Stephanie Laurens - A Gentleman's Honor

Alicia pieced together the picture he was painting. At one level, she could barely believe all that had happened since they’d entered the room. That searing kiss—it was as if it had cindered, felled, and consumed all barriers between them. He was talking to her, treating her, as if she was an accomplice, a partner in his investigation. More, a friend.

Almost a lover.

And she was reacting as if she were.

She was amazed at herself. She didn’t—never had— trusted so readily. Yet if she was honest, it was why she’d been so furious with him in the park, when, despite her totally unwarranted trust—one he’d somehow earned in a few short days—it had seemed his interest in her and her family had all been fabricated. False.

That kiss hadn’t been false.

It had been a statement, unplanned maybe, but once made, it couldn’t be retracted—and he hadn’t tried. It had happened, and he’d accepted it.

She had no choice but to do the same.

Especially as she, innocent or not, was being drawn deeper and deeper into the web of intrigue surrounding Ruskin’s murder.

“Is this what you think happened?” She didn’t look up, but sensed his attention fasten on her. “Presumably the man—let’s assume he’s A. C.—had arrived in the Amery House gardens via the garden gate. Ruskin went out to meet him—it had to have been an arranged meeting.”

Torrington—Tony—drew nearer. “Yes.”

“So then Ruskin babbled about his soon-to-be conquest—me—but…” Frowning, she glanced up. “Had Ruskin some information to sell, or had A. C. come there with murder on his mind?”

Tony mentally reviewed all Ruskin’s notes on shipping. None had been recent. Even more telling…“I don’t think there could be anything worthwhile for Ruskin to sell. With the war over, the information he had access to wouldn’t be all that useful….”

He was aware of her watching him, trying to read his face, follow his thoughts. He glanced at her. “I haven’t yet defined how the information Ruskin passed on was used, but it’s telling his association with A. C. began in early ’12. That was when naval activity once again became critical. From ’12 up until Waterloo, shipping was constantly under threat. Now, however, there is no significant danger on the seas.”

He was going to have to pursue that angle hard, and soon.

She took up the tale before he could. “If Ruskin no longer had anything of real use to A. C., then…” She looked up at him.

He met her gaze. “A. C., assuming he has a position and reputation to protect, would have been threatened by Ruskin’s continued existence.”

“If Ruskin was not above blackmailing me…”

“Indeed. He may not have called it by that name, but given his debts, he would have needed an injection of capital quite soon, and almost certainly would have looked to A. C.”

“Who decided to end their association.” She nodded.

“Very well. So while Ruskin is gloating, A. C. stabs him and leaves him dead. I come down the path—” She paled.

“Do you think A. C. saw me?”

He considered, then shook his head. “The timing— when I saw him on the street—makes that unlikely.”

“But then how did he know it was me Ruskin was blackmailing? Would Ruskin have told him my name?”

“Unlikely, but A. C.—and I agree, it most likely was he—didn’t need your name to start the rumors.”

She frowned at him. “These rumors—what exactly do they say?”

“That Ruskin was blackmailing some lady—a widow.”

Her frown deepened. “But there are many widows in the ton.”

“Indeed, but only one was seen talking to Ruskin immediately before he died.”

Her gaze remained locked with his, then, abruptly, all color drained from her face. “Oh, good heavens!”

She sprang to her feet; her eyes flashed fire at him as if he was in some way culpable. “If they’ve decided I’m the widow in question, then what …? Good lord! Adriana!”

Whirling, she raced for the door. He got there before her, closing his hand about the knob. “It’s all right—calm down!” He caught her gaze as she paused, impatient before the door. “Manningham’s with her.”

Her eyes flashed again. “You and he planned this.”

He tried to frown her down. “I had to talk to you.”

“That’s all very well, but what’s been happening out there”—she jabbed a finger toward the ballroom—“while we’ve been talking?”

“Nothing. Most will be waiting, wondering where you are, hoping to catch a glimpse but not surprised given the crush that they haven’t yet succeeded.” He took in her wide eyes, the tension now gripping her. “There’s no need to panic. They don’t know it’s you, and they only will know if you behave as if it is. As if you’re frightened, or watchful. Ready to take flight.”

Alicia met his steady gaze. To her surprise, she drew comfort from it. She drew in a breath. “So I have to carry it off with a high head and a high hand?”

“Absolutely. You can’t afford to let those hyenas sense fear.”

Despite all, her lips twitched. Hyenas? The hard line of his lips eased; she realized he’d deliberately tried to make her smile.

Then his gaze flicked up to her eyes.

He lowered his head—slowly; she sucked in a breath.

Held it as her lids fell and his lips touched hers—not in a tantalizing teasing caress, yet neither with their earlier ravenous hunger.

A definite promise; that’s what the kiss was—as simple as that.

Slowly, he raised his head; their lips clung for an instant, then parted.

Lifting her lids, she met his black gaze.

He searched her eyes, then turned the knob and opened the door. “Come. Let’s face down the ton.”

She returned to the ballroom on his arm, calm, her usual poise to the fore. It was all a sham, but she was now an expert in the art of pulling wool over the ton’s collective eyes.

One thing he’d said stuck in her mind: watchful. She had to stop herself from looking around, from searching for signs that people suspected her. She had to appear oblivious; it was the most difficult charade she’d ever performed.

He helped. On his arm, she strolled; he was attentive, charming, chatting inconsequentially as two such as they might. He was a wealthy peer; she was a wealthy, wellborn widow. They didn’t need to hide a friendship.

They progressed down the room; she smiled, laughed lightly, and let her gaze rest on the dancers but no one else. He distracted her whenever the temptation to scrutinize those watching them burgeoned.

At one point, his lips curved rakishly; he bent his head to whisper, “They’re totally confused.”

She met his gaze as he straightened. “About what?”

“About which rumor they should spread.”

When she looked her question, with a self-deprecatory quirk of his lips he explained, “The one about you and Ruskin, or the one about you and me.”

She looked into his black eyes. Blinked. “Oh.”

“Indeed. So all we need do is continue on our present tack, and their befuddlement will be complete.”

Just which tack he meant she discovered a minute later.

She’d expected him to guide her to Adriana’s side; her sister wasn’t on the dance floor, which surprised and concerned her—she hadn’t yet located her among the crowd. Instead, he led her to a chaise midway down the long ballroom. Lady Amery was seated on it, along with an older lady Alicia had previously met.

Nervousness struck; her fingers fluttered on Tony’s sleeve. Instantly, his hand closed, warm and comforting, over hers. Steering her to the chaise, he bowed to the two dames. “ Tante Felicité. Lady Osbaldestone.”

Spine poker straight, Lady Osbaldestone nodded regally back.