorted through his impulses. He shouldn’t expect her to accept him as her husband without knowing who he was, all he truly was. Ingrained instincts urged continued and total secrecy, yet he recalled the trouble Jack Hendon had landed himself in when he’d failed to tell Kit the whole truth. He’d thought he was protecting her; instead, he’d hurt her, nearly driven her away…

He glanced at Alicia, then reached up and rapped on the roof. His coachman opened the trap. “Drive around the park.” The gates would be locked, but the streets around the perimeter wouldn’t be crowded at this time of night.

The trap fell shut; the carriage rolled on. The flare from a passing streetlamp briefly lit the carriage’s interior. He glanced at Alicia; she met his eyes, and raised a brow. The light faded; the shadows closed in.

Fittingly, perhaps.

He leaned back, resettling his arm so she could rest more comfortably, curving his palm about her shoulder both to steady her and keep her close. He tightened his other hand about hers, locking their fingers; in the dimness he needed the contact to help gauge her reactions.

Telling her all was a risk, but a risk he had to take.

“I told your brothers I was a major in the Guards, in a cavalry regiment.” Her fingers shifted; he squeezed them gently. “I was, but after the first few months, I didn’t serve in either the Guards or the cavalry.”

She’d turned her head and was watching his face, but he couldn’t make out her expression. He drew breath and went on, “There was this gentleman named Dalziel who has an office in Whitehall—” He continued, telling her what he’d never told anyone, not Felcité, not even his mother; quietly, steadily, he told her the truth of the past thirteen years of his life.

His voice remained cool, steady, his tone dispassionate, almost as if his dark and murky past was at a great distance. The carriage rolled on; she didn’t interrupt, didn’t exclaim or ask questions. Didn’t pass judgment, but he couldn’t tell if that was because she was shocked speechless or hadn’t yet taken in enough to believe and react.

He didn’t know how she would react. A surprising number of those whose lives and privileges he and his colleagues had risked their lives repeatedly to protect held that such services as those he’d performed, predicated first to last on deceit, fell outside the bounds of all decency and branded him forever less than a gentleman.

The knowledge that some who welcomed him into their homes would respond to the truth of his life, if they ever learned of it, in such a way had never bothered him. But how she reacted…

It was tempting, oh-so-tempting, to gloss over the dark facts, to paint the details of his life in brighter colors, to lighten them. To hide and disguise their true nature. He forced himself to resist, to speak nothing more than the unvarnished truth.

To his surprise, his chest felt tight, his throat not as clear as he liked. At one point, when recounting in bleak black-and-white terms the cold facts of his existence among the seedier elements in the northern French ports, he realized he’d tensed, that he was gripping her hand too tightly; he paused and forced himself to ease his hold.

She tightened hers. Shifted on the seat, then her other hand touched the back of his, and settled, warmly clasping. “It must have been dreadful.”