The Lady Chosen (44 page)

He searched her eyes, then his arms closed around her. “Thank God for that.”

She chuckled, sank down, laying her head on his shoulder. Felt his arms settle, holding her tight. “This is really all a plot to avoid having to attend any more balls and soirées, isn’t it?”

“And musicales. Don’t forget those.” Tristan bent his head and brushed a kiss to her forehead. Caught her gaze, softly said, “I’d much rather spend my evenings here, with you. Attending to my future.”

Her eyes, the periwinkle blue intense and brilliant, held his for a long moment, then she smiled, shifted, and drew his lips to hers.

He took what she offered, gave all he had in return.

Lust and a virtuous woman.

Fate had chosen his lady for him, and done a bloody good job.

Announcing

the next book in

the Bastion Club series

A GENTLEMAN’S HONOR

The tale of how Anthony Blake,

Viscount Torrington,

finds his fated bride

will follow next month

On the shelves October 2003!

An excerpt from Chapter 1 follows

With every step Tony took along Park Street, his resistance to entering Amery House, to attending his godmother’s soirée and smiling and chatting and doing the pretty by a gaggle of young ladies with whom he had nothing in common—and who, if they knew the man he truly was, would probably faint—waxed stronger. Indeed, his reluctance over the whole damn business was veering toward the despondent.

Not by the wildest, most dramatic flight of fancy could he imagine being married to any of the young beauties he’d thus far had paraded before him. They were…too young. Too innocent, too untouched by life. He felt no connection with them whatsoever. The fact that they—each and every one—would happily accept his suit if he chose to favor them, and think themselves blessed, raised serious questions as to their intelligence.

He was not, had never been, an easy man. One look at him should tell any sane woman that. He would certainly not be an easy husband. The position of his wife was one that would demand a great deal of its holder, an aspect of which the sweet young things seemed to have no inkling.

His wife…

Not so many years ago, the thought of searching for her would have had him laughing. He had not, then, imagined finding a wife was something that would unduly exercise him—when he needed to marry, the right lady would be there, miraculously waiting.

He hadn’t, then, appreciated just how important, how vital, her role
vis à vis
himself would be.

Now he was faced with that anticipated need to marry—and an even greater need to find the right wife—but the right lady had thus far shown no inclination even to make an appearance.

The fact he had no idea what she looked like, what she was like, what aspects of her character or personality would be the vital clue—the crucial elements in her that he needed—did not make his task any easier.

He wanted a wife. That much he accepted—the restlessness that seemed to enmesh his very soul left him in no doubt of that—but exactly
what
he wanted, let alone why…that was the point on which he’d run aground.

Identify the target.

The first rule in planning any successful sortie.

Until he succeeded in satisfying that requirement, he couldn’t even start his campaign; the frustration irked—and fueled his habitual impatience to unprecedented heights.

Hunting a wife was ten times worse than hunting spies had ever been.

His footsteps echoed. Another, distant footfall sounded; his agent’s senses, still very much a part of him, flaring to full attention, he looked up.

Through the mist wreathing the street, he saw a man, well-muffled in coat and hat and carrying a cane, step away from the garden gate of…Amery House.

The man was too far away to recognize, and walked quickly away in the opposite direction.

Tony’s godmother’s house stood at the corner of Park and Green streets, its front door facing Green Street. The garden gate opened to a path that led up to the drawing room terrace.

By now the soirée would be in full swing. The thought of the feminine chatter, the high-pitched laughter—the giggles—the measuring glances of the matrons, the calculation in so many eyes, welled and pressed down on him.

On his left, the garden gate drew nearer. The temptation to take that route, to slip inside without any announcement, to mingle and quickly look over the field, then perhaps to retreat before even his godmother knew he was there, surfaced…

His hand closed around the wrought iron latch and he lifted it. The gate swung soundlessly open; he passed through and closed it quietly behind him. From ahead, through the silent garden, heavily shadowed by large and ancient trees, the sound of conversation and laughter drifted down to him.

Mentally girding his loins, he drew in a deep breath, then went quickly up the steep flight of steps that led up to the level of the back garden.

Through ingrained habit, he moved silently.

The woman crouching by the side of the man lying sprawled on his back, shoulders propped against the trunk of the largest tree in the garden, didn’t hear him.

The tableau exploded into Tony’s vision as he gained the top of the steps. Senses instantly alert, fully deployed, he paused.

Slim, svelte, gowned for the evening in silk, her dark hair piled high, with a silvery shawl wrapped about her shoulders and clutched tight in one, white-knuckled hand, the lady slowly, very slowly, rose. In her other hand, she held a long, scalloped stilletto; streaks of blood beaded on the wicked blade.

She held the dagger with the hilt loosely gripped in her
right fist, the dagger point downward. She stared at the blade as if it were a snake.

A drop of dark liquid fell from the dagger’s point.

The lady shuddered.

Impulsively, Tony stepped forward, driven to take her in his arms; catching himself, he halted. Sensing his presence, she looked up.

A delicate, heart-shaped face, complexion as pale as snow, dark eyes wide with shock, looked at him blankly.

Then, with a visible effort, she gathered herself. “I think he’s dead.”

Her tone was flat; her voice shook. She was clearly battling hysterics; he was thankful she was winning.

Tamping down that irrational urge to soothe her, shield her, a ridiculously primitive feeling but unexpectedly powerful, he walked closer. Forcing his gaze from her, he scanned the body, then reached for the dagger. She surrendered it with a shudder, not just of shock but of revulsion.

“Where was it?” He kept his tone impersonal, businesslike. He crouched down, waited…

After an instant, she responded, “In his left side. It had fallen almost out…I didn’t realize…” Her voice started to rise, became thready and died.

Stay calm
. He willed the order at her; a cursory inspection confirmed she was right on both counts. The man was dead; he’d been knifed very neatly, a single deadly thrust between the ribs from the back. “Who is he—do you know?”

“A Mr. Ruskin—William Ruskin.”

He glanced up. “You knew him.”

He hadn’t thought it possible, but her eyes widened even more. “No!” Then she caught her breath, closed her eyes, made a valiant and quite transparent attempt to catch her wits. “That is…”—she opened her eyes again—“only to speak to. Socially. At the soirée…”

With her free hand, she waved back at the house. She dragged in a breath and rushed on, “I came out for some air. A headache…there was no one out here. I thought to wander…” Her gaze returned to the body. She gulped. “Then I found him.”

Tony rose, shifting so that in looking at him, she was no longer looking at the body. “Did you see anyone leaving?”

She stared at him. “No.” She glanced around, taking in the silent shadows, then abruptly swung her gaze back to him.

He sensed her sudden thought, her rising panic. Was irritated by it. “No—I didn’t kill him.”

His tone seemed to reassure her; her sudden tenseness eased fractionally.

He glanced again at the sprawled corpse, then at her; he waved back up the path. “Come. We must go in and tell them.”

She blinked at him.

Moving slowly, he reached for her elbow. She permitted it, let him turn her, unresisting, and steer her back toward the terrace. She moved like a puppet, still very much in shock. He glanced at her pale face, but the shadows revealed little. “Did Ruskin have a wife, do you know?”

She started; he felt the jerk through his hold on her arm. From beneath her lashes, she cast him a shocked glance. “No.” Her voice was tight, strained. Finding his gaze on her face, she looked ahead. “No wife.”

If anything, she’d paled even more. He prayed she wouldn’t swoon, at least not before he got her inside. Appearing at his godmother’s soirée via the terrace doors with a lady senseless in his arms would create a stir even more intense than murder.

She started shaking as they went up the steps, but she didn’t let go; she clung to her composure with a grim determination
he was experienced enough to admire.

The terrace doors were ajar; they walked into the drawing room without attracting any particular attention. Finally in good light, he looked down at her, studied her, with his gaze traced her features, the straight, finely chiseled nose, her lips a trifle too wide, yet full, lush and tempting. She was above average in height, her dark hair piled high in gleaming coils on her head, exposing the delicate curve of her nape, the fine bones of her shoulders. Despite the circumstances, he felt the unmistakable flare of sensual attraction; given his earlier impulse, he wasn’t all that surprised.

She looked up, met his gaze. Her eyes were more green than hazel, large and well-set under arched brows; they were presently wide, their expression dazed, distant. Haunted.

He recognized the signs, but she seemed in no danger of succumbing to the vapors. Spying a chair along the wall, he guided her to it; she sank down with relief. “I must speak with Lady Amery’s butler. If you’ll remain here, I’ll send a footman with a glass of water.”

Her eyes lifted to his face. Her expression remained almost blank. “Please. If you would…”

He inclined his head; he was conscious of an inward wrench as he turned and headed into the crowd.

He found a footman first and dispatched him to revive the lady. Ignoring the many who tried to catch his eye, he found Clusters, the Amerys’ butler, in the hall, and pulled him into the library to explain the situation and give the necessary orders.

He’d been visiting Amery House since he’d been six months old; the staff knew him well. They acted on his orders, summoning his lordship from the cardroom and her ladyship from the drawing room, and sending a footman running for the Watch.

He wasn’t entirely surprised by the ensuing circus; his
godmother was French, after all, and in this instance, she was ably supported by the Watch captain, a supercilious sort who saw difficulties where none existed. Having taken the man’s measure with one glance, Tony omitted mentioning the lady’s presence. There was in his view no reason to expose her to further and unnecessary trauma; given the dead man’s size and the way she’d held the dagger, it was difficult if not impossible to convincingly cast her as the killer.

The man he’d seen leaving by the garden gate was much more likely to have done the deed.

Besides, he didn’t know the lady’s name.

That thought was uppermost in his mind when, finally free of the responsibility of finding a dead body, he returned to the drawing room and discovered the lady gone. She wasn’t where he’d left her; he quickly scouted the rooms, but she was no longer among the guests.

The number of guests had thinned appreciably. No doubt she’d been with others, perhaps a husband, and they’d had to leave…

The possibility put a rein on his thoughts, dampened his enthusiasm.

Glibly extricating himself from the clinging coils of a particularly tenacious matron with two daughters to marry off, he slid into the hall, and headed for the front door.

On the front steps, he paused, and drew in a deep breath. The night was crisp; a sharp frost hung in the air.

His mind remained full of the lady.

He was conscious of a certain disappointment. He hadn’t expected her gratitude, yet…he wouldn’t have minded a chance to look into those wide green eyes again, to have them focus on him when they weren’t glazed with shock.

To look deep and see if she, too, had felt that stirring, the quickening in the blood, the first flicker of heat.

In the distance a bell tolled the hour. Drawing in another breath, he went down the steps and headed home.

Home was a quiet, silent place, a huge old house with only him in it. And his staff of servants, who were usually zealous in preserving him from all undue aggravation.

It was therefore a rude shock to be shaken awake by his father’s valet, who he’d inherited along with the title, and informed that there was a gentleman downstairs wishful of speaking with him even though it was only nine o’clock.

When asked to state his business, the gentleman had replied that his name was Dalziel and their master would assuredly see him.

Accepting that no one in their right mind would claim to be Dalziel if they weren’t, Tony grumbled mightily but consented to rise and get dressed.

Curiosity propelled him downstairs; in the past, he and his peers had always been summoned to wait on Dalziel in his office in Whitehall. Of course, he was no longer one of Dalziel’s minions, yet he couldn’t help feeling that that alone would not account for Dalziel’s courtesy in calling on him.

Even if it was just past nine o’clock.

Entering the library where Hungerford, his butler, had left Dalziel to kick his heels, the first thing he became aware of was the aroma of fresh coffee; Hungerford had served Dalziel a cup.

Tony nodded to Dalziel, elegantly disposed in an armchair; without breaking his stride, he went to the bellpull and tugged. Then he turned and, propping an arm along the mantelpiece, faced Dalziel. He had set his cup down and was waiting.

“I apologize for the early hour, but I understand from Whitley that you discovered a dead body last night.”

Tony looked down into Dalziel’s dark brown eyes, half
hidden by heavy lids, and wondered if such occurrences ever slipped past his attention. “I did. Pure chance. What’s your—or Whitley’s—interest?”

Lord Whitley was Dalziel’s opposite number in the Home Office; Tony had been one of, possibly the only member of, Dalziel’s group ever to have liaised with agents run by Whitley. Their mutual targets had been the spy networks operating out of London, attempting to undermine Wellington’s campaigns.

“The victim—a William Ruskin—was a Senior Administrative Clerk in the Customs and Revenue Office.” Dalziel’s expression was totally uninformative; his dark gaze never wavered. “I came to inquire whether there was any story I should know?”

A Senior Administrative Clerk in the Customs and Revenue Office; recalling the stiletto, an assassin’s blade, Tony was no longer truly sure. He refocused on Dalziel’s face. “I don’t believe so.”

He knew that Dalziel would have noted his hesitation; equally, he knew that his erstwhile commander would accept his assessment.