A Gentleman's Honor (20 page)

Quiet acceptance, quiet empathy.

Both flowed around him like liquid gold.

His fingers curled, gripping hers again; warmth blossomed in his chest. After a moment, he went on, “But that’s all in the past. Along with most others, I got out last year.” He glanced at her, sensed the contact when she met his gaze. “However…”

She tilted her head. “When Ruskin was stabbed, and
you
reported the body…?”

“Indeed. Dalziel reappeared in my life.” He grimaced.

“If I’d been in his place, I’d have done the same. Whatever the business Ruskin was involved in, it’s almost certainly treasonous.”

They’d circled the park; ahead, the flickering streetlamps played over the stately mansions of Mayfair. He reached up, and instructed the coachman to head for Waverton Street. Once they were within the fashionable, well-lighted streets, he looked at her and found her watching him, not judgmentally, not even curiously, but as if she could finally see him clearly—and what she saw was something of a relief.

Her gaze shifted past him, then her lips eased and she sat back. “So that’s why Whitehall—this Dalziel person— chose you for the investigation. Because you’ve proved beyond question to be true to the country’s cause.”

No one had ever described him like that, but…he inclined his head. “It’s important that whoever is pursuing the investigation is beyond question true, because with Ruskin being within the bureacracy, it’s likely whoever he was dealing with is in some way connected either with a relevant department, or the government.”

Waverton Street was approaching; Alicia spoke quickly. Her mind was racing, thoughts tumbling. “So is your investigation supposed to be secret?”

His reply was wry. “It was.”

She glanced at him. “But now you’ve had to step in and rescue me—I
am
sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Yes, you should have.” His hand tightened about hers.

“Indeed, if you hadn’t, I’d have been… displeased.”

She frowned at him. “Are you sure?”

“Perfectly. Neither the Watch nor Bow Street will be falling over themselves to say anything about what occurred tonight. Unless whoever was behind this evening’s events was actually watching the Watch House, they won’t be any the wiser.”

“Whoever was behind…” She stared at him. “You mean the person who laid the information…that was deliberate? I assumed it was just a mistake….” Hearing the words brought home the unlikelihood of such a supposition. She faced forward. “Oh.”

“Indeed.” His tone had hardened.

She glanced at him as the carriage rocked to a stop; his face had hardened, too.

He shifted forward; reaching for the door latch, he met her gaze. “We need to consider how to react—how best to meet this new development.”

“She’s back!” Harry reached Alicia first, wrapping his arms around her waist and hugging her tightly.

“I’m all right.” She hugged him back, then opened her arms to Matthew, who clutched and wriggled until, with an effort, she lifted him into her arms. David hung back, feeling his age, yet clearly wanting reassurance; she smiled, freed a hand, and drew him to her for a quick kiss. “Truly,” she whispered, then let him go.

His somber expression eased; turning, he led the way to the chaise.

Having followed Alicia into the parlor, Tony pressed a hand to her back, worried about Matthew’s weight. She flashed him a smile, then glanced down at Harry’s head.

Transferring his hand to Harry’s shoulder, he gripped lightly. “Come on—let’s get her to sit down.”

Harry glanced at him, then released Alicia; tucking his hand in Tony’s, he went with him to the armchair and perched on the arm. Still carrying Matthew, Alicia walked more slowly to the chaise. Matthew slid down and she sat, then he crawled into her lap.

Beside her, Adriana laid a hand on her arm. “It must have been awful—you must have been so afraid.”

Alicia smiled reassuringly. “I wasn’t there long enough to get into a state.” She glanced at Tony, then looked down at Matthew, snuggling close. She ruffled his hair. “Sweetheart, it’s long past your bedtime.”

He looked up at her, for a minute said nothing, then, smothering a yawn, mumbled, “Have you told Tony about the ships?”

She looked at Tony. Everyone looked at him.

He stared back. “What about the ships?”

Three pairs of eyes focused in brotherly admonition on Alicia. She waved in exculpation. “There’s been so much happening”—she exchanged a glance with Tony, the memory of their drive around the park and all it had revealed high in her mind—“I haven’t had a chance. But now you can tell him yourselves.”

They did, in a chorus of statements and explanations that left him dazed. “Prizes? Sixteen of them? You’re sure?”

Tony studied the list Alicia had fetched from her escritoire. The boys had gathered about him, David leaning over his shoulder, Matthew and Harry balancing one on each chair arm. Scanning the list and the inscribed “P”s, he listened as they explained how they’d gleaned their information.

All the ships were still registered, therefore presumably still afloat, as they would be if they’d been taken as prizes and subsequently ransomed by their owners.

Alicia sank back on the chaise. “Jenkins can tell you more if need be. And Maggs—he went, too.”

He glanced at her, then looked around at the boys, meeting their eyes. “This is excellent.” He didn’t have to fabricate his enthusiasm, the sincerity of his thanks. “You’ve shown us which direction to pursue. Thank you.” Solemnly, he shook each boy’s hand.

They grinned, and continued pelting him with information about the ships. One part of his mind listened, cataloging useful details; most of his mind was racing, assessing, formulating.

When the boys’ observations slowed, then stopped, Alicia rose, clearly intending to gather them and send them upstairs. He stayed her with an upraised hand. “One moment.”

One glance at Geoffrey’s face, and Adriana’s, assured him neither would let him leave without a comprehensive explanation of what was going on; they were merely biding their time. His professional habits urged secrecy—information shared only with those who needed to know— yet this time other instincts, deeper instincts, were increasingly suggesting that sharing knowledge was a wiser, infinitely safer way to proceed.

His gaze came to rest on Alicia’s brothers, on the three tousled, silky brown heads, currently bent close as they again examined the list of ships.

If he were on the “other side” in this affair…

They’d already targeted Alicia, not once, but twice. They knew where she lived. Anyone watching the house and her would quickly realize what her strongest instinct was—and therein lay her greatest weakness. It would be remarkably easy to engineer, and her reaction would be one hundred percent predictable…

Raising his gaze to her face, he waved her to sit. Puzzled, she sank down on the edge of the chaise. He glanced at Geoffrey and Adriana, then looked back at her. “This household—Adriana and Geoffrey, and the boys, too, and Jenkins, Maggs, and any other servants you have—all need to know the basic elements of what’s going on.”

Concern filled her eyes. She frowned. Before she could voice any protest, he glanced at her brothers; all three had come alert at his words and were now looking expectantly at him.

He smiled slightly, then raised his gaze and met Alicia’s eyes. “It’s the best way to protect everyone. They all need to know.”

Geoffrey and Adriana were quick to voice their agreement.

Alicia glanced at them, then looked again at the boys. A moment passed, then she lifted her gaze to meet his, and nodded. “Yes. You’re right. The basic facts so they understand why they need to take care.”

He inclined his head. “If you’ll summon the others?”

She rose. He watched her, inwardly acknowledging his ulterior—ultimately his primary—motive: keeping her safe. Keeping her brothers safe was part of that, but it was she who stood in the line of fire. Conscripting her household in her defense was clearly in everyone’s best interests; each of them needed her in their own way.

Within a few minutes, the entire household had assembled. He hadn’t previously met the cook and their old nursemaid, Fitchett; both women bobbed deferentially, then retreated to sit on the straight-backed chairs Maggs and Jenkins fetched for them. Maggs had warned him of the small number of staff, so that came as no surprise; given what he now knew of the family’s finances, the fact even made sense.

When everyone had settled, the boys seated in a semicircle before his chair, despite the hour alert and eager to hear of his investigation, he told them, simply and concisely, all they needed to know.

H
E STARTED BY TELLING THEM OF FINDING
R
USKIN’S
body, omitting to mention that Alicia had been there. Her gaze touched his face; he met it, held it, continued explaining who Ruskin had been, and what they now believed he’d been engaged in—selling information on ship movements that had led to at least sixteen ships being taken as prizes by the enemy.

The boys exchanged significant—excited—glances. Tony noted it; he bore their reaction in mind as he admitted to being an agent for the government, stressing that he was in charge of the investigation regardless of the Watch’s and Bow Street’s imaginings. The boys were, predictably, even more impressed, their approbation edging into awe.

From there, it was a small step to explaining that the investigation, while no longer strictly secret, would progress more surely if pursued with discretion to avoid alerting the mysterious A. C. He asked that they all continue as usual, but if anyone noticed anything out of place, no matter how small or mundane, they should tell Maggs or, if that wasn’t possible, send word immediately to him or, failing that, to Geoffrey.

Able to read behind his careful words, Geoffrey, his expression impassive, nodded, accepting the unstated commission.

Finally, he came to his peroration, specifically intended to impress on his audience, especially the three boys, that the matter was serious—deadly serious. It required tact to walk the line between frightening the boys and fixing it in everyone’s heads that in no circumstance were they to court any risk whatever. He alluded to Alicia’s recent trauma—a trauma her siblings and the household had shared—as an example of how A. C. might play his game, but he also cautioned that whoever he was, A. C. would not balk at more violent deeds—it was assuredly he who had murdered Ruskin.

From the looks on the boys’ faces, worry, concern, but also determination all present in their expressions, he succeeded in his aim.

He glanced at Alicia, faintly raised a brow; she met his gaze, read his question, nodded almost imperceptibly.

Glancing around, surveying the faces, he said, “So now you all know what the problem is, and that there’s a need to keep alert at all times.”

“Aye.” Maggs pushed away from the wall. He looked to the other servants, getting to their feet. “We’ll keep our eyes peeled, you can count on that.”

“Thank you.” With a nod, Tony dismissed them.

Alicia flashed them a grateful smile as they filed out of the room, then turned to her brothers. “Bed for you three, now. It’s been a very long evening, and you have lessons tomorrow.”

They looked at her, then, somewhat to her surprise, quickly rose. They came to hug her; she kissed their cheeks, then they hugged Adriana and, without any argument, headed for the door. Alicia turned. Maggs and Jenkins had dallied in the doorway; they took the boys under their wings and herded them upstairs.

She sat back on the chaise, hugely relieved, amazed, given the events of the evening, to feel so. Then Geoffrey was bowing before her. She gave him her hand, smiled in gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough for coming to stay with Adriana and the boys.”

He looked faintly irritated; he frowned at her, reminding her of Tony. “Nonsense. Any gentleman would have done the same.” He glanced at Adriana, who’d risen, too.

She beamed at him. “But you did.” She squeezed his arm. “Come—I’ll see you out.”

With a tired but genuine smile for Alicia, Adriana led Geoffrey to the door; he closed it behind them.

Alicia turned to Tony. He’d been watching the door close; now he looked at her.

His gaze rested on her face for a long moment, then he said, “My apologies. I should have asked before I spoke—do you expect any trouble with your staff?”

She blinked. “You mean because of…” She let her words trail away, uncomfortable with their direction.

He refused to mince words. “Because despite the fact I avoided using the term, a threat clearly exists toward this household, and, consequently, there has to be a certain if unspecified danger. Household staff aren’t partial to getting caught in any cross fire.”

She smiled at the military allusion. “In this case, you needn’t worry. Cook, Fitchett, and Jenkins have been with us for longer than even I can remember—they won’t give notice. They’re part of the family.”

He looked at her—studied her—then inclined his head and rose.

Quickly, she rose, too. In the distance, she heard the front door shut; she paused, waiting, then the sound of Adriana’s light footsteps on the stairs came clearly to her ears.

And Tony’s. One glance at him—at the black eyes that were watching her—was enough to assure her of that. But he made no move, simply watched her.

There was a great deal she wanted, indeed felt compelled to say. Quite aside from her rescue, aside from his revelations, his taking the lead in dealing with the matter, here, within her household, had given her time to calm, to reassess and catch her mental breath. She felt infinitely more confident, more assured, than she had two hours earlier. Her latent panic had disappeared; she could face the immediate future sure in her ability to cope.

He didn’t move, just watched, waited.

She drew breath, lifted her chin, and closed the distance between them. She stopped directly before him—or would have, but he reached out and smoothly drew her on, into his arms. Her heart leapt; her senses stirred, came alive. His arms settled about her, a loose cradle; her hands coming to rest on his chest, she looked into his face.

A face that gave little away; she couldn’t guess what he was thinking.

“I wanted to thank you.” Without his intervention, she couldn’t imagine what might have happened, how matters might have developed.

He said nothing; instead, he slowly raised a brow. His black gaze touched hers, then swept down to her lips.

She knew exactly what he was thinking. She didn’t stop to consider, to assess the wisdom of her response. Drawing in a quick breath, she gripped his arms, stretched up against him, and touched her lips to his.

It was an invitation rather than a kiss; when he didn’t immediately respond, she eased back.

His arms tightened, locking her more definitely to him. Her lashes fluttered up; his dark gaze met hers for an instant, then he bent his head.

His lips touched her cheek, a light, insubstantial caress. He paused, then closed again; this time, his lips found the corner of hers, and slowly teased.

As he drew back, just an inch, she turned her head, fleetingly met his eyes. Then she raised one hand, laid her palm along his cheek, and guided his lips to hers.

He closed them over hers and took what she offered. Her mouth, herself. He drew her deeper into his arms, parted her lips, and sank deeper into the kiss. Into the explicit exchange she now knew well.

She responded, more than willing. It seemed very right that she should thank him this way, that she should give and appease the hunger she sensed in him, that elusive desire she exulted in evoking, equally exulted in sating.

As far as she dared.

The warning sounded in her mind—there could not be that many milestones left in the long road they’d agreed to travel. All but instantly, that small voice of caution was drowned out by the memory of his assurance that instead they would dally longer, more intensely, more intimately at every stage.

His mouth feasted on hers; his hands roamed, pleasuring her while feasting on her curves. He molded her to him, explicitly rocked the hard ridge of his erection against her.

Heat erupted inside her, spread through her veins, suffused beneath her skin. Raising her hands, she framed his face, then ran her fingers back, spearing them through his hair. She opened her mouth wider beneath his, with her tongue boldly taunted, deliberately incited him to take, and take more. Never had she felt so alive, so blatantly desirable.

So wanted.

They were standing locked together in her family’s parlor; she was sure he wouldn’t forget. Felt sure she could leave the decision on what was appropriate to him.

She knew, in her heart, in her soul, that he wouldn’t let her down.

Tony had no intention of doing so, yet the demands of the moment were many. A wild and primitive emotion was burgeoning within him; he didn’t recognize it, but he knew what it demanded.

Her. Not just her giving but his taking. A claiming, yet… this, he accepted, was neither the time nor place.

Not yet, not here. Soon, yes, but tonight…

He didn’t question the instincts that told him what to do; he’d been their captive for too many years. Experience analyzed, instructed, informed; he fell in with its directives.

Breaking from the kiss, he murmured, unsurprised his tone was low, almost harsh, “Jenkins?”

Courtesy of their kisses, she was close to breathless. “Upstairs. He locks up the front of the house early, all except the front door.”

Thank God. He kissed her again, ravenously, arms locking her against him, lifting her as he backed her toward the chaise. Stopping before it, he lifted his head and let her slide down until her feet touched the floor. “So we’re alone?”

“Um-hmm.” Her hand pressed under his collar and curled around his nape; she lifted her lips to his.

“Good.” He took them, kissed her hungrily, in no way disguising his need. She met him, flagrantly urged him on—didn’t so much as catch her breath when he eased her gown over her shoulders, then pushed it down to pool about her feet.

Still he held her to the kiss. Shifting to trap her between the chaise and him, he closed his hands about her breasts. Through the fine silk of her chemise, he teased the sensitive mounds, stroked and kneaded until they were full, until her breathing was tight, threatening to fracture.

Swiftly, he undid the ribbon ties and eased the fine fabric down; it fell in folds about her waist. Deciding his control didn’t need further strain, he left the flimsy garment there. It was so fine, it was barely a sop to modesty, but having her completely naked on the chaise beneath him might be that one step too far.

At the first touch of his hands on her bare breasts, she murmured incoherently, the words trapped between their lips, and pressed closer.

He held her, for long moments simply savored the sensations—of her mouth freely offered, all his, of her tongue slowly tangling, caressing his, of the way she softened as he explored, claiming at will, then artfully stoking her fires. A deep pleasure coursed through him, part victory, part desire, at the tactile confirmation his hands reported; he had her in his arms all but naked, her breasts bare, pressed to his chest, her hips, the cradle in which he ached to lie, screened by nothing more than a thin barrier of silk.

Now she was his, it was time to feast.

His hands shifted over her body, then he lifted her, knelt on the chaise and laid her on the damask, following her down so their lips didn’t part, settling beside her, his longer, harder frame trapping hers on the cushions. One hand rising to cradle her face, he plunged once more into her mouth.

Plunged them both back into the building flames.

Alicia went willingly, eager to know, to experience whatever and wherever he led. She knew it was dangerous, yet when he finally lifted his head and released her lips, and she struggled to breathe, to fill her starved lungs, there was no thought in her mind of drawing back.

Not when he looked at her with desire, hot and glowing, behind his black eyes. His gaze had dropped to her breasts; they were swollen and aching. Nerves tightening, she waited for his touch, waited for the burning delight of his mouth, for the sharp, addictive pleasure.

His gaze flicked up to meet hers, briefly locked, then his lips curved, knowing and sure. He looked down, bent his head, and gave her all she’d wanted, all her tight nerves craved, the intoxicating play of lips and tongue, the hot, wet suction of his mouth.

He orchestrated the whole until her gasps filled the room, until her fingers were clenched on his skull, her body bowing under the hand he’d splayed across her midriff.

A deep rumble of satisfaction reached her; he shifted lower, leaning over her. One hand still massaged her breasts, stroking, tweaking, caressing as his lips trailed down between, down over the centerline of her body. With one finger he drew the silk folds of her chemise aside, so he could continue his line of openmouthed kisses to her navel.

Raising his head slightly, he circled the indentation with one fingertip, then lowered his head and boldly probed with his tongue, an echo of their kisses, of the plunder, the claiming.

Dazed, her limp fingers retensing on his skull, she watched him minister to her body as if it was a thing worthy of his worship.

Finally lifting his head, his eyes met hers; they were dark and fathomless, hot yet unreadable. Watching her, he shifted, parted her legs and settled between, ran his hand up her thigh, sliding it under the layer of silk to lay it over her stomach, hard possessive palm to her hot, soft skin.

She couldn’t take her eyes from his, from the intent, burning look burnished in the black, didn’t dare shift her gaze even when she felt his hand move, felt his fingertips brush her curls, then slide further to caress her as he had before.

Her breath strangled, her lungs slowly seizing as he artfully, deliberately explored, then stroked, caressed, finally probed. One large finger slid a little way in, just enough to tantalize, to freeze her mind, and send her frenzied senses searching. Reaching.

He caressed and her body came to life, muscles tensing, flickering, her hips lifting in anticipation. Slowly, he slid one long finger into her, pressed steadily deeper, deeper.

Her lungs locked; her hips lifted, but he held her down, moving lower, his shoulders sliding from her weakened grasp.

He looked down, watched as he worked his hand between her spread thighs, as he worked his finger within her, then he glanced up at her face, with his thumb circled that critical spot he’d discovered before, simultaneously reaching deeper still.

On a moan, she closed her eyes, let her head fall back. This had to be wicked; it was too glorious to be right.