Stephanie Laurens - A Gentleman's Honor

He hesitated, then went on, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the back of her hand. “I heard back from Smiggins. It seems his ‘anonymous information’ came via a flower seller who’d been paid by a well-to-do gentleman, one expensively dressed, to take the information to the Watch. She can’t describe the man beyond that.”

The vision of a gentleman wrapped in an expensive coat with an astrakhan collar, viewed through the mists of a chilly night, slid through Tony’s mind. For him, A. C. was no phantom, but a dangerous adversary, one he’d yet to put a name to.

Which, of course, only made it harder to protect Alicia from the danger. He let his gaze drift to Adriana’s circle; through her connection with Alicia, she, too, was in danger. There were six gentlemen gathered about her; Sir Freddie Caudel was, as usual, one of the crew. He was engaged in describing some play to Adriana; prettily, she hung on his words, her attention politely all his, at least for the moment. Tony was not at all surprised to see Geoffrey hovering even more determinedly, more definitely possessive.

From beside him came a small humph. “I daresay, if Lord Manningham is all you and Mr. King tell me he is, then I’ll shortly be entertaining an offer from him.”

He glanced at Alicia, caught her eye. “I should think that’s a foregone conclusion.” He paused, then asked, “Will she, and you, accept Geoffrey’s suit?”

She looked at Geoffrey and Adriana, hesitated, then nodded. “If she’s happy, and if he wishes to hold to his offer once he’s fully informed of the family’s circumstances.”

He arched a brow. “Circumstances?” He knew precisely what she meant—the fact she and her brood were as poor as church mice. She, however, didn’t know he knew; he wondered when she’d tell him.

She met his gaze, her expression open. “There’s the boys, of course, and myself—not every gentleman wants to marry into such a close family.”

More fool them. He raised his brows noncommittally, and let the matter slide. Time enough to see how she reacted to his proposal once he’d made it. With her and her family in A. C.’s sights, eliminating A. C. had to be his top priority; there would be time aplenty to speak of marriage once they were safe.

More guests were arriving; her ladyship’s rooms were fast filling. He remained by Alicia’s side; with only two weeks to go before the start of the Season, tonnish entertainments once more resembled the melee he recalled, one through which wolves of various hues prowled.

Felicité waved from across the room, then Lady Holland stopped by to compliment Alicia on her and Adriana’s gowns. The comment drew his notice; as usual, the sisters were superbly turned out…again he wondered how they managed it. Then he recalled Adriana’s preoccupation with fashion; she was forever sketching the latest designs, or similar designs artfully modified.

He looked again at their stylish attire. Understanding dawned; he saw Adriana in a new light.

“Good evening, Torrington—I trust you will introduce me to your lovely companion. I do not believe I have yet had the pleasure of making her acquaintance.”

The perfectly modulated tones, still distinctly accented, jolted him from his thoughts. Lowering his gaze, he smiled easily and bowed. “Your Grace.” His gaze passed on to the lady—yet another grande dame if appearances spoke true—by Her Grace of St. Ives’s side. The lady smiled with charm, and a hint of determination.

“Allow me to present my sister-in-law, Lady Horatia Cynster.” The Duchess of St. Ives smiled at him, pale eyes alight. She waited while he bowed over Lady Horatia’s hand, then continued, “ Bon ! And now you may introduce us both to this lady, if you please.”

He nearly laughed; one of his mother’s oldest and dearest friends, Helena, Duchess of St. Ives, was both incorrigible and unstoppable. She was a petite force of nature, and woe betide any who thought to say her nay. He turned to Alicia. She met his eyes; he smiled encouragingly. “Ladies—Mrs. Alicia Carrington, allow me to present Helena, Duchess of St. Ives, and Lady Horatia Cynster.”

Alicia dipped into a curtsy of precisely the right degree.

Impulsively, Helena took her hand and waved her up. “Your sister is ravissante , as all the ton now knows, but you, too, will do very well I believe.”

Alicia smiled, but demurred. “I seek only to establish my sister.”

Helena bent on her a look of patent incomprehension, then glanced at her sister-in-law.

Whose lips were not straight. “My dear, a word of advice— you may not seek, but the gentlemen assuredly will. Indeed”—her gaze slid teasingly to Tony—“I’m quite sure they already are.”

The only way to deal with such females was to meet their jibes with polite impassivity; Tony did so. They stayed by Alicia’s side, chatting about this and that, for nearly ten minutes, then moved on.

Before Alicia had time to draw breath, two other haughty matrons stopped to speak kindly. He stood by her side, suavely urbane, and thought cynical thoughts along the lines of: where Cynsters led, others followed.

He was grateful for Helena’s support; he knew her well enough to know the gesture had been intentional. To be seen to be accepted by the elite of the haut ton provided a social cachet which was of itself a protection. Rumors were simply much less likely to be credited. Socially, Alicia and Adriana were gaining a status it would require a major public indiscretion to shake.

As more of the ladies on whose opinion the ton turned made a point of acknowledging Alicia, either by stopping for a few words or by exchanging nods across the room, he felt increasingly reassured on the social front.

Other fronts, however, were not so secure.

“Good evening, Mrs. Carrington.”

The deep timbre of the voice sent Tony’s hackles rising. He turned to see a dashingly handsome gentleman with unruly blond curls bowing over Alicia’s hand; from the look on her face, she hadn’t meant to surrender it. The gentleman had approached from the rear, escaping Tony’s watchful eye, which endeared him to Tony even less.

The gentleman straightened and smiled at Tony. “Your servant, Torrington.” Exchanging a brief nod, he looked back at Alicia. “My mama chatted with you earlier—she told me your name. I’m Harry Cynster.”

His smile thawed Alicia; she returned it, relaxing. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”

It took Tony a few seconds to make the connections. Harry Cynster, he of the guileless blue eyes and a distinctly predatory streak. Horses—he was a renowned whip, a legendary rider, in more than one sense, appropriately nicknamed Demon.

He was chatting with Alicia, his voice a deep, fashionable drawl, deploying the charm for which the Cynsters were notorious. “My mama dragged me along. Now we’re all of us back from the wars, it seems our mothers and aunts are determined to marry us all off.”

“Indeed?” Alicia returned his innocent look with one of polite scepticism. “And what of you? Doesn’t marriage figure among your ambitions?”

His eyes met hers, their expression rather less innocent. “Not just yet.”

The undercurrent beneath the words registered as a warning.

Harry raised a brow. “I believe that’s a waltz starting up.”

To her surprise, Tony reached across; his fingers closed about her hand. “Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me, Cynster.” He smiled urbanely, and drew her to him. “Mrs. Carrington has promised me this dance.”

Over her head, blue eyes met black. There was something—some form of masculine challenge—behind Tony’s polite mask. She glanced from one to the other, then Harry Cynster raised both brows, faint surprise in his face. “Well, well. I see.” Then he grinned and saluted her. “A pity, but I wish you good riding, my dear.”