Stephanie Laurens - The Lady Chosen

His wife…

Not so many years ago, the thought of searching for her would have had him laughing. He had not, then, imagined finding a wife was something that would unduly exercise him—when he needed to marry, the right lady would be there, miraculously waiting.

He hadn’t, then, appreciated just how important, how vital, her role vis à vis himself would be.

Now he was faced with that anticipated need to marry—and an even greater need to find the right wife—but the right lady had thus far shown no inclination even to make an appearance.

The fact he had no idea what she looked like, what she was like, what aspects of her character or personality would be the vital clue—the crucial elements in her that he needed—did not make his task any easier.

He wanted a wife. That much he accepted—the restlessness that seemed to enmesh his very soul left him in no doubt of that—but exactly what he wanted, let alone why…that was the point on which he’d run aground.

Identify the target.

The first rule in planning any successful sortie.

Until he succeeded in satisfying that requirement, he couldn’t even start his campaign; the frustration irked—and fueled his habitual impatience to unprecedented heights.

Hunting a wife was ten times worse than hunting spies had ever been.

His footsteps echoed. Another, distant footfall sounded; his agent’s senses, still very much a part of him, flaring to full attention, he looked up.

Through the mist wreathing the street, he saw a man, well-muffled in coat and hat and carrying a cane, step away from the garden gate of…Amery House.

The man was too far away to recognize, and walked quickly away in the opposite direction.

Tony’s godmother’s house stood at the corner of Park and Green streets, its front door facing Green Street. The garden gate opened to a path that led up to the drawing room terrace.

By now the soirée would be in full swing. The thought of the feminine chatter, the high-pitched laughter—the giggles—the measuring glances of the matrons, the calculation in so many eyes, welled and pressed down on him.

On his left, the garden gate drew nearer. The temptation to take that route, to slip inside without any announcement, to mingle and quickly look over the field, then perhaps to retreat before even his godmother knew he was there, surfaced…

His hand closed around the wrought iron latch and he lifted it. The gate swung soundlessly open; he passed through and closed it quietly behind him. From ahead, through the silent garden, heavily shadowed by large and ancient trees, the sound of conversation and laughter drifted down to him.

Mentally girding his loins, he drew in a deep breath, then went quickly up the steep flight of steps that led up to the level of the back garden.

Through ingrained habit, he moved silently.

The woman crouching by the side of the man lying sprawled on his back, shoulders propped against the trunk of the largest tree in the garden, didn’t hear him.

The tableau exploded into Tony’s vision as he gained the top of the steps. Senses instantly alert, fully deployed, he paused.

Slim, svelte, gowned for the evening in silk, her dark hair piled high, with a silvery shawl wrapped about her shoulders and clutched tight in one, white-knuckled hand, the lady slowly, very slowly, rose. In her other hand, she held a long, scalloped stilletto; streaks of blood beaded on the wicked blade.

She held the dagger with the hilt loosely gripped in her right fist, the dagger point downward. She stared at the blade as if it were a snake.

A drop of dark liquid fell from the dagger’s point.

The lady shuddered.

Impulsively, Tony stepped forward, driven to take her in his arms; catching himself, he halted. Sensing his presence, she looked up.

A delicate, heart-shaped face, complexion as pale as snow, dark eyes wide with shock, looked at him blankly.

Then, with a visible effort, she gathered herself. “I think he’s dead.”

Her tone was flat; her voice shook. She was clearly battling hysterics; he was thankful she was winning.

Tamping down that irrational urge to soothe her, shield her, a ridiculously primitive feeling but unexpectedly powerful, he walked closer. Forcing his gaze from her, he scanned the body, then reached for the dagger. She surrendered it with a shudder, not just of shock but of revulsion.

“Where was it?” He kept his tone impersonal, businesslike. He crouched down, waited…

After an instant, she responded, “In his left side. It had fallen almost out…I didn’t realize…” Her voice started to rise, became thready and died.

Stay calm . He willed the order at her; a cursory inspection confirmed she was right on both counts. The man was dead; he’d been knifed very neatly, a single deadly thrust between the ribs from the back. “Who is he—do you know?”

“A Mr. Ruskin—William Ruskin.”

He glanced up. “You knew him.”

He hadn’t thought it possible, but her eyes widened even more. “No!” Then she caught her breath, closed her eyes, made a valiant and quite transparent attempt to catch her wits. “That is…”—she opened her eyes again—“only to speak to. Socially. At the soirée…”

With her free hand, she waved back at the house. She dragged in a breath and rushed on, “I came out for some air. A headache…there was no one out here. I thought to wander…” Her gaze returned to the body. She gulped. “Then I found him.”

Tony rose, shifting so that in looking at him, she was no longer looking at the body. “Did you see anyone leaving?”

She stared at him. “No.” She glanced around, taking in the silent shadows, then abruptly swung her gaze back to him.

He sensed her sudden thought, her rising panic. Was irritated by it. “No—I didn’t kill him.”

His tone seemed to reassure her; her sudden tenseness eased fractionally.

He glanced again at the sprawled corpse, then at her; he waved back up the path. “Come. We must go in and tell them.”

She blinked at him.

Moving slowly, he reached for her elbow. She permitted it, let him turn her, unresisting, and steer her back toward the terrace. She moved like a puppet, still very much in shock. He glanced at her pale face, but the shadows revealed little. “Did Ruskin have a wife, do you know?”

She started; he felt the jerk through his hold on her arm. From beneath her lashes, she cast him a shocked glance. “No.” Her voice was tight, strained. Finding his gaze on her face, she looked ahead. “No wife.”

If anything, she’d paled even more. He prayed she wouldn’t swoon, at least not before he got her inside. Appearing at his godmother’s soirée via the terrace doors with a lady senseless in his arms would create a stir even more intense than murder.

She started shaking as they went up the steps, but she didn’t let go; she clung to her composure with a grim determination he was experienced enough to admire.

The terrace doors were ajar; they walked into the drawing room without attracting any particular attention. Finally in good light, he looked down at her, studied her, with his gaze traced her features, the straight, finely chiseled nose, her lips a trifle too wide, yet full, lush and tempting. She was above average in height, her dark hair piled high in gleaming coils on her head, exposing the delicate curve of her nape, the fine bones of her shoulders. Despite the circumstances, he felt the unmistakable flare of sensual attraction; given his earlier impulse, he wasn’t all that surprised.

She looked up, met his gaze. Her eyes were more green than hazel, large and well-set under arched brows; they were presently wide, their expression dazed, distant. Haunted.