Stephanie Laurens - A Gentleman's Honor

The Customs and Revenue Office in Whitehall was well guarded and externally secure, but for someone who knew how to approach it from within, down the long, intersecting corridors, it was much less impenetrable. Even better, Ruskin’s office was on the first floor at the back, and its small window faced a blank wall.

At four o’clock in the morning, the building was cold and silent. The porter was snoring in his office downstairs; lighting a lamp was safe enough.

Tony searched the desk, then the whole office methodically. He collected everything pertinent in the middle of the desk; when there was no more to discover, he transferred all he’d found to the deep pockets of his greatcoat.

Then he turned out the lamp, slipped out of the building, and went home, leaving not a trace of his presence, or anything to alert anyone that Ruskin’s office had been searched.

Despite his late night, he was out again at noon, heading for Bury Street. It was a fashionable area for single gentlemen, close to clubs, Mayfair, and the seat of government; Number 23 was a well-kept, narrow, three-story house. He knocked on the door and explained to the landlady that he worked alongside Mr. Ruskin and had been sent to check his rooms to make sure no Customs Office papers had been left there.

She led him up to a set of rooms on the first floor. He thanked her as she unlocked the door. “I’ll return the key when I leave.”

With a measuring glance that read the quality of his coat and boots in much the same way as a military pass, she nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He waited until she was heading downstairs, then entered Ruskin’s parlor and shut the door.

Again, his search was thorough, but in contrast to Ruskin’s office, this time he found evidence someone had been before him. He found a pile of old IOUs lying in a concealed drawer in the escritoire atop more recent correspondence.

Dalziel and Whitley would never have permitted any other from either the official or unofficial sides of government to meddle in an affair they’d handed to him; whoever had been through Ruskin’s papers was from the “other side.” Indeed, the fact the rooms had been searched—he found further telltale signs in the bedroom—meant there was, most definitely, an “other side.”

Whatever dealings Ruskin had been involved in, someone had believed there might be evidence they needed to remove from his rooms.

Presumably they’d removed it.

Tony wasn’t unduly concerned. There were always threads left lying around in the aftermath of any scheme; he was an expert at finding and following such flimsy but real connections.

Such as those IOUs. He didn’t stop to analyze them in detail, but a cursory glance revealed that they’d been paid off regularly. More, the sums involved made it clear Ruskin had enjoyed an income considerably beyond his earnings as a government clerk.

Stowing the notes in his pockets, Tony concluded that discovering the source of that extra income was logically his next step.

After taking an impression of the key, he let himself out, returned the key to the landlady with typical civil service boredom, admitting to removing “a few papers but nothing major” when she asked.

Back on the street, he headed for Torrington House. He needed a few hours to study and collate all he’d found. However, the day was winging, and there was other information he needed to pursue that would, he suspected, be best pursued in daylight.

He’d been wondering how to approach Alicia Carrington and learn unequivocally all he needed to know. He’d left a corner of his brain wrestling with the problem; an hour ago, it had presented him with the perfect solution.

First, he needed to empty his pockets and let Hungerford feed him. Two o’clock would be the perfect time to essay forth to rattle Mrs. Carrington’s defenses.

He found her precisely where his devious mind had predicted—in Green Park with her three brothers and an older man who appeared to be their tutor.

The two older boys were wrestling with a kite; the tutor was assisting. The younger boy had a bat and ball; Alicia was doing her best to entertain him.

He spent a few minutes observing, assessing, before making his move. Recalling Alicia’s description of her demons, he grinned. The boys were sturdy, healthy-looking specimens with apples in their cheeks and shining brown hair. They were typical boys, rowdy and physical, yet they were quick to mind their elder sister’s strictures.

Obedient demons.

Amused, he walked toward her. The bat in her hands, she had her back to him. The youngest—Matthew?— tossed the ball to her; she swung wildly and missed. The ball bounced past her, giving him the perfect opening.

He stopped the ball with his boot, with a quick flick, tossed it up, and caught it. Strolling forward, he hefted the ball; as he reached Alicia’s side, he lobbed it to the boy.

And reached for the bat. “Here, let me.”

He twitched the bat from her nerveless fingers.

Alicia stared at him. “What are you doing here?”

Torrington glanced at her. “Playing ball.” He waved to the side. “You should stand over there so you can catch me out.”

Matthew, blinking at the changes, shook his head. “She’s not much good at catching.”

Her tormentor smiled at him. “We’ll have to give her a bit of practice, then. Ready?”

Alicia found herself stepping back in the direction Torrington had indicated. She was not sure about any of this, but…

Matthew pitched the ball to him, and he tapped it back between her and Matthew. Matthew squealed delightedly and pounced on it. A huge grin wreathing his face, he hustled to square up again.

After a few more shrewdly placed shots—one which came straight at her and surprised a shriek out of her— David and Harry left Jenkins with the kite and came hurrying to join in.

Normally, the older boys would have immediately taken over the game; she girded her loins to defend Matthew, but Torrington, bat still in his hand, elected himself director of play. He welcomed the older boys and waved them to fielding positions, leaving Matthew as bowler.

What followed was an education in how boys played, or could play if led by a competent hand. When Jenkins came up, the discarded kite in his hands, she waved him to take over her position. He might be more than twice her age, but he was better at catching.

The kite in her arms, she retreated to lean against a tree. Given the focus of the game, she naturally found herself gazing at Torrington.

Not a calming sight.

He literally made her pulse skitter and race. She was far enough away to appreciate his perfect male proportions, the wide shoulders and tapering chest, slim hips and long, lean legs. She’d yet to see him make an ungraceful move; she wasn’t sure he’d know how. His reflexes were excellent.

She saw the laughing humor in his face as he skied a ball to Harry, who with a rowdy whoop caught it. Torrington’s black locks, thick and lightly wavy, hugged his head; one fell forward across his broad brow as he good-naturedly surrendered the bat to Harry. He took the ball and bowled for a while, then tossed it to David.

And came strolling over the lawn to take up a fielding position near her. He grinned at her. “Coward.”

She tipped up her nose. “As you’ve been informed, I’m hopeless at catching.”

The look he gave her was enigmatic, but a ball hit his way recalled him to his duty.

She tried to watch the play and call encouragement as a good sister should, but having Torrington so close, watching him move and stretch and stand, hands on hips, then wave, directing her brothers, was distracting.

His occasional glances did nothing to slow her pulse.

What really worried her was why he was there.