His gaze returned to her face. “I would suggest, my dear Mrs. Carrington, that your time has run out.”
Alicia fought down the faintness, the giddiness that threatened; the room seemed to be whirling. She drew a slow breath, then asked, her tone commendably even, “What, precisely, do you mean?”
His expression remained intent. “I mean that your performance as a hoity widow in dismissing my suit was so convincing I checked my information. Today, I received a letter from old Dr. Lange. He assures me that the Pevensey sisters—both Pevensey sisters—remain unwed.”
The room gyrated, heaved, then abruptly stopped.
Disaster stared her in the face.
“Indeed.” Ruskin’s predatory smile dawned, yet his self-deprecation remained. “But fear not—having concluded that marrying you would be an excellent notion, nothing I’ve learned has changed my mind.”
His gaze hardened. “So let us be clear, my dear. Mrs. Carrington cannot continue in the ton, but if you consent to become Mrs. William Ruskin, I see no reason the ton should ever learn that Mrs. Carrington did not exist. I’m renewing my offer for your hand. Should you accept, there’s no reason your plan to establish the lovely Adriana will suffer so much as a hiccup.” His smile faded; he held her gaze. “I trust I make myself plain?”
Triumph had turned to ashes; her mouth was dry. Moistening her lips, she fought to keep her tone even. “I believe I understand you perfectly, sir. However…I would ask for a little time to consider my reply.”
His brows rose; his untrustworthy smile returned. “Of course. You may have twenty-four hours—there isn’t much to consider, after all.”
She sucked in a breath, frantically gathered her wits to protest.
His gaze, hard, trapped hers. “Tomorrow evening you can formally accept me—tomorrow night, I’ll expect to share your bed.”
Shock held her immobile, staring at his face; she searched his eyes but found no hint of any emotion worth appealing to.
When she made no reply, he bowed punctiliously. “I’ll call on you tomorrow evening at nine.”
Turning, he left her, strolling into the crowd.
Alicia stood frozen, her wits careening, her skin icy, her stomach hollow.
A burst of raucous laughter from the dowagers, ineffectually smothered, jerked her back to earth. She glanced across the room at Adriana. Her sister was holding her own, but had noticed her distraction; their gazes met, but when Adriana arched a brow, Alicia shook her head.
She had to regain control—of their plan, of her life. Marry Ruskin, or… she could barely take it in.
Faintness still gripped her; she felt hot one minute, cold the next. Seeing a footman passing, she requested a glass of water. He brought it promptly, eyeing her warily as if she might swoon; she forced a weak smile and thanked him.
A chair stood against the wall two yards away. She walked to it and sat, sipping her water. After a few minutes, she flicked open her fan and waved it before her face.
She had to think. Adriana was safe for the moment…
Blocking out all thought of the threat Ruskin had made, she focused on him, on what he’d said—on what he knew and what he didn’t. Why he was acting as he was, what insights that gave her, how she might press him to change his mind.
They—she, Adriana and the three boys—desperately needed Adriana to make a good match. Not with just any gentleman, but one with reasonable wealth and a sufficiently good heart not only to forgive them the deception they were practicing but to provide for the boys’ schooling.
They were as near to penniless as made no difference. They were wellborn, but had no close connections; there were just the five of them—or more correctly Alicia and Adriana to look after them all. David was only twelve years old, Harry ten, and Matthew eight. Without an education, there would be no future for them.
Adriana had to be given the chance to make the match they felt certain she could. She was stunningly beautiful; the ton had already labeled her a “diamond of the first water” among other admiring epithets. She would be a hit, a wild success; once the Season proper commenced, she could take her pick from the wealthy eligibles, and she was wise enough, despite her years, to make the right choice, with Alicia’s help.
One gentleman would be the right one for her, for them all, and then the family—Adriana and the three boys— would be safe.
Alicia had no other goal before her; she hadn’t had for the past eighteen months, since their mother died. Their father had died years before, leaving the family with little money and few possessions.
They’d scrimped, saved, and survived. And now they’d risked all on this one throw that fate, in creating Adriana’s undoubted beauty, had given them. In order to do so, Alicia had behaved in ways she wouldn’t otherwise countenance; she’d taken risks she otherwise never would have—and thus far won.
She’d become Mrs. Carrington, a wealthy and fashionable widow, the perfect chaperone to introduce Adriana to the ton. Hiring a professional chaperone had been out of the question—not only did they not have the funds, but to the ton, especially the upper echelons, a wealthy widow presenting her ravishing younger sister was a significantly different prospect to two provincial spinsters with a hired chaperone, one whose relative standing would have illuminated theirs.
With her masquerade in place, they’d cleared every hurdle and succeeded in insinuating themselves into the ton. The ultimate success beckoned; all was going so well…
There had to be a way around Ruskin and his threat.
She could marry him, but the recoil the thought evoked made her cast that as a last resort; she’d return to it if and only if there was no other way.
One thing Ruskin had said clanged in her mind. He thought they had money. He’d discovered she’d never married, but he hadn’t learned she was first cousin to a pauper.
What if she told him?
Would that make him turn aside from his plan, or simply place another weapon in his hands? If he learned she came with no money but only costs and responsibilities, would he decide not to marry her after all, but instead force her to become his mistress?
The thought made her nauseous. She gulped the last of her water, then rose to set the glass down on a nearby sideboard. The movement had her facing down the side of the room just as Ruskin stepped out through a pair of glass doors.
Moving into the crowd, she looked more closely. The doors, left ajar, led outside, presumably to a terrace.
The very fact she’d seen him go out into a place that would afford greater privacy hardened her resolve; she would go and speak with him. Despite what seemed an unhealthy wish to “have her,” there might be some other reward he would accept in return for his silence.
It was worth a try. She did have acquaintances with money she could—or at least thought she might be able to—call on. At the very least, she might be able to talk him into giving her more time.
Tacking through the crowd, she came up beside Adriana.
With a smile at her cavaliers, her sister turned to her. “What’s wrong?”
Alicia wondered again at her sister’s facility for seeing straight through her. “Nothing I can’t manage—I’ll tell you about it later. I’m just going out onto the terrace to talk to Mr. Ruskin. I’ll be back shortly.
The look in Adriana’s eyes said she had many more questions but accepted she couldn’t ask them now. “All right, but be careful. He’s a toad, if not worse.”
“I say, Mrs. Carrington, will you and Miss Pevensey be attending the opening night at the Theatre Royal?”
Young Lord Middleton was as eager as a spaniel; Alicia returned a vague answer, exchanged a few more comments, then slid out of the group and headed for the glass doors.
As she’d surmised, they gave onto a terrace overlooking the gardens. The doors had been left ajar to let air into the crowded and overheated drawing room; slipping through, she drew them almost closed behind her, then, shrugging her shawl over her shoulders, looke
d about.
It was mid-March and chilly; she was glad of the shawl. Not surprisingly, there were no others strolling in the still and frosty night. She glanced around, expecting to see Ruskin, perhaps indulging in a cigarillo, but the terrace, overhung with shadows, was empty. Walking to the balustrade, she surveyed the gardens. No Ruskin. Had he chosen to leave the soirée by this route?
She glanced down along the path that, from its direction, she assumed led to a gate giving onto the street.
A flash of movement caught her eye.
She peered, and glimpsed a man-sized shadow in the gloom beneath a huge tree beside the path. The tree was massive, the shadows beneath it dense, but she thought the man had just sat down. Perhaps there was a seat there, and Ruskin had gone to sit and smoke, or to think.
Of tomorrow night.
The idea had her stiffening her spine. Pulling her shawl tight, she descended the steps and set off along the path.
With every step Tony took along Park Street, his resistance to attending his godmother’s soirée and smiling and chatting and doing the pretty with a gaggle of young ladies with whom he had nothing in common—and who, if they knew the man he truly was, would probably faint—waxed stronger. Indeed, his reluctance over the whole damn business was veering toward the despondent.
Not by the wildest, most exaggerated flight of fancy could he imagine being married to any of the young beauties thus far paraded before him. They were …too young. Too innocent, too untouched by life. He felt no connection with them whatsoever.
The fact that they—each and every one—would happily accept his suit if he chose to favor them, and think themselves blessed, raised definite questions as to their intelligence. He was not, had never been, an easy man; one look should tell any sane woman that. He would not be an easy husband. The position of his wife was one that would demand a great deal of its holder, an aspect of which the sweet young things seemed to have no inkling.
His wife…
Not so many years ago, the thought of searching for her would have had him laughing. He hadn’t 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. He had no idea what she might look like, or be like, what aspects of her character or personality would be the vital clue—the crucial elements in her that he needed.
He wanted a wife. 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, fueling his habitual impatience. 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, facing Green Street. The garden gate opened to a path leading 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… and grew.
Closing his hand on the wrought-iron latch, he lifted it. The gate swung soundlessly open; passing through, he closed it quietly behind him. 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 quickly climbed the steep flight of steps that led up to the level of the 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 with one 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 by the hilt, loosely grasped between her fingers, pointing 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.
Tony stepped forward, driven by an urge 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 blankly at him.
Then, with a visible effort, she gathered herself. “I think he’s dead.”
Her tone was flat; her voice shook. She was battling hysterics; he was thankful she was winning.
Tamping down that impulsive 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 examination 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 at her sharply. “You knew him.”
He hadn’t thought it possible, but her eyes widened even more. “No!”
Alicia caught her breath, closed her eyes, fought to summon her wits. “That is”—she opened her eyes again—“only to speak to. Socially. At the soirée…”
Waving 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 slid to Ruskin’s body. She gulped. “Then I found him.”
Ruskin had threatened her, her plan, her family’s future. He’d been blackmailing her—and now he was dead. His blood oozed in a black pool by his side, stained the dagger now in the stranger’s hand. It was a struggle to take everything in, to know even what she felt, let alone how best to react.
The unknown gentleman rose. “Did you see anyone leaving?”
She stared at him. “No.” She glanced around, suddenly aware of the deep silence of the gardens. Abruptly, she swung her gaze back to him.
Tony sensed her sudden thought, her rising panic. Was irritated by it. “No—I didn’t kill him.”
His tone reassured her; her sudden tenseness faded.
He glanced again at the corpse, then at her; he waved back up the path. “Come. We must go in and tell them.”
She blinked, but didn’t move.
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; 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 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 features, the straight, finely chiseled nose, lips a trifle too wide, yet full, lush and tempting. She was above average in height, her dark hair piled high in gleaming coils exposing the delicate curve of her nape and the fine bones of her shoulders.
Instinct quivered; deep within him, primitive emotion stirred. Sexual attraction was only part of it; again, the urge to draw her close, to keep her close, welled.
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, almost haunted.
Fortunately, she seemed in no danger of succumbing to the vapors. Spying a chair along the wall, he guided her to it; she sank down with relief. “I must speak with Lady Amery’s butler. If you’ll remain here, I’ll send a footman with a glass of water.”
Alicia lifted her eyes to his face. To his velvet black eyes, to the concern and the focus she sensed behind his expression, behind the masklike, chiseled, haughtily angular planes. His was the most strikingly attractive masculine face she’d ever seen; he was the most startlingly attractive man she’d ever met, elegant, graceful, and strong. It was his strength she was most aware of; when he’d taken her arm and walked beside her, her senses had drunk it in.
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