Stephanie Laurens - A Gentleman's Honor

Looking forward, she remembered the two texts on lovemaking she’d consulted. Remembered their shortcomings. “I wonder if there are advanced manuals?”

She’d mumbled—grumbled—the comment aloud. Adriana, passing on her way to her bedchamber, cast her a puzzled look. “What was that?”

She tightened her lips. “Never mind.”

Opening the door to her bedchamber, the one nearest the stairhead, she nodded a good night to Adriana and went in.

Closing the door, she stood for a moment staring into space, then she moved into the room, dropping her reticule on the dressing table, quickly unpinning her hair. She undressed and donned her nightgown—then couldn’t remember doing it. Finding herself ready for bed, standing beside the bed, she climbed in and lay down. Drew the sheet and coverlet over her.

Lay flat on her back and stared at the canopy.

Every nerve she possessed was still humming; warm pleasure still coursed her veins. Yet there was an expectation, an underlying anticipation that the evening’s small step had done nothing to assuage.

Instead, that nebulous but definite anticipation had grown.

She didn’t truly know what it was, could only guess for she’d never felt it before. But then she’d never indulged as she had that evening, never let any man touch her intimately at all, let alone as he had.

And now …having learned what she’d wanted to know, she found herself facing an even bigger unknown. An even more frightening unknown.

Knowledge, it seemed, was a two-edged sword.

By the next morning, she’d talked herself around. Her analysis of her situation, her decision on her best way forward, had been right; there was nothing in the events of the past evening sufficient to deflect her from her path.

It would, however, clearly behoove her to make a serious effort to push Torrington’s investigation along. The investigation provided his major excuse to spend time in her company, seducing her, being kind to her brothers, helping her with Adriana…

Pushing aside such thoughts, she rose from the breakfast table and went in search of the lists she’d made.

Tony sat comfortably slumped in a leather armchair in the library of Hendon House. Idly swirling a glass of brandy, he recited the story of Ruskin’s death, the subsequent revelations, and the ongoing investigation to Jack—otherwise Jonathon, Lord Hendon—who was similiarly comfortable in another chair, and his strikingly beautiful wife Kit, presently perched at Jack’s elbow.

“So,” he concluded, “Ruskin’s been selling information on ships and dates to someone, who presumably used the information for their own gain—they certainly paid Ruskin well for it. However, we have no idea of the precise nature of the information Ruskin passed, so we don’t know how it might have been used—”

“And therefore can’t trace said user of same.” Jack met his gaze, his expression hard.

“That”—Tony saluted him with his glass—“sums it up nicely.”

Kit straightened. “Well, Jack will just have to help you learn what was important about those ships, but meanwhile, what about this widow? What was her name?”

Tony met Kit’s violet gaze. The first time he’d met her, he’d thought she was a boy—understandable given he was half-dead courtesy of a brig full of smugglers, and she’d been traipsing about in breeches at the time. Now her glorious red hair was longer, elegantly cut to frame her piquant face. Her figure, previously slender and slim, had filled out a trifle, but that only made it all the more womanly. Two children had done little to curb her fire; she was one of the most disconcertingly active women Tony knew.

He was supremely thankful she was Jack’s wife. “The widow isn’t involved, other than by the unfortunate act of stumbling on Ruskin’s body.”

Kit frowned. “Why, then, are you being so careful not to use her name? You’ve mentioned her at least six times, but always as ‘the widow.’”

Jack had turned to study his wife; now he turned, and studied Tony. “She’s right. What going on with this widow?”

“Nothing.” Tony sat forward, then froze. To Jack and Kit, who knew him well, both his tone and that movement had betrayed him. “Oh, all right.” He slumped back. “The widow is Mrs. Alicia Carrington, and she is, as you’ve guessed, of more than passable charms, and…”

When he didn’t go on, Jack pointedly prompted, “ And …?”

Kit was grinning.

Tony grimaced at them both. “And it’s possible, perhaps, that…” He waved the question aside. “That’s beside the point. The first thing”—he fixed Kit with a narrow-eyed look—“indeed, the only thing I need from you both is help with this shipping business. We need to make some headway on how the ships were involved.”

Kit continued grinning. “And later?”

She wasn’t going to give up. Tony closed his eyes. “And later you can dance at my wedding.” Opening his eyes, he glared at her. “Good enough?”

She beamed. “Excellent.” She looked at Jack. “Now what could be the crucial thing about those ships?”

Jack studied the list Tony had given him. “If I had information like this…”He looked up, met Tony’s gaze. “These are all merchant ships. If the dates are convoy dates, the dates on which these ships were due to join convoys to come up the Channel, or alternatively the dates on which they left the protection of the convoy to turn aside to their respective home ports…”

“You think the information might have been used to take the ships?”

“As prizes?” Jack thought, then grimaced. “That’s one possibility. Another is deliberate sinking to lay hands on the insurance—I won’t tell you how frequent that is. Wrecking is another option.”

Tony pointed at the list. “All those ships are still registered.” That was the first thing he’d checked.

“That makes sinking or wrecking unlikely.” Jack looked again at the list. “The next thing to determine is who owns these vessels and from where they were coming.”

“Can you do that?”

“Easily.” Jack looked at Tony. “It’ll take a few days.”

“Is there anything else we can pursue in the meantime?”

Jack pulled a face. “I can ask, quietly, as to whether there’s anything noteworthy about one particular ship, and perhaps put out feelers about a few others, but until we know something more specific…” He grimaced. “We don’t want to tip our quarry the wink.”

“Indeed not. Anything I can do?”

Jack shook his head. “Lloyd’s Coffee House is the obvious place to ask, but it’s a closed group. I’m one of them, so I can ask nosy questions, but the instant you walk in…”He looked at Tony. “You’d have to make it official to get any word out of anyone there.”

Tony grimaced, then drained his glass. “Very well, I’ll leave it to you.”

Kit rose in a rustle of skirts. “I’ll tell Minchin you’ll stay to luncheon.”

“Ah—no.” With a charming smile, Tony stood. “Much as I would love to grace any board presided over by your fair self, I’ve other engagements I must keep.”

Taking Kit’s hand, he bowed with consummate grace.

As he straightened, she arched a brow at him. “I must be sure to make Mrs. Carrington’s acquaintance.”

He grinned and tapped her nose. “I’ll warn her to keep a weather eye out for you.”

Coming up behind Kit, Jack wrapped his arms around her waist. “Well, you’ve one night’s grace—we’re staying in tonight.”

Kit leaned back against her husband’s broad chest. “It was a wrench to part from the boys. It’s the first time we’ve left them.”

Tony noted her misty-eyed expression as she thought of her two sons. Last time he’d seen them, they were robust and active—the sort to run their keepers ragged.