A Gentleman's Honor (7 page)

From her expression, it was clear that while Alicia was mother lion, Adriana would be fierce in her sister’s defense. He inclined his head. “It’s perhaps as well, then, that he’s gone.”

Adriana muttered a guiltily fervent assent.

Alicia reentered; he turned to her and smiled. “Thank you for an entertaining afternoon.”

Her look said she wasn’t sure how to interpret that. He took his leave of Adriana, then, as he’d hoped, Alicia accompanied him to the door.

Following him into the hall, she shut the parlor door. He glanced about; fate had smiled—they were alone.

He gave her no time to regroup, but struck immediately. “Ruskin lived at Bledington, close to Chipping Norton. Are you
sure
you never met him in the country?”

She blinked at him. “Yes—I told you. We only met recently, socially in London.” Her eyes, searching his, suddenly widened. “Oh, was he a friend of your friend? The one you mentioned?”

He held her gaze; he could detect not the slightest hint of prevarication in the clear green, only puzzlement, and a hint of concern. “No,” he eventually said. “Ruskin’s friends are no friends of mine.”

The reply, especially his tone, further confused her.

“I understand he’d been bothering you—in what way?”

She frowned, clearly wishing he hadn’t known to ask; when he simply waited, she lifted her head and stiffly stated, “He was…attracted.”

He kept his eyes on hers. “And you?”

Irritation flashed in her eyes. “I was not.”

He felt his lips ease. “I see.”

They remained, gazes locked, for two heartbeats, then he reached out and took her hand. Still holding her gaze, he raised her fingers to his lips. Kissed, and felt the tremor that raced through her. Watched her eyes widen, darken.

She drew in a quick breath, tensed to step back.

He reacted. Tightening his grip on her fingers, he drew her nearer. Bent his head and touched his lips to hers in the lightest, most fleeting kiss.

Just a brushing of lips, more promise than caress.

He intended it to be that, not a real kiss but a tantalizing temptation.

Raising his head, he watched her lids rise, saw surprise, shock, and curiosity fill her eyes. Then she realized, stiffened, drew back.

Releasing her, he caught her gaze. “I meant what I said. I truly enjoyed the afternoon.”

He wondered if she understood what he was saying.

Before she could question him—before he could be tempted to say or do anything more—he bowed and turned to the door.

She saw him out and shut the door.

Gaining the pavement, he paused, letting the last moments fade from his mind, turning instead to running through all he’d learned thus far.

His instincts were pricking. Something was afoot, but just what he’d yet to divine. Turning on his heel, he headed for home and his library. There was a great deal he had to digest.

H
E SPENT THE REST OF THAT DAY AND THE ENTIRE EVENING
analyzing all he’d retrieved from Ruskin’s office and lodgings. Ruskin’s scribbled notes and the receipts of his debts appeared to be the only clues, the only items warranting further investigation.

After assembling a schedule of the dates on which the debts, in groups, had been paid, along with the sums involved, Tony called it a night. At least working for Dalziel gave him an excuse not to attend the ton’s balls.

The next day, just after noon, he girded his loins and dutifully presented himself at Amery House for one of his godmother’s at-homes, to which he’d been summoned. He knew better than to ignore the dictate. Strolling into her drawing room, he bowed over her hand, resignedly noting he was one of only four gentlemen present.

Felicité beamed up at him. “
Bon!
You will please me
and
your
maman
by talking and paying attention to the
demoiselles
here, will you not?”

Despite the words, there was an ingenuous appeal in her eyes. He felt his lips quirk. Hand over heart, he declared, “I live to serve.”

She only just managed to suppress a snort. She rapped his knuckles with her fan, then used it to gesture to the knots of young ladies gathered by the windows.
“Viens!”
She shooed. “Go—go!”

He went.

It was a cynical exercise; none of the young things to whom the matrons prayed he’d fall victim had any chance of fixing his interest. Why they thought he might be susceptible escaped him, but he behaved as required, pausing by first one group, then another, chatting easily before moving on. He did not remain by any lady’s side for long; no one could accuse him of being the least encouraging.

He’d scanned the room on entering; Alicia Carrington had not been present. As he moved from group to group, he resurveyed the guests, but she didn’t appear.

While moving to the fifth knot of conversationalists, he caught Felicité’s eye, noted her puzzled expression. Realized he was giving the impression he was searching for someone, waiting for someone.

Mentally shrugging, he strolled on.

He was with the sixth group, inwardly debating whether he’d dallied long enough, when he heard two matrons standing a little apart exchanging the latest gossip—the items they considered too titillating for their charges’ delicate ears.

His instincts flickered; he’d noticed there was some flutter—some piece of avid interest—doing the rounds among the older ladies.

The two biddies a yard behind him put their heads together and lowered their voices, but his hearing was acute.

“I had it this morning from Celia Chiswick. We met at Lady Montacute’s morning tea. You’ve heard about that fellow Ruskin being murdered—stabbed—just along the path there?”

From the corner of his eye, Tony saw the lady point into the garden.

“
Well!
It seems he was blackmailing some lady—a widow.”

“No! Who?”

“Well, of course no one knows, do they?”

“But someone must have some idea, surely.”

“One hardly likes to speculate, but… you do know who he was speaking with just before he left this room and walked to his death, don’t you?”

“No.” The second woman’s voice dropped to a strained whisper. “Who was it?”

Tony shifted and saw the first lady lean close to her companion and whisper the answer in her ear.

The second lady’s eyes widened; her jaw dropped. Then she looked at the first. “
No!
Truly?”

Lips thinning, the first lady nodded.

The second flicked open her fan and waved it. “Great heavens! And she with that ravishing sister of hers in tow.
Well!
”

Tony fought to keep his expression from hardening, from revealing anything of the maelstrom of emotions that rose up and buffeted his mind—and him. Inwardly grim, he spent a few more minutes with the sweet young things, then excused himself and headed for the door.

Only to have Felicité step into his path. “You’re not leaving so soon?” She put a hand on his arm; immediately concern flared in her eyes. She lowered her voice. “What is it?”

He hesitated, then said, “I’m engaged on some business. I have to go.”

Her concern only deepened. “I thought you’d finished with such things.”

His short laugh was harsh. “So did I. But not yet.” He eased her hand from his sleeve and bowed over it. “I must go—there’s someone I have to see.”

Her gaze had flicked to where he’d been, then to the garden. He could see the connections forming in her mind. He stepped away.

She looked back at him. “If you must go, you must, but take care. And you must tell me later.”

With a curt nod, he left. For once, he didn’t stop to consider his plan.

Alicia strolled the clipped lawns of the park in the wake of Adriana and her swains. A morning promenade was becoming a regular event in their schedule. The gentlemen preferred the less-structured, less-cramped encounters such a stroll allowed; it gave them more time to worship at her sister’s feet unfettered by any need to pay attention to any other young lady.

She’d countered that by inviting Miss Tiverton to walk with them. Adriana now strolled beside that young lady while five perfectly eligible gentlemen vied for their attention.

The most prominent, and most assiduous, was Lord Manningham. Alicia studied the undeniably attractive figure he cut in his morning coat, pale, tightly fitting breeches, and black Hessians. His address was polished without being oversmooth, his features were handsome rather than beautiful.

He was turning Adriana’s head, and her sister knew it.

It was time, perhaps, to learn more of Geoffrey Manningham.

Especially as he was apparently a friend of Lord Torrington’s. He who had almost-kissed her, who without provocation let alone permission had deliberately teased her in her own front hall.

The moment flared in her mind; her nerves tensed…

Ruthlessly, she bundled the memory aside—he probably did such things all the time. She refocused on Adriana and her court. Adjusting her parasol, she strolled on.

She had no warning, no premonition of danger, until she heard herself hailed in a voice that cut like a whip.

She whirled, but Torrington was already upon her. Hard fingers closing manacle-like about her elbow, he swung her around and marched her down the lawn, away from the carriageway.

“What—?” She tried to free her arm, but couldn’t. She glared at him. “Unhand me, sir!”

He ignored her. He strode on, forcing her with him; she either had to keep up, or stumble and fall. His face was set like stone, his expression unforgivingly grim. Thunderclouds would have looked more comforting.

She glanced back at the others, strolling on unaware. “Stop! I have to watch over my sister.”

He glanced briefly at her—too briefly for her to read his eyes—then lifted his gaze and looked back at the others. “She’s with Manningham. She’s safe.” Looking forward, he growled, “You aren’t.”

He’d lost his senses. She tugged against his hold, then dragged in a breath. “If you don’t stop this instant and let me go—”

Abruptly, he did both. She’d been strolling along the periphery of the fashionable throng; they were now in an area where no others were walking. They were out of earshot of everyone, too far from the carriageway for any to discern even the tenor of their exchange.

On top of that, he stood squarely between her and the rest of the ton. Cutting her off from the world. Stunned, she raised her eyes to his face.

His black gaze impaled her. “What was Ruskin blackmailing you about?”

She blinked; her eyes grew wide. The world lurched and fell away. “Wh—what?”

He gritted his teeth. “Ruskin was blackmailing you. About
what
?” His eyes narrowed to obsidian shards. “What was the hold he had over you?”

When she didn’t answer, couldn’t get her wits to stop whirling quickly enough—dear God, how had he found out?—his jaw set even harder. From the corner of her eye, she saw his hands clench; locking eyes, she sensed he wanted to seize her, shake her, but was exercising quite amazing restraint.

“Was. He. Blackmailing you?”

The words were uttered with such force they dragged the answer from her. “Yes—
no
! That is…” She stopped.

“Which?”
He took a half step nearer, towering over her, menacing, intimidating. Aggression poured from him.

And ignited her temper. She straightened to her full height, tipped back her head, met his piercing black gaze. “Whichever, it is
no
concern of yours.”

“Think again.”

The low growl skittered over her nerves; she dug her heels in even deeper. “I beg your pardon?” Outraged, she held his gaze, absolutely determined not to quail. “You, my lord, are skating on thin ice. Don’t
think
to browbeat me!”

For an instant, they stood, all but toe to toe, certainly will against will, then, to her surprise and immense relief, he eased back. Reined in the sheer male power that beat against her senses.

Yet he didn’t shift back; his eyes didn’t leave hers. When he spoke, his tone was dark, definite, but harnessed, fractionally more civilized.

“I’ve been asked to investigate Ruskin’s death. I want to know what your connection with him was.”

She stared. “Why?
Who
—?”

“Just answer the question. What was your connection with Ruskin?”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “We didn’t have any—I told you!”

“Yet he was blackmailing you.”

“No—at least, not in the way you mean.”

He opened his eyes wide. “What other way is there?”

She had to reply; there was clearly no option. “It wasn’t about money. He wanted me to marry him.”

He blinked. His tone lost a little of it sureness. “He was blackmailing you to marry him?”

Lips tight, she nodded. “He…offered me a
carte blanche
. I refused, and he offered marriage. When I refused that… he thought to pressure me into agreeing.”

“With what?”

She searched his eyes; his demand was precise, implacable. Who was he?—she didn’t really know. “He’d learned something about us—about me—that if it became common knowledge, would make establishing Adriana…very difficult. It’s nothing nefarious or terrible, but you know what the gossipmongers are like.”

“Indeed.” The word was clipped, imbued with meaning. “You spoke with him immediately before he left Lady Amery’s drawing room. I want to know what was said, and exactly what happened to result in you going into the garden and finding his body.”

Whoever he was, he knew far too much. The thought chilled her. He also knew how to interrogate; even restrained, there was a threat in his manner—avoiding his questions wasn’t going to be possible. She had absolutely no doubt his claim of being asked to investigate was true.

“I…” Her mind slid back to that moment in the drawing room, when Ruskin had threatened to pull the rug from under their future. “As I said, I’d declined his offer of marriage. That evening, he came up and requested a private interview. I refused—I was watching Adriana. He insisted, so we retreated to the side of the room. He told me he lived near Bledington, and had seen us last Christmas, in the square at Chipping Norton.”

She refocused on the black eyes fixed so intently on her face. “He’d seen us—we hadn’t seen or met him. Not then. Only after we came to London.”

“What was it he knew of you?”

Feeling compelled to keep her eyes on his, she considered, eventually moistened her lips. “It’s not anything to do with his death. It can’t be. It doesn’t concern anyone but me.”

Tony held her gaze for a full minute; she didn’t waver, didn’t offer anything more. She was no longer so defiant, but on that one point intractable; she wasn’t going to tell him. He forced himself to look away, over her head, forced himself to take a deep breath and think. Eventually, he looked down at her. “Does anyone else in London know of this
thing
that Ruskin knew?”

She blinked, thought. “No.” Her voice strengthened. “No one.”

He digested that, accepted it. “So he propositioned you—threatened you with exposure.” He forced himself to say the words, ignoring the violence the thought evoked. “What then?”

“I asked for time, and he agreed to twenty-four hours. He said he’d call on me the next evening.” Remembered horror flitted through her eyes; he wondered what she wasn’t telling him. “Then he walked away.”

When she said nothing more, he prompted, “What then?”

“I was upset.” She seemed not to notice the hand she raised to her throat. “I asked for a glass of water, sat, then I started to think again, and realized he…that it might be possible to buy him off. I stood and saw him slip out of the terrace doors. I decided to follow and speak with him—at least convince him to give me more time.”

Remembered fear tinged her voice. Swallowing an oath, he suppressed the urge to haul her into his arms; she’d probably struggle. “So you followed him out?”

She nodded. “But first I crossed the room to Adriana. I told her where I was going.”

“Then you went onto the terrace?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t there. It was chilly—I looked around and saw movement beneath that huge tree. I assumed it was he, so I went down. Then I found him…” She paused. “You know the rest.”

“Did you see anyone else go out on the terrace before you did—or before Ruskin did?”

“No. But I wasn’t watching the doors.”

Regardless, it was unlikely a gentleman wearing a coat and hat would leave Amery House via the drawing room and the terrace doors. Fitting her information with his, it seemed clear what had happened.

She’d taken advantage of his silence to regroup.

He met her gaze. “I take it Ruskin made no mention of going to meet anyone.”

“No. Why? Oh…I suppose he must have met someone.”

“He did. As I came up Park Street, I saw a gentleman in a coat and hat leave by the garden gate. He was too far away for me to identify, but he definitely came out of that gate. Allowing time for you to walk to the tree, and for me to walk to the gate, it must have been he—that man— you saw moving beneath the tree.”