A Gentleman's Honor (5 page)

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.

H
E REPAIRED TO THE
B
ASTION
C
LUB.

With a sigh, he sank into a well-stuffed leather armchair in the library. “This place is a godsend.”

He exchanged a glance with Jack Warnefleet, ensconced in another chair reading an issue of
The Sporting Life
, savored a sip of his brandy, then settled his head against the padded leather and let his thoughts roam.

To his life—what it used to be, what it now was, most importantly what he wanted it to be. The past was behind him, finished, brought to a close at Waterloo. The present was a bridge, a transition between past and future, nothing more. As for the future….

What did he truly want?

His mind flashed on snippets of memory, a sense of warmth in company, of rare moments of closeness punctuating long years of being alone. Of camaraderie, a sense of shared purpose, a passion for life as well as justice.

Dalziel and his mention of Whitley had brought Jack Hendon to mind. The last he’d seen of Jack he’d been firmly caught in his lovely wife’s coils, trooping, gesticulating and protesting, at her dainty heels. A vision of Kit with their elder son in her arms, Jack hovering protectively over them both, swam through his mind. And stuck.

Jack and Kit were coming down to London this Season; they’d be here within a few days. It would be good to

see them again, not only to renew old friendships but to refresh his memory, to sense again how a successful marriage worked.

The restlessness that for a few hours had been in abeyance returned. Draining his glass, he set it aside and rose. With a nod to Jack, who returned a salute, he left the library and the club.

At that hour London’s streets were quiet, the last stragglers from the balls already at home while the more hardened cases were ensconced in their clubs, hells, and private salons for what was left of the night. Tony walked steadily, his strides long, his cane swinging. Despite his self-absorption, his senses remained alert, yet none of those hanging back in the shadows made any move to accost him.

Reaching his house in Upper Brook Street, he climbed the steps, fishing for his latch key. To his surprise, the door swung open.

Hungerford stood waiting to relieve him of his coat and cane. The hall lights were blazing. A footman stood to the side, still on duty.

“The gentleman who called this morning has returned, my lord. He insisted on waiting for your return. I’ve put him the library.”

“Dalziel?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

From Hungerford’s tone, it was clear that he, no more than Tony, was certain just who, or more correctly what, Dalziel was, other than someone it was unwise to disobey, let alone cross.

Tony headed for the library.

“The tantalus is well supplied. Do you require anything further, my lord?”

“No.” Tony paused and glanced back. “You and the staff can retire. I’ll see”—he’d been about to say his lordship; Dalziel was at the very least that—“the gentleman out.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Tony continued across the green-and-white tiles toward the library door. The hall was paneled in oak, an airy, high-ceilinged space…it was a night for memories. He could recall running here as a child, with a fire roaring in the hearth at the end, the dancing flames reflecting off the oak, a sense of warmth enveloping him.

Now the hall seemed… not cold, but it no longer held that encompassing warmth. It was empty, waiting for that time to come again, for that phase of life to return.

Hungerford and the footman had disappeared through the green baize door. Alone, Tony paused; with his hand on the knob of the library door, he looked around. Let his senses stretch farther than his eyes could see.

He was alone, and his house was empty. Like it, he was waiting. Waiting for the next phase of life to rush in and fill him, engage him.

Warm him.

For a moment he stood silent and still, then he shook off the mood and opened the door.

Dalziel was in an armchair facing the door, an almost empty brandy balloon in one long-fingered hand. His brows rose faintly; his lips curved, cynical and amused, in welcome.

Tony eyed the entire vision with a misgiving he made no attempt to hide; Dalziel’s smile only deepened.

“Well?” Crossing to the tantalus, Tony poured a small measure of brandy, more to have something to do than anything else. He raised the decanter to Dalziel, who shook his head. Replacing the decanter, picking up the glass, he crossed to the other armchair. “To what do I owe this…unexpected visit?”

They both knew it wouldn’t have anything to do with pleasure.

“We’ve worked together for a long time.”

Tony sat. “Thirteen years. But I work for the government no longer, so what has that to say to anything?”

Dalziel’s dark eyes held his. “Simply that there are matters I cannot use less experienced men for, and in this case your peculiar background makes you too ideal a candidate to overlook.”

“Bonaparte’s on St. Helena. The French are finished.”

Dalziel smiled. “Not that peculiar background. I have other half-French agents. I meant that you have experience of Whitley’s side of things, and you have a better-than-average grasp of the possibilities involved.”

“Involved in what?”

“Ruskin’s death.” Dalziel studied the amber lights in the glass he turned between his fingers. “Some disturbing items came to light when they started clearing the man’s desk. Jottings of shipping information derived from both Revenue and Admiralty documents. They appear to be scribbled notes for more formal communications.”

“Nothing in any way associated with his work?”

“No. He organized Customs clearances for merchantmen, hence his access to the internal Revenue and Admiralty notices. His job involved the dates of expected entry to our ports. The information jotted down relates to movement of ships in the Channel, especially its outermost reaches. There is no possible reason his job required such details.”

Dalziel paused, then added, “The most disturbing aspect is that these jottings span the years from 1812 to1815.”

“Ah.” As Dalziel had prophesied, Tony grasped the implication.

“Indeed. You now perceive why I’m here. Both I and Whitley are now extremely interested in learning who killed Ruskin, and most importantly why.”

Tony pondered, then looked at Dalziel, directly met his eyes. “Why me?” He could guess, but he wanted it confirmed.

“Because there is, as you’ve realized, the possibility that someone in Customs and Revenue, or the Home Office, or any of a multitude of government agencies is involved, in one capacity or another. It’s unlikely Ruskin could use the information himself, but someone knew he had access to it, and either made use of him themselves, or put someone else on to him. In either case, this nebulous someone might be in a position to know Whitley’s operatives. He won’t, however, know you.”

Dalziel paused, considering Tony. “The only connection you’ve had with Whitley’s crew was that operation you ran with Jonathon Hendon and George Smeaton. Both are now retired; both are sound. Despite Hendon’s background in shipping, he’s had no contact with Ruskin—and yes, I’ve checked. For the past several years, both Hendon and Smeaton have remained buried in Norfolk, and their only links in town are either purely social or purely commercial. Neither is a threat to you— and as I recall, no one else of Whitley’s crew ever knew who Antoine Balzac really was.”

Tony nodded. Antoine Balzac had been a large part of his past.

“On top of that, you found the body.” Dalziel met his gaze. “You are the epitome of an obvious choice.”

Tony grimaced and looked down, into his glass. It seemed as if the past was reaching out, trying to draw him back; he didn’t want to go. Yet all Dalziel said was true; he
was
the obvious choice…and Alicia Carrington was, at least peripherally, involved.

She wasn’t part of his past.

“All right.” He looked up. “I’ll nose around and see what connections I can turn up.”

Dalziel nodded and set his glass aside. “Ruskin worked at the main office of Customs and Revenue in Whitehall.” He gave details of the building, floor, and room. “I suggested that his papers, indeed, all his office be left as was. I gather that’s been done. Naturally, I’ve asked for no clearances. Let me know if you require any.”

Tony’s lips curved; he inclined his head. Both he and Dalziel knew he wouldn’t ask for clearances. He’d been an “unofficial agent” for too long.

“Ruskin lived in lodgings in Bury Street—Number 23. His home, Crawton Hall, is near Bledington in Gloucestershire, just over the border of north Oxfordshire, southwest of Chipping Norton, the nearest market town.”

Tony frowned, but his knowledge of England was nowhere near as detailed as his knowledge of France.

“Ruskin has a mother living, and an older spinster sister. They reside at Crawton Hall, and haven’t left it in decades. Ruskin spent but little time there in recent years. That’s what we know of him to date.”

“Odd habits?”

“None known—we’ll leave that to you. Obviously, we can’t afford any overt activity.”

“What about manner of death—any word from the surgeon?”

“I called Pringle in. According to him, Ruskin was knifed with the stiletto you found. Very professionally slipped between the ribs. Angle and point of entry suggest a right-handed assailant standing beside and a little behind his left side.”

They both could see how it was done.

“So.” Tony sipped. “A friend.”

“Certainly someone he in no way suspected of murderous intent.”

Such as a lady in a pale green silk gown.

Tony looked up. “Did Pringle give any guesses as to the murderer—size, strength, that sort of thing?”

Dalziel’s eyes, scanning his face, narrowed. “He did. A man almost certainly as tall as Ruskin and, of course, of reasonable strength.”

“How tall was Ruskin?”

“A trifle shorter than me. Half a head shorter than you.”

Tony hid his relief behind a grimace. “Not much help there. Any other clues?”

“No.” Dalziel stood, fluidly graceful.

Tony did the same, with even more innate flair.

Dalziel hid a grin and led the way to the door. “Let me know what you find. If I hear anything useful, I’ll send word.”

He paused as they reached the door and met Tony’s gaze. “If I do have anything to send, where should I send it?”

Tony considered, then said, “Here. Back door. My butler’s reliable, and the staff have been with me for years.”

Dalziel nodded. They stepped into the hall.

Tony saw Dalziel out and locked the front door, then returned to the library.

He went straight to one of the bookcases and crouched, scanning the spines, then he pulled out a large tome. Rising, he crossed to where the lamp on the desk threw a circle of stronger light. Opening the book—a collection of maps of England’s counties—he flicked through until he came to the pages showing Oxfordshire. He located Chipping Norton, and Banbury in the far north of the county.

It took a few minutes of flicking back and forth, comparing maps of Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and Warwickshire, before he had the geography straight. The only bit of Warwickshire “not far from Banbury” was also not far from Chipping Norton, and therefore, in turn, not far from Bledington.

Alicia Carrington’s home lay within ten miles of Ruskin’s.

Shutting the book, Tony stared across the room.

How likely was it, given the social round of county England that, living in such proximity, Alicia Carrington née Pevensey and Ruskin had never met?

The question suggested the answer. Ruskin hadn’t spent much time in Bledington recently, and despite telling him she and her sister hailed from the area, Alicia Carrington could well have meant their home was there now. The home she’d made with her husband; most likely she was referring to his house, not necessarily the area in which she and her family, the Pevenseys, had lived most of their lives. Of course.

He returned the book to the shelf, then headed for the door.

Of course, he’d check.

That, however, would have to come later. The first thing he needed to do, and that as soon as humanly possible, before any whisper of an internal investigation into Ruskin’s affairs could find its way to anyone, was search Ruskin’s office.

The Customs and Revenue Office in Whitehall was well guarded and externally secure, but for someone who knew how to approach it from within, down the long, intersecting corridors, it was much less impenetrable. Even better, Ruskin’s office was on the first floor at the back, and its small window faced a blank wall.

At four o’clock in the morning, the building was cold and silent. The porter was snoring in his office downstairs; lighting a lamp was safe enough.

Tony searched the desk, then the whole office methodically. He collected everything pertinent in the middle of the desk; when there was no more to discover, he transferred all he’d found to the deep pockets of his greatcoat.

Then he turned out the lamp, slipped out of the building, and went home, leaving not a trace of his presence, or anything to alert anyone that Ruskin’s office had been searched.

Despite his late night, he was out again at noon, heading for Bury Street. It was a fashionable area for single gentlemen, close to clubs, Mayfair, and the seat of government; Number 23 was a well-kept, narrow, three-story house. He knocked on the door and explained to the landlady that he worked alongside Mr. Ruskin and had been sent to check his rooms to make sure no Customs Office papers had been left there.

She led him up to a set of rooms on the first floor. He thanked her as she unlocked the door. “I’ll return the key when I leave.”

With a measuring glance that read the quality of his coat and boots in much the same way as a military pass, she nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He waited until she was heading downstairs, then entered Ruskin’s parlor and shut the door.

Again, his search was thorough, but in contrast to Ruskin’s office, this time he found evidence someone had been before him. He found a pile of old IOUs lying in a concealed drawer in the escritoire atop more recent correspondence.