He spent a few minutes observing, assessing, before making his move. Recalling Alicia’s description of her demons, he grinned. The boys were sturdy, healthy-looking specimens with apples in their cheeks and shining brown hair. They were typical boys, rowdy and physical, yet they were quick to mind their elder sister’s strictures.
Obedient demons.
Amused, he walked toward her. The bat in her hands, she had her back to him. The youngest—Matthew?— tossed the ball to her; she swung wildly and missed. The ball bounced past her, giving him the perfect opening.
He stopped the ball with his boot, with a quick flick, tossed it up, and caught it. Strolling forward, he hefted the ball; as he reached Alicia’s side, he lobbed it to the boy.
And reached for the bat. “Here, let me.”
He twitched the bat from her nerveless fingers.
Alicia stared at him. “What are you doing here?”
Torrington glanced at her. “Playing ball.” He waved to the side. “You should stand over there so you can catch me out.”
Matthew, blinking at the changes, shook his head. “She’s not much good at catching.”
Her tormentor smiled at him. “We’ll have to give her a bit of practice, then. Ready?”
Alicia found herself stepping back in the direction Torrington had indicated. She was not sure about any of this, but…
Matthew pitched the ball to him, and he tapped it back between her and Matthew. Matthew squealed delightedly and pounced on it. A huge grin wreathing his face, he hustled to square up again.
After a few more shrewdly placed shots—one which came straight at her and surprised a shriek out of her— David and Harry left Jenkins with the kite and came hurrying to join in.
Normally, the older boys would have immediately taken over the game; she girded her loins to defend Matthew, but Torrington, bat still in his hand, elected himself director of play. He welcomed the older boys and waved them to fielding positions, leaving Matthew as bowler.
What followed was an education in how boys played, or could play if led by a competent hand. When Jenkins came up, the discarded kite in his hands, she waved him to take over her position. He might be more than twice her age, but he was better at catching.
The kite in her arms, she retreated to lean against a tree. Given the focus of the game, she naturally found herself gazing at Torrington.
Not a calming sight.
He literally made her pulse skitter and race. She was far enough away to appreciate his perfect male proportions, the wide shoulders and tapering chest, slim hips and long, lean legs. She’d yet to see him make an ungraceful move; she wasn’t sure he’d know how. His reflexes were excellent.
She saw the laughing humor in his face as he skied a ball to Harry, who with a rowdy whoop caught it. Torrington’s black locks, thick and lightly wavy, hugged his head; one fell forward across his broad brow as he good-naturedly surrendered the bat to Harry. He took the ball and bowled for a while, then tossed it to David.
And came strolling over the lawn to take up a fielding position near her. He grinned at her. “Coward.”
She tipped up her nose. “As you’ve been informed, I’m hopeless at catching.”
The look he gave her was enigmatic, but a ball hit his way recalled him to his duty.
She tried to watch the play and call encouragement as a good sister should, but having Torrington so close, watching him move and stretch and stand, hands on hips, then wave, directing her brothers, was distracting.
His occasional glances did nothing to slow her pulse.
What really worried her was why he was there.
As soon as David and Matthew had had a turn at batting, she called a halt. “Come along—we have to get back for tea.”
Her brothers, flushed and glowing with happiness, ran up.
“I say.” David tugged her hand. “Can Tony come home with us for tea?”
Alicia looked down into David’s bright eyes. Tony— Torrington was Tony to them. That seemed dangerous. But David, even more than the other two, was lonely here in London, and what, after all, could Torrington do? She smiled. “If he wishes.”
“Will you come? Will you come?” The chorus was instantaneous.
Joining them, Tony—Torrington—glanced at her. “If your sister doesn’t mind.”
She wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea, and he knew it; she met his gaze, but kept her expression easy. “If you have no objection to sitting down to a nursery tea, then by all means do join us.”
He smiled, not just with his lips but with those coal black eyes; if she’d had a fan, she would have deployed it. He bowed. “Thank you. I’d be delighted.”
Thrilled, thoroughly pleased with their new acquaintance, the boys took his hands; surrounding him, they danced by his side all the way back to Waverton Street, peppering him with questions.
At first, following behind with Jenkins, she merely listened, learning that Tony was an only child and had grown up mostly in Devon, but also in part in London. He knew all the childhood haunts. But when Harry, military mad, asked if he’d served overseas, and he replied he had, her protective instincts flared.
Quickly lengthening her stride, she came up beside Matthew, tripping along, Tony’s hand in his, gazing adoringly up at his new friend.
“So which were you in—the navy or the army?”
“The army—the Guards.”
“And you were at Waterloo?”
“Yes.”
“Did you lead a charge?”
She jumped in. “Boys, I really don’t think we need to hear about charges and fighting over tea.”
Torrington glanced at her briefly, a swift, penetrating look, then he turned back to her brothers. “Your sister’s right—war is not fun. It’s horrible, and frightening, and dreadful to be involved in.”
David’s eyes grew round. Harry’s face fell.
Alicia only just managed to keep her own jaw from falling.
“But…”Harry blinked at Torrington. “I want to be a major in the Guards when I grow up. Or the cavalry.”
“I was a major in both, and I’d suggest you rethink. Aside from all else, there are no more enemies to fight. Being in the cavalry in peacetime might not be the exciting life you imagine.”
They’d reached the front steps of the house. Torrington waved the boys ahead of him, then waited for Alicia to precede him. She went quickly up the steps and opened the door, then stood back, and the three boys filed in.
Gracefully, Torrington waved her on, then followed.
“Upstairs and wash your hands, please.” She shooed her brothers to the stairs. “Then you may join us in the parlor.”
They flashed swift smiles at Torrington, then clattered up the stairs. Jenkins shut the door. She turned to him. “If you could order tea, Jenkins?”
“Indeed, ma’am.” Jenkins bowed and left them.
She turned to Torrington. “Thank you.” She met his black eyes. “That was just the right thing to say.”
He studied her for a moment, then one black brow arched. “It’s no more than the truth.”
But one few ex-majors in the Guards would admit. Inclining her head, she led him to the parlor. Located at the back of the house, it was the room she and Adriana used most, when they were alone or with the boys, en famille. A comfortable room in which the boys could relax without worrying overmuch about the furniture, it was a trifle shabby, but she didn’t care as she led Torrington in; she’d warned him it was to be a nursery tea.
Adriana was there, poring over the latest fashion plates. She glanced up, saw Torrington, and rose, smiling.
After Adriana and Torrington exchanged greetings, they all sat. Even though the room was decently sized, Alicia was aware of his physical presence, his strength. Adriana asked how he had come to join them; he related the story of the game in the park. Every now and then, his gaze would touch Alicia’s, and a teasing smile would flirt about his lips. She was relieved when the boys rejoined them, bu
rsting upon them in a noisy, albeit well-behaved wave, and the talk became more general.
Jenkins appeared with the tray; if Torrington noticed the oddity in that, he gave no sign.
She poured; on their best behavior, the boys offered Torrington the plate of crumpets first. He went up in their estimation—and hers—when he accepted one and smeared it with globs of jam, just as the boys did with theirs. All were soon munching happily.
Crumpet dealt with in three bites, Torrington wiped his fingers on his napkin, then reached for his teacup. He looked at her brothers. “Your sister told me you live in Warwickshire—is there much sport up that way? Shooting? Hunting?”
David wrinkled his nose. “Some fishing, some shooting, not much hunting just where we are. That’s south Warwickshire.”
Harry waved his remaining crumpet. “There’s hunting around Banbury, but not down near us.”
“Well,” David temporized. “There’s a small, really tiny pack runs out of Chipping Norton, but it’s not what you’d call a real hunt.”
From the corner of his eye, Tony saw Alicia and Adriana exchange a swift glance; the instant the boys had started mentioning towns, Alicia had tensed. He pressed harder. “Chipping Norton? Is that your nearest town? I’ve a friend who lives up that way.”
Alicia leaned forward. “Harry! Be careful. You’re about to drip jam.”
Adriana grabbed his napkin and wiped Harry’s fingers. Neither Tony nor Harry could see any physical reason for his sisters’ sudden action.
“There.” Adriana sat back. “Now why don’t you tell Lord Torrington about that huge trout you caught last year?”
Instead, the boys fixed Tony with round eyes.
“Are you really a lord?” Matthew asked.
Tony grinned. “Yes.”
“What sort of lord?” David asked.
“A viscount.” Tony could see from their faces they were trying to recall the order of precedence. “It’s a small lordship. The second smallest.”
They weren’t deterred. “Does that mean you get to wear a coronet at a coronation?”
“What sort of cloak do you get to wear?”
“Do you have a castle?”
He laughed, and answered as best he could, noting the relieved look Alicia threw Adriana; his presence in her parlor was making her skittish, and on more than one front.
Interrogating her brothers was not a gentlemanly act, yet he’d learned long ago that when it came to matters of treason, and that was what he and Dalziel and Whitley were dealing with in one guise or another, one couldn’t adhere to gentlemanly scruples. In that particular theater, adhering to such scruples was a fast way to die, failing one’s country in the process.
He felt no remorse for having used the three boys; they’d come to no harm, and he’d learned what he needed. Now he had to interrogate their elder sister. Again.
“Time for your afternoon lessons, boys. Come along, now.” Alicia stood, waving her brothers to their feet.
They rose, casting glances at Tony; knowing on which side his bread was buttered, he gave them no encouragement to defy their sister, but rose, too, and gravely shook hands.
With resigned polite farewells, the boys trooped out; Alicia followed them into the hall, consigning them into Jenkins’s care.
Seizing the moment, Tony turned to Adriana.
She’d risen, too, and now smiled. “I believe you’re acquainted with Lord Manningham, my lord.”
“Yes. He’s an old friend.”
Amusement flashed through her brown eyes, suggesting Geoffrey had painted their association with greater color.
He didn’t have much time. “I wanted to speak with you. Your sister will have mentioned the matter of Mr. Ruskin.” Adriana’s face immediately clouded; like Alicia, she possessed little by way of a social mask. “I gather you hadn’t met him in the country.”
“No.” Adriana met his gaze; her eyes were clear, but troubled. “He appeared a week or so after we arrived in town. We only met him a handful of times in the ballrooms, never anywhere else.”
She hesitated, then added, “He was not a man either of us could like. He was…oh, what is the word…‘importuning’. That’s it. He hovered about Alicia even though she discouraged him.”
From her expression, it was clear that while Alicia was mother lion, Adriana would be fierce in her sister’s defense. He inclined his head. “It’s perhaps as well, then, that he’s gone.”
Adriana muttered a guiltily fervent assent.
Alicia reentered; he turned to her and smiled. “Thank you for an entertaining afternoon.”
Her look said she wasn’t sure how to interpret that. He took his leave of Adriana, then, as he’d hoped, Alicia accompanied him to the door.
Following him into the hall, she shut the parlor door. He glanced about; fate had smiled—they were alone.
He gave her no time to regroup, but struck immediately. “Ruskin lived at Bledington, close to Chipping Norton. Are you sure you never met him in the country?”
She blinked at him. “Yes—I told you. We only met recently, socially in London.” Her eyes, searching his, suddenly widened. “Oh, was he a friend of your friend? The one you mentioned?”
He held her gaze; he could detect not the slightest hint of prevarication in the clear green, only puzzlement, and a hint of concern. “No,” he eventually said. “Ruskin’s friends are no friends of mine.”
The reply, especially his tone, further confused her.
“I understand he’d been bothering you—in what way?”
She frowned, clearly wishing he hadn’t known to ask; when he simply waited, she lifted her head and stiffly stated, “He was…attracted.”
He kept his eyes on hers. “And you?”
Irritation flashed in her eyes. “I was not.”
He felt his lips ease. “I see.”
They remained, gazes locked, for two heartbeats, then he reached out and took her hand. Still holding her gaze, he raised her fingers to his lips. Kissed, and felt the tremor that raced through her. Watched her eyes widen, darken.
She drew in a quick breath, tensed to step back.
He reacted. Tightening his grip on her fingers, he drew her nearer. Bent his head and touched his lips to hers in the lightest, most fleeting kiss.
Just a brushing of lips, more promise than caress.
He intended it to be that, not a real kiss but a tantalizing temptation.
Raising his head, he watched her lids rise, saw surprise, shock, and curiosity fill her eyes. Then she realized, stiffened, drew back.
Releasing her, he caught her gaze. “I meant what I said. I truly enjoyed the afternoon.”
He wondered if she understood what he was saying.
Before she could question him—before he could be tempted to say or do anything more—he bowed and turned to the door.
She saw him out and shut the door.
Gaining the pavement, he paused, letting the last moments fade from his mind, turning instead to running through all he’d learned thus far.
His instincts were pricking. Something was afoot, but just what he’d yet to divine. Turning on his heel, he headed for home and his library. There was a great deal he had to digest.
FOUR
HE SPENT THE REST OF THAT DAY AND THE ENTIRE EVENING analyzing all he’d retrieved from Ruskin’s office and lodgings. Ruskin’s scribbled notes and the receipts of his debts appeared to be the only clues, the only items warranting further investigation.
After assembling a schedule of the dates on which the debts, in groups, had been paid, along with the sums involved, Tony called it a night. At least working for Dalziel gave him an excuse not to attend the ton’s balls.
The next day, just after noon, he girded his loins and dutifully presented himself at Amery House for one of his godmother’s at-homes, to which he’d been summoned. He knew better than to ignore the dictate. Strolling into her drawing room, he bowed over her hand, resignedly noting he was one of only four
gentlemen present.
Felicité beamed up at him. “Bon! You will please me and your maman by talking and paying attention to the demoiselles here, will you not?”
Despite the words, there was an ingenuous appeal in her eyes. He felt his lips quirk. Hand over heart, he declared, “I live to serve.”
She only just managed to suppress a snort. She rapped his knuckles with her fan, then used it to gesture to the knots of young ladies gathered by the windows. “Viens!” She shooed. “Go—go!”
He went.
It was a cynical exercise; none of the young things to whom the matrons prayed he’d fall victim had any chance of fixing his interest. Why they thought he might be susceptible escaped him, but he behaved as required, pausing by first one group, then another, chatting easily before moving on. He did not remain by any lady’s side for long; no one could accuse him of being the least encouraging.
He’d scanned the room on entering; Alicia Carrington had not been present. As he moved from group to group, he resurveyed the guests, but she didn’t appear.
While moving to the fifth knot of conversationalists, he caught Felicité’s eye, noted her puzzled expression. Realized he was giving the impression he was searching for someone, waiting for someone.
Mentally shrugging, he strolled on.
He was with the sixth group, inwardly debating whether he’d dallied long enough, when he heard two matrons standing a little apart exchanging the latest gossip—the items they considered too titillating for their charges’ delicate ears.
His instincts flickered; he’d noticed there was some flutter—some piece of avid interest—doing the rounds among the older ladies.
The two biddies a yard behind him put their heads together and lowered their voices, but his hearing was acute.
“I had it this morning from Celia Chiswick. We met at Lady Montacute’s morning tea. You’ve heard about that fellow Ruskin being murdered—stabbed—just along the path there?”
From the corner of his eye, Tony saw the lady point into the garden.
“Well! It seems he was blackmailing some lady—a widow.”
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