A Gentleman's Honor

by Stephanie Laurens

  Looking up at him, into his eyes, she drew on that strength again, and felt the horror they’d left outside recede even further. The reality around them came into sharper focus; a glass of water, a moment to compose herself, and she’d manage. “If you would… thank you.”

  That “thank-you” was for far more than the glass of water.

  He bowed, then turned and headed across the room.

  Suppressing an inner wrench, not just reluctance but real resistance to leaving her, Tony found a footman and dispatched him to revive her, then, ignoring the many who tried to catch his eye, he found Clusters, the Amerys’ butler, 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 the grounds via 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 murdered man, he returned to the drawing room and discovered her gone. She wasn’t where he’d left her; he scouted the rooms, but she was no longer among the guests.

  The crowd 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. Extricating himself from the coils of a particularly tenacious matron with two daughters to marry off, he stepped 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, that 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. Along with his staff, 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, whom 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 his 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 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.

  Nodding to Dalziel, elegantly disposed in an armchair, he went straight to the bellpull and tugged. Then he turned and, propping an arm along the mantelpiece, faced Dalziel, who had set down his cup and was waiting.

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

  Tony looked 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, 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, William Ruskin, was a senior administrative clerk in the Customs and Revenue Office.” Dalziel’s expression remained 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.

  Dalziel did, with an inclination of his head. He rose. Met Tony’s eyes. “If there’s any change in the situation, do let me know.”

  With a polite nod, he headed for the door.

  Tony saw him into the hall and handed him into the care of a footman; retreating to the library, he wondered, as he often had, just who Dalziel really was. Like recognized like; he was certainly of the aristocracy, with his finely hewn Norman features, pale skin and sable hair, yet Tony had checked enough to know Dalziel wasn’t his last name. Dalziel was slightly shorter and leaner than the men he had commanded, all ex-Guardsmen, yet he projected an aura of lethal purpose that, in a roomful of larger men, would instantly mark him as the most dangerous.

  The one man a wise man would never take his eye from.

  The door to the street shut; a second later, Hungerford appeared with a tray bearing a steaming cup of coffee. Tony took it with a grateful murmur; like all excellent butlers, Hungerford always seemed to know what he required without having to be told.

  “Shall I ask Cook to send up your breakfast, my lord?”

  He nodded. “Yes—I’ll be going out shortly.”

  Hungerford asked no more, but silently left him.

  Tony savored the coffee, along with the premonition Dalziel’s appearance and his few words had sent tingling along his nerves.

  He was too wise to ignore or dismiss the warning, yet, in this case, he wasn’t personally involved.

  But she might be.

  Dalziel’s query gave him the perfect excuse to learn more of her. Indeed, given Whitehall’s interest, it seemed incumbent upon him to do so. To assure himself that there wasn’t anything more nefarious than murder behind Ruskin’s death.

  He needed to find the lady. Cherchez la femme.

  TWO

  HE REGRETTED NOT ASKING HER NAME, BUT INTRODUCTIONS over a dead body simply hadn’t occurred to him, so all he had was her physical description. The notion of asking his godmother occurred, only to be dismissed; alerting Tante Felicité to any interest on his part—especially when he wasn’t sure of his ground—didn’t appeal, and the lady might have arrived with others. Felicité might not know her personally.

  Over breakfast, he applied his mind to the question of how to track the lady down. The idea that occurred seemed a stroke of genius. Ham and sausages disposed of, he strode into his hall, shrugged on the coat Hungerford held, and headed for Bruton Street.

  The lady’s gown had been a creation of considerable elegance; although he hadn’t consciously noted it at the time, it had registered in his mind. The vision leapt clearly to his inner eye. Pale green s
ilk superbly cut to compliment a lithe rather than buxom figure; the fall of the silk, the drape of the neckline, all screamed of an expert modiste’s touch.

  According to Hungerford, Bruton Street was still home to the ton’s most fashionable modistes. Tony started at the nearer end, calmly walking into Madame Francesca’s salon and demanding to see Madame.

  Madame was delighted to receive him, but regretfully—and it truly was regretfully—could not help him.

  That refrain was repeated all the way down the street. By the time he reached Madame Franchot’s establishment at the other end, Tony had run out of patience. After enduring fifteen minutes of Madame’s earnest inquiries regarding his mother’s health, he escaped, no wiser.

  Going slowly down the stairs, he wondered where the devil else one of his lady’s ilk might obtain her gowns. Reaching the street door, he opened it.

  And saw, large as life, walking along the opposite side of the street, the lady herself. So she did come to Bruton Street.

  She was walking briskly, absorbed in conversation with a veritable stunner—a younger lady of what even to Tony’s jaded eye registered as quite fabulous charms.

  He waited inside the doorway until they walked farther on, then went out, closed the door, crossed the street, and fell in in their wake, some twenty yards behind. Not so close that the lady might sense his presence, or see him immediately behind her should she glance around, yet not so far that he risked losing them should they enter any of the shops lining the street.

  Somewhat to his surprise, they didn’t. They walked on, engrossed in their discussion; reaching Berkeley Square, they continued around it.

  He followed.

  “There was nothing you could have done—he was already dead and you saw nothing to the point.” Adriana stated the facts decisively. “Nothing would have been gained and no point served by you becoming further involved.”

  “Indeed,” Alicia agreed. She just wished she could rid herself of the niggling concern that she should have waited in Lady Amery’s drawing room, at least for the gentleman to return. He’d been uncommonly sensible and supportive; she should have thanked him properly. There was also the worry that he might have become embroiled in difficulties over finding a dead body—she had no idea of the correct procedures, or even if there were correct procedures—yet he’d seemed so competent, doubtless she was worrying over nothing.

  She was still jumpy, nervy, hardly surprising but she couldn’t allow even a murder to distract her from their plan. Too much depended on it.

  “I do hope Pennecuik can get that lilac silk for us—it’s a perfect shade to stand out among the other pastels.” Adriana glanced at her. “I rather think that design with the frogged jacket would suit—do you remember it?”

  Alicia admitted she did. Adriana was trying to distract her, to deflect her thoughts into more practical and productive avenues. They’d just come from visiting Mr. Pennecuik’s warehouse, located behind the modistes’ salons at the far end of Bruton Street. Mr. Pennecuik supplied the trade with the very best materials; he now also supplied Mrs. Carrington of Waverton Street with the stuffs for the elegant gowns in which she and her beautiful sister, Miss Pevensey, graced the ton’s entertainments.

  A most amicable arrangement had been reached. Mr. Pennecuik supplied her with the most exclusive fabrics at a considerable discount in return for her telling all those who asked—as hordes of matrons did and would when they clapped eyes on Adriana—that insisting on the best fabric was the key to gaining the most from one’s modiste, and the fabrics from Mr. Pennecuik’s were unquestionably the best.

  As she patronized no modiste, the presumption was that she employed a private seamstress. The truth was she and Adriana, aided by their old nurse, Fitchett, sewed all their gowns. No one, however, needed to know that, and so everyone was pleased with the arrangement.

  “Dark purple frogging.” Alicia narrowed her eyes, creating the gown in her mind. “With ribbons of an in-between shade to edge the hems.”

  “Oh, yes! I saw that on a gown last night—it looked quite stunning.”

  Adriana prattled on. Alicia nodded and hmmed at the right points; inwardly, she returned to the nagging possibility that continued to disturb her.

  The gentleman had stated he wasn’t the murderer. She’d believed him—still did—but didn’t know why. It would have been so easy…he might have heard her on the path, propped Ruskin against the tree, hid in the shadows and waited for her to “discover” Ruskin, then walked up and “discovered” her. If anyone asked, she would be honor-bound to state he’d come up after she’d found Ruskin already dead.

  Already stabbed.

  The memory of the dagger sliding out…she shivered.

  Adriana glanced at her, then tightened their linked arms, pressing closer. “Stop thinking about it!”

  “I can’t.” It wasn’t Ruskin she was thinking most about, but the man who had emerged from the shadows; despite all, it was he who lingered most strongly in her mind.

  Determinedly she redirected her thoughts to the crux of her worries. “After all our luck to date, I can’t help but worry that some whisper of my involvement with so scandalous a thing as murder will out, and will affect your chances.” She met Adriana’s gaze. “We all have so much riding on this.”

  Adriana’s smile was truly charming; she was no giddy miss, but a sensible female not easily influenced by man or fate. “Just show me the field and leave the rest to me. I assure you I’m up to it, and while I’m swishing my skirts, you can retreat into the shadows if you wish. But truly, I think it unlikely any news of this murder, much less your part in it, will surface, beyond, of course, the customary ‘How unfortunate.’”

  Alicia grimaced.

  “Now,” Adriana continued, “I gather from Miss Tiverton that there’ll be quite a different crowd at Lady Mott’s tonight. Apparently, her ladyship has a wide acquaintance in the counties, and what with everyone coming up to town early, there’s sure to be many at her ball tonight. I think the cerise-and-white stripes will be best for me tonight, and perhaps the dark plum for you.”

  Alicia let Adriana fill her ears with sartorial plans. Turning into Waverton Street, they headed for their door.

  From the corner of the street, Tony watched them climb the steps and enter, waited until the door shut, then ambled past. No one watching him would have noticed his interest.

  At the end of Waverton Street he paused, smiled to himself, then headed home.

  Lady Mott’s ball had been talked of as a small affair.

  The ballroom was certainly small. The ball, however, was such a crush Alicia was grateful that the size of Adriana’s court gave them some protection.

  As was her habit, after delivering Adriana to her admirers, she stepped back to the wall. There were chairs for chaperones a little way along, but she’d quickly realized that, not truly being chaperone material, it behooved her to avoid those who were; they were too inquisitive.

  Besides, standing just feet away, she was near if Adriana needed help in dealing with any difficult suitor or avoiding the more wolfish elements who had started to appear at the periphery of her court.

  Such gentlemen Alicia showed no hesitation in putting to rout.

  The strains of the violins heralded a waltz, one Adriana had granted to Lord Heathcote. Alicia was watching, relaxed yet eagle-eyed as her sister prettily took his lordship’s arm, when hard fingers closed about her hand.

  She jumped, swallowed a gasp. The fingers felt like iron.

  Outraged, she swung around, and looked up—into the dark, hard-featured face of the gentleman from the shadows.

  Her lips parted in shock.

  One black brow arched. “That’s a waltz starting— come and dance.”

  Her wits scattered. By the time she’d regathered them, she was whirling down the room, and it was suddenly seriously difficult to breathe.

  His arms felt like steel, his hand hard and sure on her back. He moved gracefully, effortle
ssly, all harnessed power, hard muscle and bone. He was tall, lean, yet broad-shouldered; the notion that he’d captured her, seized her and swept her away, and now had her in his keeping, flooded her mind.

  She shook it aside, yet the sensation of being swept up by a force beyond her control, engulfed by a strength entirely beyond her power to counter, shocked her, momentarily dazed her.

  Tangled her tongue.

  Left her mentally scrambling to catch up—and filch the reins of her will back from his grasp.

  The look on his face—one of all-seeing, patronizing, not superiority but control—helped enormously.

  She dragged in a breath, conscious of her bodice tightening alarmingly. “We haven’t been introduced!” The first point that needed to be made.

  “Anthony Blake, Viscount Torrington. And you are?”

  Flabbergasted. Breathless again. The timbre of his voice, deep, low, vibrated through her. His eyes, deepest black under heavy lids, held hers. She had to moisten her lips. “Alicia…Carrington.”

  Where were her wits?

  “Mrs. Carrington.” She dragged in another breath, and felt the reel her wits had been whizzing through start to slow.

  His eyes hadn’t left hers. Then he slipped his shoulder from under her hand, and that hand, her left, was trapped in his. His fingers shifted, finding the gold band on her ring finger.

  His lips twisted fleetingly; he replaced her hand on his shoulder and continued to whirl her smoothly down the room.

  She stared at him, beyond astonished. Inwardly thanking the saints for Aunt Maude’s ring.

  Then she blinked, cleared her throat, and looked over his shoulder into safe oblivion. “I must thank you for your help last evening—I hope the matter was concluded without any undue difficulties. I do ask you to excuse my early retreat.” She risked a glance at his face. “I fear I was quite overcome.”