A Gentleman's Honor

  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.

  Before Alicia could even gather her wits, she was captured, swept aside; Tony propelled her across the front of the ballroom steps and around into their lee, where a small and as yet uncrowded little foyer stood before a closed door.

  They’d reached the foyer before she caught her breath.

  Then she did. Her eyes swung to his face. They blazed.

  He caught that scorching glance, held it. Her breasts swelled; her lips parted—on a scathing denunciation he had not a doubt. “Don’t fight me.” He spoke softly; there was steel in his voice. “Don’t look daggers at me, and for God’s sake don’t rip up at me. I have to
talk to you.”

  Her jaw set mulishly. She tugged her right arm, firmly gripped in his right hand; his left arm was around her waist, steering her on. She tried to stop, to dig in her heels, but she was wearing ballroom slippers. “If we must, we can talk here!”

  He didn’t pause, but looked down at her, leaned closer, drawing her into the shield of his body. “No, we can’t. You wouldn’t like it, and neither would I.”

  He released her arm to fling open the door, catching her in his left arm when she tried to step back. He swept her over the threshold and followed, shutting the door behind him, by sheer physical presence forcing her on along the corridor beyond.

  She hissed in frustration, took two steps, then swung to face him and glared. “This is ridiculous! You can’t simply—”

  “Not here.” He caught her arm again, propelled her on.

  “The door on the left at the end is our best bet.”

  He could sense her temper rising, seething like a volcano. “Our best bet for what?” she muttered beneath her breath.

  He glanced at her, but held his tongue.

  They reached the door in question; he sent it swinging wide. This time, she entered of her own volition, sweeping in like a galleon under full sail. He followed, shutting the door, taking note of her gown—a sleekly draped silk confection in bronzy, autumnal shades that became her extremely well.

  She turned on him, faced him; the silk tightened over her breasts as she dragged in a deep breath—

  He heard a click as the door at the head of the corridor opened. The noise of the ball washed in, abruptly cut off again as the door was shut. A woman giggled, the sound quickly smothered.

  Reaching behind him, he snibbed the lock on the door.

  Too far from the corridor to realize the danger, eyes blazing, Alicia opened her mouth to deliver the broadside he undoubtedly deserved.

  He stepped forward, jerked her into his arms, and silenced her—saved them—in the only possible way.

  FIVE

  HE KISSED HER.

  Her mouth had been open, her lips parted; he slid between, caressed, claimed—and felt her attention splinter. Her hands had gripped his upper arms; they tensed, but she didn’t push him away. She clung, held on.

  As a whirlpool of want rose up and engulfed them.

  He hadn’t intended it, had had no idea how much he wanted, how much hunger he possessed, or how readily it would rise to her lure. Hands framing her face, he angled his head and flagrantly feasted. Asking for no permission, giving no quarter, he plunged them both into the fire. She was a widow, not a skittish virgin; he didn’t need to explain things to her.

  Such as the nature of his want. His tongue tangling with hers, aggressively plundering, he released her face and gathered her to him. Into his arms, against his hard frame. Glorying in the supple softness that promised to ease his ache, he molded her to him, blatantly shifted his hips against hers. He felt her spine soften as she sank into him.

  As her bones melted and her knees gave way.

  Alicia struggled to cling to her wits, but time and again he ripped them away. Her breath was long gone; with their mouths melded she could only breathe through him—she’d given up the fight to do otherwise.

  Her head spun—pleasurably. Warmth, burgeoning heat, spread through her veins. Intoxicating. Shocking. She tried to cling to her anger, rekindle her fury, but could not.

  She’d had only a second’s warning, but she’d expected a kiss—a touching of lips, not this ravenous, flagrantly intimate exchange. Mild kisses she could cope with, but this? It was new territory, unknown and dangerous, yet she couldn’t—could not—let her innocence, her inexperience show.

  No matter how much her senses swam, how much her wits had seized in sheer shock.

  She had nothing to guide her but him. In desperation, she mimicked the play of his tongue against hers, and sensed his immediate approval. In seconds, they were engaged in a duel, in a sensual game of thrust and parry.

  Of lips and tongues, of heated softness and beguiling aggression, of shared breaths and, amazingly, shared hunger.

  It caught her, dragged at her mind. Drew her in. Held her captive.

  He urged her closer still, one hand sliding down her back to splay over her hips, her bottom, lifting her and pressing her to him.

  Sensation streaked over her skin, prickling, heated; she clung tight, felt the world whirl.

  And she was engulfed in his strength, enveloped by it, a potent masculine power that seemed to weaken every bone in her body, that promised heat and flames so dizzyingly pleasurable all she wanted was to wantonly wallow, to give herself up to them and be consumed.

  On one level it was frightening, but she couldn’t retreat—had wit enough left to know she couldn’t panic, couldn’t run.

  She was supposed to be a widow. She had to stand there, accept all, and respond as if she understood.

  Eventually his aggression eased, the tension riding him gradually, step by step, reined in. Gripping his arms, fingers sunk deep, she felt that drawing back; the kiss lightened, became a more gentle if still intimate caress, lips clinging, teasing, still wanting.

  At last he raised his head, but not far.

  Her lips felt swollen and hot; from beneath her lashes, she glanced at his eyes. His black gaze touched her eyes, held, then he sighed. Bent and touched his lips to the corner of hers.

  “I didn’t intend this. There were people in the corridor. A danger…”

  Deep, gravelly, the words feathered her cheek; sensation, hot and immediate, flashed over her.

  “I wanted to apologize…” He paused, raised his head. Again she met his eyes, again found them waiting to capture hers. Something predatory flashed in the rich blackness, then he continued, “Not for this. Not for anything I’ve done or even said, but for how what I said in the park sounded.”

  His tone was still low, slightly rough, teasing something—some response—from her.

  Her gaze had drifted to his lips; his hands tightened on her back, and she looked up, eyes widening as she felt the heat between them flare again.

  He caught her gaze, held it. “I’m not Ruskin. I will never hurt or harm you. I want to protect you, not threaten you.” He hesitated, then went on, “Even this—I didn’t plan it.”

  This. He was still holding her close, not as tight as before yet just as flagrantly. Only lovers, she was perfectly certain, should ever be this close. Yet she didn’t dare pull back, fought instead to ignore the warm flush the embrace sent coursing through her. What had gone before no longer seemed terribly relevant.

  “So—” She broke off, shocked by the sound of her voice, low, almost sultry. She moistened her lips, tried for a normal tone. Didn’t quite manage it. “What had you planned?” She met his eyes, clung to her bold front.

  He studied her face, then his lips twisted. “I spoke the truth—I do need to speak with you.”

  He made no move to release her. How would an experienced widow react? She forced herself to remain passive in his arms and raised a haughty brow. “About what? I wasn’t aware we had anything to discuss.”

  One black brow arched—arrogantly; holding her gaze, he deliberately shifted her against him, settling her in his arms—sending her senses reeling again. “Obviously”— he gave the word blatant weight—“there’s much we could, and later will, discuss. However…”

  The room, a small parlor overlooking the gardens, was unlit, but her eyes had adjusted—she could see his face well enough. Although he didn’t physically sigh, she sensed his mind lift from them and refocus on something beyond. A frown in his eyes, he looked down at her, studied her face.

  “When did you marry Carrington?”

  She stared at him. “Marry?”

  His frown grew more definite. “Humor me. When was your wedding?”

  “Ah.” She struggled to remember when it must have been. “Eighteen months—no, more like two years ago, now.”

  She dragged in a breath, struggled
to ignore the way her breasts pressed into his chest, how her nipples tightened, and dragooned her wits into order. He was investigating Ruskin’s death; she couldn’t afford to prod his suspicions. “It was a very short marriage. Poor Alfred—it was terribly sad.”

  His brow arched again. “So you’ve been Alicia Carrington for only two years?”

  She checked her calculations. “Yes.” She bit her tongue against adding anything more; better to keep her answers short.

  He didn’t seem to notice; he seemed, not exactly relieved, but pleased. “Good!”

  When she looked her surprise, he smiled rather grimly. “So you can’t be A. C.”

  “Who’s A. C.?”

  “The person who paid Ruskin for his treasonous services.”

  She stared at him. Her lips formed the word twice before she managed to utter it. “What?”

  Tony grimaced. He looked around. “Here.” Reluctantly releasing her, he steered her to a chaise. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”

  It hadn’t come easily, his acceptance that if he wanted her trust, he would have to tell her, if not all, then at least most of what was going on, how he was involved, how she was involved—how she was threatened. He needed her cooperation for reasons that struck much deeper than his mission; that mission—his investigation—was a whip he could use to command her, but only one thing would suffice to make her trust him. To lean on him as he wished her to.

  Appeasement—a peace offering, some gift on his part—was the only way to nudge her onto the path he’d chosen. The most important element between them right now was the truth; as far as he was able, he would give her that.

  He waited while, with a suspicious and wary glance, she sat and settled her skirts, then he sat beside her and took her hand in his. Looked down, played with her fingers as he assembled his words.

  Then, keeping his voice low yet clear enough for her to easily hear, he told her simply, without embellishment, all he’d learned of Ruskin.

  She listened, increasingly attentive, but made no comment.