A Gentleman's Honor

by Stephanie Laurens

  “That leaves us still facing the final question,” Christan said. “What link could there be between a tea and coffee merchant and a member of the haut ton?”

  The room fell silent; only the ticking of the mantelpiece clock could be heard, then Charles looked at Tony. “It couldn’t be that, could it—the reason behind Ruskin’s murder?”

  “It’s certainly feasible.” Tristan leaned back in his chair. “There’s many in the ton would move heaven and earth to hide any contact with trade.”

  “Add to that the illegality involved, let alone its treasonous nature…” Gervase glanced around. “That’s a powerful motive for removing Ruskin.”

  “And then going to any lengths to cover his tracks.” Tony’s gaze was fixed on Alicia.

  There were slow nods all around. Charles leaned forward, hands clasped. “That’s it—we might not yet be able to see the player, but that assuredly is the game. A. C. is directly involved in trade via some tea and coffee merchant.”

  Suddenly needing to move, Tony rose. Crossing to the fireplace, closer to Alicia, he braced an arm on the mantelpiece and looked around the circle. “Let’s recapitulate. A. C. is at the very least a sleeping partner with a merchant who imports the finest tea and coffee. In order to increase profits by driving up prices, he sets out to manipulate the supply of tea and coffee through having ships carrying competitors’ supplies taken by the French.”

  He looked at Jack Hendon. “How did he know which ships to target?”

  Jack shrugged. “Easy enough if you’re inside the trade. The merchants know each other, and each merchant usually has contracts with only one or at most two shipping lines, and the ships run by each line are listed in a number of registers, none hard to access. It wouldn’t have been difficult.”

  Tony nodded. “So he knows which ships to target to make his plan work. With the information from Ruskin, he knows when each returning ship will not be under frigate escort, and thus an easy and vulnerable target for a foreign captain.”

  His voiced hardened. “So A. C. arranges for the target ships to be taken, then sits back in London and counts the inflated return from the cargo he’s already landed.”

  A long silence followed, then Christian straightened. “That’s how it worked. We need to identify all possible merchants, then investigate which one had safe cargoes to exploit.”

  “And from there,” Jack Warnefleet murmured, “we dig until we uncover A. C.—there’ll be some track leading back to him, one way or another.”

  The soft menace in his tone was balm to them all.

  Christian looked at Tony. “I’ll act as coordinator in the search for the merchant, if you like.” He glanced at the other members of the club. “We can take that on. I’ll let you know the instant we identify the most likely firm.”

  Tony nodded. “I’ll go with Jack tonight and confirm that the link holds good—if there’s any ship taken that wasn’t carrying tea or coffee, it might give us a link to another aspect of A. C.’s trade interests.”

  “True.” Christian stood. “The more links we can get to A. C.’s trading activities, the easier it’ll be to identify him conclusively.”

  The men rose. The ladies did, too, exchanging plans for meeting that evening at the balls they’d attend.

  As the group emerged into the front hall, Charles paused beside Tony, his gaze uncharacteristically bleak. “You know, I might have understood if A. C.’s motive was in some way…well, patriotic even if grossly misguided. If he was the sort of traitor who sincerely believed England should lose the war and follow some revolutionary course. But be damned if I can understand how any Englishman could so cold-bloodedly have sent so many English sailors to almost certain death at the hands of the French”—he met Tony’s gaze—“all for money.”

  Tony nodded. “That’s one point that sticks in my craw.”

  Along with the fact A. C. had cast Alicia as his scapegoat.

  Expressions grimly determined, they made their farewells and parted, all convinced of one thing. Whoever A. C. was, the man had no soul.

  EIGHTEEN

  “TAKE CARE!”

  In the crush of Lady Carmody’s ballroom, Alicia watched Kit lecture her handsome husband, then she turned on Tony, standing beside Alicia.

  “And you, too. I suppose I feel responsible after pulling you out of the water all those years ago, but regardless, I would prefer not to have to come to some dockside Watch House and explain to the interested who you both are.”

  Tony raised his brows. “If we’re caught, it’ll be your husband’s fault—I haven’t been retired as long as he.”

  From the look on Kit’s face, she didn’t know whether to take umbrage on Jack’s behalf or be more worried still. When no eruption ensued, Jack, behind her, glanced around at her face. Sliding his arm around her, he hugged her. “Stop worrying. I’ll—we’ll—be perfectly safe.”

  Alicia turned to Tony. She fixed him with her most severe look, the one guaranteed instantly to wring the truth from her brothers. “Is he speaking the truth? Will you be all right?”

  Tony smiled; lifting her hand, he pressed a warm kiss into her palm. “There’s no danger to speak of. Lloyd’s is just a coffeehouse—easy pickings.”

  She wasn’t entirely convinced and let it show; his smile deepened.

  Glancing around at the jostling throng, at the many gentlemen moving through its ranks, looking over the available ladies, he murmured, “I’m more concerned about you. Geoffrey will stay close, and Tristan and Leonora will meet you at the Hammonds’, then Geoffrey will see you home.” He met her gaze. “You face more danger than I.” He added, pointedly, “Take care.”

  It was her turn to smile. “If worse comes to worst, I can always claim Sir Freddie’s arm.” And perhaps divert him from Adriana’s side; the baronet remained assiduously attentive despite Adriana’s hints.

  Tony grimaced. Jack tapped him on the shoulder; he looked around.

  “We’d better go.” With a nod, Jack took his leave of her.

  Tony’s eyes returned to hers, lingered, then he released her hand and turned. With Jack, he moved into the crowd. They were taller than most, yet in seconds, neither Kit nor she could see them.

  “Humph!” Kit pulled a face, and linked her arm in Alicia’s. “We’ve been deserted.” Surveying Adriana’s circle, she set her chin. “This is far too tame—come on.” She set off into the crowd, drawing Alicia with her. “Let’s find some useful distraction. I don’t know about you, but without it, I’ll go mad.”

  Alicia laughed, and let herself be towed into the melée.

  Gaining access to the records they sought wasn’t quite as easy as Tony had painted it, yet soon enough he and Jack were flicking through files in the offices above the coffee house, searching for, then poring over the bills of lading lodged for the other ten ships Ruskin had identified and which were subsequently taken.

  While he worked, Tony’s mind revisited their logic, their strategies. “The connection had better not be through Lloyd’s itself.”

  “Unlikely,” Jack answered from across the room. “As far as I know, they’ve never handled tea.”

  Half an hour later, Tony wondered aloud, “In all of this”—he waved at the cabinets ringing the room—“do you think there’s any chance of identifying ships that docked with cargoes of tea or coffee say in the week before one that was taken?”

  Jack looked up, then shook his head. “Needle in a haystack. Virtually every ship that passes through the Port of London will have a waybill in here. That’s often hundreds a day. We’d never be able to check enough to identify the ship we want.”

  He resumed his searching. “Mind you, we will be able to confirm the link once we know the merchant and his shipping line.”

  Tony nodded, and continued flipping through files.

  It took them two hours to locate and examine the ten waybills. Then they quietly put the room to rights, eradicating any sign of their visit, and silently retreated from the roo
m and the building.

  By the time Tony reached Upper Brook Street, Mayfair was silent, the streets dark with shadows. Miranda, Adriana, and Alicia would have returned home long ago. They should all be asleep in their beds.

  Closing the front door, he shot the well-oiled bolts, then crossed the hall. There was no lamp or candle left burning; Hungerford knew him better than that. Quite aside from his excellent night vision, he knew this house like the back of his hand, knew every creak in the stairs, every board that might groan.

  At the top of the stairs, he turned away from the gallery leading to the east wing where Miranda, her daughters, and Adriana had their rooms, and headed for the room Alicia had been given, three doors from the master suite. Hand on the doorknob, he paused, struck by a sudden thought.

  How had Mrs. Swithins known…?

  The answer was obvious. He really was that transparent.

  Grimacing, he turned the knob.

  Alicia was in bed, but not asleep. Cocooned beneath the luxurious embroidered silk coverlet, silk sheets sliding seductively over her skin, she’d been waiting for the past hour, waiting to at least hear Tony’s footsteps, passing her door…or not, as the case might be.

  Unable to sleep, made edgy by her own expectation— that he would come to her, that she wanted him to, even needed him to—an expectation she found somewhat damning—she was after all in his house, an old aristocratic mansion, yet while that fact might inhibit her, she doubted it would influence him—she had forcibly turned her mind to reviewing the day. A long day in which much had happened, and much had changed.

  So easily.

  That more than anything else, the ease with which the changes had been wrought, the ease with which she’d simply flowed into the position he’d created for her, niggled. In some odd way seemed to mock her. Everything had fallen into place so smoothly, she was still struggling to come to grips with the ramifications. As if he’d once more swept her off her feet, and her head had yet to stop whirling.

  Not, for her, an uncommon feeling where he was concerned.

  It wasn’t that she wished things were otherwise; she couldn’t convincingly argue against the move, not even to herself. But the uncertainty, the lack of clarity regarding her position here—the lack of sureness made it impossible to feel confident, at ease…

  She never heard his footsteps; only a faint draft alerted her to the opening door. He was no more than a dark shadow slipping through; she recognized him instantly.

  Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness; watching him cross the wide room toward her, she searched his face, all she could see of him, but could detect not even a limp. Kit’s worry had infected her, yet here he was unscathed, moving with his usual fluid grace toward the bed.

  He stopped by a chair and sat, reaching down to pull off his boots. She sat up, wriggling in the sheets onto her side; he heard the shushing and glanced across, smiled a touch wearily.

  “Did you find the lists? From the other ships?”

  He nodded. Setting his boots aside, he stood, stretched.

  “We found all ten—your theory was right. It’s tea and coffee that’s the link.”

  He lowered his arms, weary tension falling from him.

  She watched him undress—coat, cravat, waistcoat, and shirt hit the chair. Realizing her mouth was dry, she swallowed, forced her gaze to his face. “So now we have to look for the merchant.”

  He nodded, looking down, bending down as he stripped off his trousers. “With all of us involved, that won’t take long.” Straightening, he grimaced. “Maybe a week.” He flung the trousers at the chair, then turned to the bed.

  Her pulse leapt. “So we’re one step away from identifying A. C?”

  “One step.” Lifting the covers, he slid in beside her. Dropping them, he turned to her. Framed her face with his hands and kissed her.

  Deeply, thoroughly, druggingly… until she was swept away, her mind whirling on a sensual tide.

  Leaving one hand cupping her jaw, with the other Tony reached down and tugged the sheet from between them, then settled his body against hers. Letting the sheets fall, he plundered her soft mouth while with his palm he traced the long, smooth curve from her shoulder, over the supple planes of her back to the swell of her bottom, molding her to him, easing her beneath him, spurred by the realization that her skin was already warm, by the immediate leap of her pulse to the caress, the dewed flush that spread over the silken skin of her bottom, the evidence of her arousal he discovered when he pressed his hand down between them, slid his fingers between her thighs, and found her.

  Ready, waiting, urgent for him.

  He pressed her back into the bed, parted her thighs with his and filled her, surged slowly into her, taking his time, glorying in the ease with which he could forge in, in the way she tilted her hips and took him deep, to the fluid harmony with which they then moved, sliding into the dance their bodies now knew so well.

  A different dance to any he’d enjoyed with any other woman.

  Mouths melded, tongues tangling, hot yet languid, their bodies moved, merged, flexed to a rhythm that held a deeper tune, a more powerful cadence.

  A heady, dizzying delight, a pleasure that soared higher and reached deeper, that slid past their slick skins, through muscle and bone, past straining sinews and tightening nerves to their cores. To touch, sink into, and hold something there.

  Something precious, fragile, yet strong enough to fuse their hearts.

  He sensed it before they’d even started to scale the peak. Their bodies held, thrummed with, a driving urgency, yet they had the strength to dally—neither was in any rush, delighting instead in every small touch, each delicate caress.

  Slowly, powerfully, he rode her, feeling her body surrender and take him in, feeling the heat of her draw him deeper, tempting him further into her fire. He went, but kept the reins firmly in his hands, as always orchestrating the moment; after all these years, pleasuring women was all but second nature.

  Gradually, the tempo built. Beneath him, her body rose, meeting his, matching his, urging him on. Her fingers, on his back, tensed, nails lightly scoring. Without easing the steadily escalating rhythm, he drew back from the kiss, through the dimness studied her face; her eyes were closed, her lips swollen and parted, telltale concentration etched in every line.

  He thrust deeper, harder, and she gasped, her body arching greedily under his.

  Lifting his shoulders a fraction farther, enough to appreciate the way her body, all sumptuous curves and hot flushed skin, undulated with each thrust, absorbed each forceful penetration as he rode her, filled her, he watched as he pushed her step by slow step closer to sensual fulfillment.

  He felt the tension inside her coil, felt her tighten beneath him, her thighs gripping his flanks as release flickered and beckoned. Her ragged breathing filled his ears, a softer sound overlaying his own raspy breaths.

  She reached for him, tried to pull him down to her.

  Without breaking their rhythm, he shifted his hips, pressing more intimately between hers, then thrust deeper still, harder still.

  She gasped, tugged, but the sight of her held him. Eventually lifting his gaze to her face, he saw the glimmer of her eyes beneath her lashes.

  Alicia studied his face, licked her lips, felt her world teeter. She was so close to that joyous edge, yet, as always since that first engagement, no matter how desperate the moment, he held to his control, waiting, watching, certain to follow her, yet still…

  “Come with me.” She struggled to find breath enough to add, “Now.”

  His black eyes, until then hooded, opened wide— enough for her to realize she’d asked something no other ever had.

  Her nerves shivered, started to unravel. Dragging in a breath, she lifted a hand to his face, traced his cheek. “Be with me. Please.”

  She wasn’t sure how, but she knew what she wanted. Needed.

  He knew, too. He gave a shuddering sigh; the tension rippling through him increased, hardening his
body as it rode against hers, thrust into hers.

  Their gazes remained locked. He shifted his weight, freed a hand, held it open close by her head. “Give me your hand.”

  She did, shifting her hand from his face, watching as he interdigitated his fingers with hers, then closed them, locking their palms. Then he pressed their linked hands into the pillow.

  “Wrap your legs about my waist.”

  She could barely make out the gravelly command. The silk sheets caressed her skin as she complied, then gasped as he shifted fully over her and drove deep. Her spine bowed, but his weight pinned her, held her down as his hips flexed in a faster, more urgent, more compulsive rhythm.

  For an instant, gasping and breathless, she rode it, then she felt his eyes on her face, met his black gaze, once again screened. Felt the flames inside rise, coalesce, fuse to an inferno.

  He lowered his head, drove into her harder, faster, more powerfully.

  “Now.” He breathed the word against her lips, then took them, took her mouth as the conflagration roared— and caught them. Overwhelmed them. Consumed them.

  As one. Together, as she’d asked.

  Tony felt the reins he’d released whip away, sensed them cinder, all control sundered and gone. For only the second time in his life, he plunged into the heart of that familiar fire with a woman, by her side. Her hand was his anchor; he clung to it as her body tightened beneath his, closed powerfully around his, hot, scalding, driving him on, taking him with her into the world beyond the flames, into the pleasure of sexual satiation.

  If she wished, so he would; they whirled, joined more intimately than he’d ever been with any other, not just their bodies but their awarenesses fused, experiencing together, simultaneously soaring. Higher, then yet higher.

  Until they were both gasping, bodies locked and straining. Until they were there, twined together at the peak.

  Until they fell, hearts thundering, senses merged, glory pouring through them. Souls as one.