A Gentleman's Honor (8 page)

She paled. Looked at him, stared at him. After a long moment, she asked, “Who are you?”

He let two heartbeats pass, then replied, “You know my name.”

“I know I have only your word that there was another man, that it wasn’t you who stabbed Ruskin.”

The accusation pricked; holding her gaze, he softly said, “You might want to consider that I’m all that stands between you and a charge of murder.”

The instant he uttered the words, he wished them unsaid.

Her head snapped up. She stepped back. “I do not understand what right you have to question me—interrogate me—
or my family
.” Her eyes blazed; her tone was scathing. “In future, please leave us alone.”

She turned.

He caught her hand. “Alicia—”

She swung on him; fury lit her eyes. “
Don’t
presume to call me that! I have
not
given you leave—and I won’t.” She looked down at his fingers circling her wrist. “Please release me immediately.”

He had to force his fingers to do it, to slide from her skin; she snatched her hand away, backed two steps, watching him—as if she suddenly saw him for what he truly was.

Her eyes had widened; for an instant, he glimpsed a vulnerability he couldn’t place.

Alicia fought to subdue the emotions roiling inside her. Her stomach was knotted, her lungs tight. He’d played with her brothers, interrogated them and Adriana, flirted quite deliberately with her. All because… and she’d thought he was honest, that he was trustworthy, genuine…how foolish she’d been.

When he said nothing, she dragged in a breath. “I’ve told you all I know. Please”—for the first time, her voice quavered—“don’t come near me again.”

With that, she whirled and walked quickly away.

Tony watched her go. Then he swore comprehensively in French and strode off in the opposite direction.

He hailed a hackney and headed into the city. Resting his head against the squabs, he closed his eyes and concentrated on getting his temper under control and his thoughts straight; it had been years since they’d been so tangled.

He’d stalked into the park furious with her for concealing from him such a potentially dangerous connection. Not because that concealment interfered with his investigation, but purely because the damned woman hadn’t availed herself of his abilities—his protection.

Because she deliberately hadn’t trusted him.

Stalking out of the park, he’d been furious with himself. She’d questioned who he was, his integrity, and he’d reacted by taking a high hand, which any fool could have predicted would fail miserably—in his case, spectacularly.

He hadn’t meant it to sound as it had, hadn’t in the least meant to threaten her.

Eyes still closed, he sighed. In thirteen years of operations, he’d never let his personal life interfere with his duty. Now the two were inextricably entwined. She hadn’t killed Ruskin, but courtesy of whoever had started the rumors, she was now involved. Worse, he had a nasty suspicion that the person who had started the rumors would prove to be Ruskin’s killer. If threatened, he might kill again.

He spent the rest of the day in the city, using his erstwhile talents to gain access to Ruskin’s banking records. A combination of suggestion and implied threat, together with his title and the supercilious arrogance he’d learned long ago worked so well with those whose status depended on patronage, got him what he wanted.

His first stop was Daviot & Sons, the bank Ruskin had favored, exclusively as far as the notes in his rooms went. Ten minutes, and he’d gained access to all documents relating to Ruskin’s dealings. The records revealed no major sums credited to Ruskin’s account, only a trickle of income the bank verified came from Gloucestershire, believed to be derived from Ruskin’s estate. There were no large deposits, nor any large withdrawals. Wherever the wealth Ruskin had used to pay off his considerable debts hailed from, it had not passed through the hands of the Messrs Daviot.

He proceeded to check all the likely banks; they were located in close proximity, scattered about the Bank of England and the Corn Exchange. Using his success at Daviots to pave the way, he encountered no resistance; by afternoon’s end, he’d established that the city’s legitimate financiers had not facilitated the flow of pounds to Ruskin’s gaming acquaintances.

Hailing a hackney, he headed back to Mayfair. On the evidence of Ruskin’s IOUs, the man had been not only a poor gambler but an addicted one. He’d lost steadily for years, yet there was no indication of any panic in his dealings. He’d paid off every debt
regularly
…

Muttering a curse, Tony tapped on the roof; when the jarvey inquired his pleasure, he replied, “Bury Street— Number 23.”

There had to be—
had to be
—some record somewhere. Ruskin was a clerk by nature; the contents of his desks, both in his office and his rooms, testified to his compulsive neatness. He’d even kept those old IOUs in chronological order.

The hackney halted in Bury Street; Tony swung down to the pavement, tossed a coin to the jarvey, and strode quickly up the steps of Number 23. This time, an old man let him in.

“I’m from Customs and Revenue—I have to check Mr. Ruskin’s rooms for something I might have missed when I checked yesterday.”

“Oh, aye.” The old man stood back. “You’ll know the way, then.”

“Indeed. I have his key. I’ll be a few minutes—I can see myself out.”

The old man merely nodded and shuffled back into the downstairs front room. Tony climbed the stairs.

Once in Ruskin’s rooms with the door shut and re-locked, he stood in the center of the rug and looked around. He imagined himself in Ruskin’s shoes; assuming he’d kept a record of his illicit dealings and had wanted to keep that record secret, where would he have hidden it?

The room was clean, neat, dusted; the furniture was polished and well cared for. Someone came in to clean. Whatever secret hole Ruskin had, it would be somewhere not likely to be found by a busy char woman.

Behind the solid skirting boards was unlikely; the cleared floor space, even under the rugs, would be too risky. Working as silently as he could, Tony shifted the heavy furniture and checked beneath and behind, but found only solid walls and solid floorboards, and dust.

Undeterred, he checked inside the small closet, shifting the items he’d searched before. He pressed, prodded, gently tapped, but there was no hint of any secret place. Next, he examined the door and window frames, searching for any crevice opening into a useful gap within the walls. There wasn’t one.

Which left the fireplaces and their chimneys.

There were two—one in the parlor and a smaller one in the bedroom. The mantelpieces and hearths were easily examined; no luck there. With a resigned sigh, Tony stripped off his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves before tackling the chimneys.

He saw the place as soon as he crouched down, ducked his head, and looked into the parlor chimney. Enough light seeped past his shoulders for him to discern the single brick, up on the side well above the flames’ reach, that was considerably less grimed than its fellows. Its edges were free of soot and the detritus of years. Reaching in, he pressed one corner; the brick edged out of place. It was easy to grip it and drag it free.

Setting the brick down, he dusted his fingers, then reached into the gaping hole. His fingertips encountered the smooth surface of leather. He felt around, then drew out a small, black leather-bound book.

Grinning, he laid the book on the floor and replaced the brick. That done, he cleaned his hands on his handkerchief, then rolled down his sleeves and shrugged on his coat. Picking up the book, he hefted it—then gave in to temptation and quickly leafed through it.

It was exactly what he’d hoped to find—a miniledger that many gamesters kept, noting their wins and losses. The book was almost full; the entries stretched back to1810. Each entry comprised a date, the initials of the opponent, and sometimes the name of the game—whist, piquet, hazard—and the sum involved; the latter was placed in one of two columns ruled at the right of the page—either a loss or a win.

In Ruskin’s little black book, the losses greatly outnumbered the wins. However, the tally of wins and losses, scrupulously noted at the end of each page, was readjusted every few months, being brought back into balance by an entry, repeated again and again, of a substantial sum, noted as a win.

Tony checked back through the book. The regular “wins” started in early 1812. Although always substantial, the sums varied; the initials noted for each payment did not.

A. C.

Tony felt his face harden. He looked up. His mind in a whirl, he closed the book and slid it into his pocket. A moment later, he stirred, and headed for the door.

He was on his way down the stairs when the old man stuck his head out of the downstairs room. He squinted at Tony, then recognized him, nodded, and moved to retreat.

Tony reacted. “One moment, sir, if you would.”

The old man turned back.

Tony assumed a faintly harrassed expression. “Have there been any other visitors to Mr. Ruskin’s rooms since he died?”

The old man blinked, thought, then opined, “Well, not since you folk came by, but there was a gentl’man called here the night Mr. Ruskin met his end. It was late, so mayhap that was after he died.”

“This gentleman, was he one of Mr. Ruskin’s friends? A regular acquaintance?”

“Not that I ever saw. Never seen him before.”

“What happened on that night?”

The old man leaned on his cane; he peered up at Tony with eyes that retained a deal of shrewdness. “It was late, as I said. The man rapped politely, and as it wasn’t after midnight, I let him in. I was sure Ruskin was out, but the gentleman insisted he’d go up and check… didn’t seem any harm in that, so I let him. He went up the stairs, and a minute later I heard the door open, so I thought, then, that Ruskin must have slipped in, and I hadn’t noticed. I left them to it and went back to my fire.”

Tony stirred. “Ruskin hadn’t come home. He spent most of the evening at a soirée in Green Street. It was there, in the garden, that he was killed.”

“Aye. So we heard the next day. Howsoever, that night, the gentleman that called and went into Ruskin’s rooms stayed for more than an hour. I could hear him moving around; he wasn’t thumping about, but it’s quiet around here at night. One hears things.”

“Did you see him when he left?”

“No—I’d put the door on the latch and gone to bed. They can still let themselves out, but the door locks as it closes.”

“Can you describe this gentleman?”

Running his eye up Tony, the old man grimaced. “I can’t recall much—no reason to, then. But he was decently tall, not so tall as you though, but more heavily built. Well built. He was nicely kitted out, that I do remember—his coat had one of those fancy fur collars, like rippling curls.”

Astrakhan
. A vision flashed into Tony’s mind—the glimpse he’d caught at a distance as the unknown man leaving the Amery House gardens had passed beneath a streetlamp. His thought had been “well rugged up”— prompted by the astrakhan collar of the man’s coat.

“And,” the old man continued, “he was a toff like you. Spoke well, and had that way about him, the way he walked and carried his cane.”

Tony nodded. “How old? What color hair? Was there anything notable about him—a squint, a big nose?”

“He’d be older than you—forties at least, but well kept. His hair was brownish, but as for his face, there was nothing you’d notice. Regular features”—the old man squinted again at Tony—“though not as regular as yours.” He shrugged. “He was a well-dressed gentl’man such as you’d find on any street about here.”

Tony thanked the man.

Once on the pavement, he paused, then set off for Upper Brook Street; the walk would do him good, perhaps clear his mind. An A. C. had paid Ruskin large sums for the last four years. Be that as it may, he was perfectly certain things were not as they seemed.

A few hours closeted in his library clarified matters, at least as far as identifying his immediate next steps.

Through Ruskin’s blackmail and fateful coincidence, Alicia Carrington was being drawn further and further into his investigation. Given his personal interest, he needed to regain lost ground rapidly—needed to regain her trust. Doing so would require an apology, and worse, explanations. All of which necessitated a certain amount of planning, which in turn required a certain amount of reconnoitering. His groom returned from the mews near Waverton Street with the necessary details, by which time he’d formulated his plan.

He began its implementation with a note to his godmother, then sent a different note around to Manningham House.

When the clocks struck nine, he and Geoffrey were propping the wall of Lady Herrington’s ballroom, keeping a careful eye on the arrivals.

“I would never have thought of sending around a groom.” Eyes on the throng, Geoffrey seemed to be relishing his role.

“Stick with me, and you’ll learn all sorts of useful tricks.” Tony kept his gaze on the ballroom stairs.

Geoffrey softly snorted.

The strands of old companionship had regrown quickly, somewhat to the surprise of them both. Tony was four years Geoffrey’s senior; much of their childhood had been colored by Geoffrey’s need to cast himself as Tony’s rival. Despite that, there’d been many occasions when they’d combined forces in various devilry; the friendship beneath the rivalry had been strong.

“There they are.” Tony straightened. At the top of the steps, he’d glimpsed a coronet of dark hair above a pale forehead.

Geoffrey craned his head. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Which was of itself revealing. “Remember—the instant they reach the bottom of the steps. Ready?”

“Right behind you.”

They swooped as planned, a perfectly executed attack that separated Alicia and Adriana the instant the sisters set foot on the ballroom floor. Geoffrey took Adriana’s hand—offered with a delighted smile—and smoothly cut in, drawing Adriana forward while simultaneously insinuating himself between the sisters, cutting Alicia off from Adriana’s immediate view.