Stephanie Laurens - A Gentleman's Honor

She blinked, thought. “No.” Her voice strengthened. “No one.”

He digested that, accepted it. “So he propositioned you—threatened you with exposure.” He forced himself to say the words, ignoring the violence the thought evoked. “What then?”

“I asked for time, and he agreed to twenty-four hours. He said he’d call on me the next evening.” Remembered horror flitted through her eyes; he wondered what she wasn’t telling him. “Then he walked away.”

When she said nothing more, he prompted, “What then?”

“I was upset.” She seemed not to notice the hand she raised to her throat. “I asked for a glass of water, sat, then I started to think again, and realized he…that it might be possible to buy him off. I stood and saw him slip out of the terrace doors. I decided to follow and speak with him—at least convince him to give me more time.”

Remembered fear tinged her voice. Swallowing an oath, he suppressed the urge to haul her into his arms; she’d probably struggle. “So you followed him out?”

She nodded. “But first I crossed the room to Adriana. I told her where I was going.”

“Then you went onto the terrace?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t there. It was chilly—I looked around and saw movement beneath that huge tree. I assumed it was he, so I went down. Then I found him…” She paused. “You know the rest.”

“Did you see anyone else go out on the terrace before you did—or before Ruskin did?”

“No. But I wasn’t watching the doors.”

Regardless, it was unlikely a gentleman wearing a coat and hat would leave Amery House via the drawing room and the terrace doors. Fitting her information with his, it seemed clear what had happened.

She’d taken advantage of his silence to regroup.

He met her gaze. “I take it Ruskin made no mention of going to meet anyone.”

“No. Why? Oh…I suppose he must have met someone.”

“He did. As I came up Park Street, I saw a gentleman in a coat and hat leave by the garden gate. He was too far away for me to identify, but he definitely came out of that gate. Allowing time for you to walk to the tree, and for me to walk to the gate, it must have been he—that man— you saw moving beneath the tree.”

She paled. Looked at him, stared at him. After a long moment, she asked, “Who are you?”

He let two heartbeats pass, then replied, “You know my name.”

“I know I have only your word that there was another man, that it wasn’t you who stabbed Ruskin.”

The accusation pricked; holding her gaze, he softly said, “You might want to consider that I’m all that stands between you and a charge of murder.”

The instant he uttered the words, he wished them unsaid.

Her head snapped up. She stepped back. “I do not understand what right you have to question me—interrogate me— or my family .” Her eyes blazed; her tone was scathing. “In future, please leave us alone.”

She turned.

He caught her hand. “Alicia—”

She swung on him; fury lit her eyes. “ Don’t presume to call me that! I have not given you leave—and I won’t.” She looked down at his fingers circling her wrist. “Please release me immediately.”

He had to force his fingers to do it, to slide from her skin; she snatched her hand away, backed two steps, watching him—as if she suddenly saw him for what he truly was.

Her eyes had widened; for an instant, he glimpsed a vulnerability he couldn’t place.

Alicia fought to subdue the emotions roiling inside her. Her stomach was knotted, her lungs tight. He’d played with her brothers, interrogated them and Adriana, flirted quite deliberately with her. All because… and she’d thought he was honest, that he was trustworthy, genuine…how foolish she’d been.

When he said nothing, she dragged in a breath. “I’ve told you all I know. Please”—for the first time, her voice quavered—“don’t come near me again.”

With that, she whirled and walked quickly away.

Tony watched her go. Then he swore comprehensively in French and strode off in the opposite direction.

He hailed a hackney and headed into the city. Resting his head against the squabs, he closed his eyes and concentrated on getting his temper under control and his thoughts straight; it had been years since they’d been so tangled.

He’d stalked into the park furious with her for concealing from him such a potentially dangerous connection. Not because that concealment interfered with his investigation, but purely because the damned woman hadn’t availed herself of his abilities—his protection.

Because she deliberately hadn’t trusted him.

Stalking out of the park, he’d been furious with himself. She’d questioned who he was, his integrity, and he’d reacted by taking a high hand, which any fool could have predicted would fail miserably—in his case, spectacularly.

He hadn’t meant it to sound as it had, hadn’t in the least meant to threaten her.

Eyes still closed, he sighed. In thirteen years of operations, he’d never let his personal life interfere with his duty. Now the two were inextricably entwined. She hadn’t killed Ruskin, but courtesy of whoever had started the rumors, she was now involved. Worse, he had a nasty suspicion that the person who had started the rumors would prove to be Ruskin’s killer. If threatened, he might kill again.

He spent the rest of the day in the city, using his erstwhile talents to gain access to Ruskin’s banking records. A combination of suggestion and implied threat, together with his title and the supercilious arrogance he’d learned long ago worked so well with those whose status depended on patronage, got him what he wanted.

His first stop was Daviot & Sons, the bank Ruskin had favored, exclusively as far as the notes in his rooms went. Ten minutes, and he’d gained access to all documents relating to Ruskin’s dealings. The records revealed no major sums credited to Ruskin’s account, only a trickle of income the bank verified came from Gloucestershire, believed to be derived from Ruskin’s estate. There were no large deposits, nor any large withdrawals. Wherever the wealth Ruskin had used to pay off his considerable debts hailed from, it had not passed through the hands of the Messrs Daviot.

He proceeded to check all the likely banks; they were located in close proximity, scattered about the Bank of England and the Corn Exchange. Using his success at Daviots to pave the way, he encountered no resistance; by afternoon’s end, he’d established that the city’s legitimate financiers had not facilitated the flow of pounds to Ruskin’s gaming acquaintances.

Hailing a hackney, he headed back to Mayfair. On the evidence of Ruskin’s IOUs, the man had been not only a poor gambler but an addicted one. He’d lost steadily for years, yet there was no indication of any panic in his dealings. He’d paid off every debt regularly …

Muttering a curse, Tony tapped on the roof; when the jarvey inquired his pleasure, he replied, “Bury Street— Number 23.”

There had to be— had to be —some record somewhere. Ruskin was a clerk by nature; the contents of his desks, both in his office and his rooms, testified to his compulsive neatness. He’d even kept those old IOUs in chronological order.

The hackney halted in Bury Street; Tony swung down to the pavement, tossed a coin to the jarvey, and strode quickly up the steps of Number 23. This time, an old man let him in.

“I’m from Customs and Revenue—I have to check Mr. Ruskin’s rooms for something I might have missed when I checked yesterday.”

“Oh, aye.” The old man stood back. “You’ll know the way, then.”

“Indeed. I have his key. I’ll be a few minutes—I can see myself out.”