A Gentleman's Honor bc-2

by Stephanie Laurens

  Instantly stirred her hunger.

  She looked up, met his gaze. “This is madness.”

  The words were low, breathy. He smiled, but his eyes remained on hers, his gaze intent. “If it is, we’re both infected.”

  Beyond recall. She drew breath, read his eyes; their expression was openly predatory—his intent could not have been clearer. Realization, as inescapable as the dawn, burst upon her.

  Deep within her, something quivered.

  Tony looked up, over her head, wishing for once that she possessed a more definite mask, a countenance less easy to read. One long look into her eyes, and he was aching. If Cranbourne House had boasted any suitable room, he’d have whisked her off to it, there to pursue, however impulsively, the connection growing between them. Unfortunately, Cranbourne House was small, pokey, a totally unsuitable venue. Added to that, her sister was present, which meant she’d be distracted. When he finally had her beneath him, he didn’t want her thinking of anything else.

  He noticed Geoffrey standing by the side of the room, not exactly scowling, yet clearly not happy. A quick glance about the floor located Adriana waltzing in the arms of a somewhat older man.

  “The gentleman waltzing with your sister—who is he?”

  Alicia had been studying his face; she answered evenly, “Sir Freddie Caudel.” After a moment, she asked, “Do you know him?”

  One distraction was as good as another. Resigning himself to yet another night of escalating frustration, he glanced down at her. “No, but I’ve heard of him. Very old family. Why? Is he interested in your sister?”

  Alicia nodded. “How interested, I’m not sure, and I doubt his interest, at whatever level, will be reciprocated, nevertheless…”

  His lips quirked; he glanced again at Geoffrey. “Another iron in the fire?”

  Alicia narrowed her eyes. “Precisely.” One with which she might prod things along.

  “I take it the footman met with your approval?”

  “Maggs?” Bearing a written introduction, the man had presented himself at the back door in Waverton Street. She met Torrington’s gaze, let a moment pass; Maggs, as he had to be aware, was the most unprepossessing specimen. His features were irregular, his face appeared pushed in, yet he seemed possessed of an easy disposition and had already, in just a few hours, gained acceptance from Cook, Fitchett, and, most importantly, Jenkins. For which she was grateful. “I daresay he’ll suit well enough. As I pointed out, we really have little use for a footman.”

  “Nevertheless.” Torrington’s black eyes quizzed her.

  “Just so that I can rest easy.”

  She suppressed a humph.

  The waltz ended. Without instruction, Torrington led her back to her position not far from Adriana’s court. He remained by her side, chatting inconsequentially on this and that, the customary exchanges of tonnish life. Others joined them, remained for a time, then moved on; she tried not to dwell on the fact that she preferred having him near, that his easy, in many ways undemanding presence made her evening distinctly more enjoyable.

  More relaxing on one level, more unnerving on another.

  It was the minor moments that tripped her up, that set her nerves jangling. That brought what was between them flooding back into her mind, blocking out all else, even Adriana.

  Like the moment when having remained by her side, her cavalier through the rest of the evening, Torrington parted from them in the Cranbournes’ front hall. They were among a small crowd of departing guests; to gain her attention, he touched her shoulder.

  His fingertips brushed lightly. Despite being decently sheathed in ruby silk, her skin reacted. Goosebumps rose and spread in a wave; her nipples tightened.

  Her eyes flew to his, wide, aware; he read them, his lips thinned, and she knew he knew, too.

  Then he met her gaze fully. The expression in his eyes nearly slew her; the heat was so open, so intense, it was a wonder it didn’t melt her bones.

  His lashes swept down; he grasped her hand and very correctly took his leave of her.

  She mumbled some response, then watched his back as he walked away through the crowd; only when he disappeared through the front door did she manage to breathe again. Manage to give her attention to the footman waiting to be told which carriage to summon. Thankfully, Adriana hadn’t noticed; her sister seemed as distracted as she.

  The journey back through the night-shrouded streets provided a welcome respite, a quiet moment all but alone when she could gather her wits, review what had happened, all she’d felt, how she’d reacted, without worrying about her betraying blush.

  Finally to make some attempt at defining where she stood. And whither she was heading.

  The first seemed all too clear; she stood teetering on the horns of a dilemma. As for the second, the possibilities were varied but uniformly unsettling.

  Her dilemma was clear enough. She had to play the part of a tonnish widow, an experienced lady aware of, indeed personally acquainted with, all aspects of intimacy. The question now facing her was simple: how far should she go in preserving her charade?

  To her perturbation, the answer was not at all simple.

  Dedication to their cause argued the answer should be as far as she needed to go to see Adriana through her Season and secure their family’s relief. But that immediately raised another highly pertinent question: how far could she go without Torrington realizing?

  He was not just experienced; he was an expert. She’d been scrambling to keep up with him thus far; at some point she would falter, and he’d realize….

  The social strictures at least were clear. Regardless of her charade, she wasn’t a widow, but a virtuous spinster—she shouldn’t permit him even the liberties he’d already taken. Unfortunately, her inner voice was quick to argue, to speak in support of those wishes and needs she was only just realizing she possessed; where, that inner voice asked, was the harm?

  She’d accepted over a year ago that she’d missed her chance at marriage; she was twenty-four—not unmarriageable by ton standards, yet in reality the likelihood had faded. Once Adriana was established, she, Alicia, would disappear from society; she’d imagined she’d retire to the country to watch over the boys, to keep home for them whether with Adriana and her husband or otherwise.

  That plan still stood; nothing had happened to alter her path. Any liaison with Torrington would be, as such things generally were, temporary, fleeting. A liaison with him might, however, be her only chance to experience all she was presently pretending to know.

  He was the only gentleman who had ever engaged her on that level; even now, she wasn’t sure how he’d done it, how it had happened. Yet it had; the possibility now existed where it hadn’t before. If she wanted to know more, wanted to experience all that could be between a man and a woman, all she had to do was let Torrington teach her.

  The carriage rocked along, heading into Mayfair, pausing here and there as other carriages crowded the streets. She barely noticed the delays, indeed was grateful for the opportunity to let her mind range ahead, examining, imagining.

  If she did indulge in a liaison with Torrington…

  He would realize she was a virgin, would guess she’d never been married. However, she doubted he would expose her to the ton; there was no reason he should, not once she’d explained.

  There was, however, another danger. One her instincts, uneducated though they were, had detected. Just how real that danger was she couldn’t be certain, yet Tony— Torrington—was a nobleman to his toes. Arrogant, yes, with a definite streak of ruthlessness behind his charming facade, and…she searched for the word to describe what she sensed when he looked at her, held her, kissed her, caressed her.

  Possessive.

  If she gave herself to him, trusted him that far, would he agree to let her go?

  She wasn’t foolish enough to overlook the point; if she became his mistress, allowed him to become privy to her secret, he’d be in a position much as Ruskin had been, able to dic
tate her behavior. She recognized the possibility, viewed it clearly, yet she couldn’t, despite all, see it happening. Adriana had mentioned Geoffrey’s assessment of Torrington; it concurred with her own reading of the man. He was simply not the sort to hold a woman against her will. Regardless of all else, he was an honorable man.

  If she did become his mistress, for whatever length of time, he would, in the end, let her go.

  All of which left her precisely where she’d started, facing the question of what she should do and no nearer to finding an answer.

  The only alternative to making a decision was to stave it off. Somehow to hold him off, to avoid the culmination he was clearly steering them toward. If she could hold to a line just short of surrender, then the instant Adriana was established, disappear…

  With a creak, the carriage turned into Waverton Street. Adriana stirred, stretched. Alicia straightened, and gathered her shawl and reticule. The carriage halted; looking out, she saw the light burning above their door.

  Thought of her brothers innocently asleep in their beds.

  Resist Torrington. The problem with that strategy was that in order to implement it, she’d have to fight not only him, an experienced campaigner, but her own, largely unknown, desires.

  She let the footman hand her down, then led the way up the steps. Their reckless but straightforward plan had developed serious complications.

  The next morning, Tony headed for the Bastion Club. On foot. He needed the exercise.

  Needed the physical activity to ease the building frustration of a type he’d rarely had to endure. Indeed, he couldn’t remember ever wanting a woman so much, and not having her. Worse, in this instance, he recognized the need to go slowly, carefully; his relationship with Alicia was forever, not for a few weeks or a few months. It would be the most important relationship of his life; it demanded and deserved a degree of care, of respect, of attention.

  He’d noticed her occasional hesitations, the sudden tensing, almost a skittishness that sometimes gripped her. He’d always succeeded in soothing it, in getting her to set it aside and relax, to trust him. To open her eyes, see and accept all that could be and would be between them.

  Although he hadn’t foreseen it, her reserve didn’t surprise him; she might be a widow, but that wouldn’t change the underlying truth of her nature—she was a virtuous lady, and as such would not easily be seduced. And in her case, there was yet more—a complicating factor. She was responsible for her family, and she took that responsibility seriously.

  He hadn’t imagined that in gaining his bride, he’d have to compete with her family for her attention. While the fact was a difficulty, and clearly would continue to raise hurdles, he didn’t, as it happened, disapprove.

  He enjoyed her family—enjoyed spending time with her brothers, even enjoyed watching Adriana make her choice, especially given Geoffrey was involved. But more, he found the circumstance of her family reassuring.

  As an only child, he’d never experienced the relationships Alicia and her siblings took for granted. The warmth, the closeness that was simply there, the support it never occurred to them to question… all that was not only attractive, but spoke strongly of Alicia’s ability to create for him, with him, the sort of home and family he wanted. And needed. How much he hadn’t realized until he’d met her and her brood.

  Regardless of his frustration, he wouldn’t have her change, didn’t wish she was otherwise. He valued her for what she was, as she was, and was fully prepared to accommodate that, to woo her as she needed to be wooed.

  And pray he didn’t do himself an injury in the meantime.

  With a wrench, he hauled his mind away from that moment in the Cranbournes’ front hall. Just thinking of that made him ache. Determinedly, he focused on the meeting he was heading for, with Gervase Tregarth and Jack Warnefleet.

  They were waiting in the club’s meeting room, comfortably slouched about the mahogany table. Christian Allardyce was also there; when he raised his brows, Tony waved him to stay. “You’ve already heard part of this affair—the more help the better.”

  Christian grinned. “And Dalziel is involved.”

  “Indeed.” Tony sat and quickly, concisely, told them all he’d learned of Ruskin, his death, and his dealings with A. C. “This is a list of the ships mentioned in Ruskin’s notes, and the associated dates, and these”—he handed over a second sheet—“are the dates on which Ruskin received large cash donations to his gambling fund.”

  Gervase studied the list of ships and dates, then compared them with the dates of the payments. Shifting to sit beside him, Jack perused the lists, too.

  Christian, beside Tony, looked across the table at them. “I take it the payments in some way coincide with the shipping dates?”

  Checking back and forth, Gervase nodded. “About a week in between, but not for every ship listed.”

  Tony sat back. “It appears Ruskin provided the information, it was used or in some way confirmed, and then he received payment.”

  “Whoever A. C. is, he ran a tight operation. No payment unless…”Jack stopped, looked up.

  Grimly, Tony nodded. “Presumably no payment unless the information was useful.”

  “Which,” Christian murmured, “suggests it was used for something.”

  “And if it was,” Gervase was still studying the lists, “it wasn’t for anything good.”

  “That,” Tony agreed, “is the inescapable conclusion. What we need to determine is exactly how it was used.”

  Gervase nodded. “And trace it back to whoever that use benefited.”

  “Precisely.” Tony paused, then asked, “Can you help?”

  Gervase looked up, grinned. “I was intending to slip home for a few days. I can easily ask around in Plymouth, and along the coast there.” He met Tony’s gaze. “But you’ve more extensive contacts in the Isles and on the French side, and to the southeast on this side, I’d imagine.”

  “Yes, but my problem—our problem at present—is that that information”—Tony nodded at the lists in Gervase’s hands—“is all we have. I compiled the list of ships from scattered jottings, more like reminders. Presumably the information Ruskin passed contained more detail.”

  “But what detail we don’t know?” Jack asked.

  “Exactly. Via the Revenue and Admiralty dispatches that passed through his hands, Ruskin had what amounted to each ship’s sailing orders, at least for their approach to our shores.” Tony looked at Gervase. “If you can find any hint of what was going on—how the information was used—I can put out feelers more widely. But given the nature of my contacts, if I ask general questions, rather than specific ones, I won’t get any answers. Worse, I might alert whoever it is that’s behind this.”

  They all understood how the informant system worked; he didn’t need to explain further.

  “Can I keep these?” Gervase held up the lists.

  Tony nodded. “Those are copies.”

  Folding the lists, Gervase slipped them into his pocket.

  “I’ll ask around and see if I can find any whisper of any action involving these ships on or about those dates. If I find anything, I’ll bring it back immediately.”

  “Once we have a clue what we’re dealing with, I’ll follow up more widely.”

  Jack frowned. “Have you thought of inquiring via the shipping lines? If these ships are merchantmen…”

  “I’ve a friend who’ll be in town in a day or so—he has a similar background to ours. He’s been out of the service for some years, but knows the game well. He also owns Hendon Shipping, one of the largest of the local lines. He has the contacts and will know how to make such inquiries without raising a dust.”

  Jack nodded. “So—what did you want me to pursue?”

  “Ruskin himself, and how A. C. knew him. Ruskin lived at Bledington when he was in the country. Not often, admittedly, but it’s an area we shouldn’t overlook. Given you’re the closest of us countywise, your inquisitive presence is least lik
ely to attract attention. Our ultimate aim is to identify A. C. It’s possible he’s someone who lives out that way, and that’s how he knew Ruskin, and most importantly where Ruskin worked.”

  “Right.” Jack’s gaze had grown distant. “I’ll check into Ruskin’s background and see if I can turn up anyone with the initials A. C. connected in however vague a fashion with our boy.”

  “While you’re up there…” Tony hesitated, then went on, “You might check on a Mrs. Carrington and her family, the Pevenseys. Their connection with Ruskin appears to be via Chipping Norton. It seems Mrs. Carrington and the Pevenseys didn’t know Ruskin, but he knew them.”

  “Carrington.” Christian murmured. “That’s a C.”

  “Indeed. More confusing, she’s Alicia Carrington, so she is A. C., but she married Carrington about two years ago, so wasn’t A. C. four years ago, when Ruskin first started receiving large sums from A. C. More to the point, her husband, deceased for two years, was Alfred Carrington. Although he can’t be the A. C. involved either, given the way names run in families there may be a connection with Ruskin of which Mrs. Carrington is unaware.”

  “Oh, yes.” Jack nodded; for one instant, the dangerous man behind his hail-fellow-well-met cheerily handsome facade showed through. “Second cousin, third cousin, whatever. I’ll check.”

  They all exchanged glances, then, as one, pushed back their chairs. They stood, stretched, resettled their coats; as they turned to the door, Christian murmured, “That shipping business sounds decidedly nasty.” He caught Tony’s eye, then glanced at the others. They were all thinking the same thing—that someone had been using the war for their own ends.

  “We definitely need to learn what the information was used for, and how,” Gervase said.

  “And, most importantly”—Tony followed Christian from the room—“by whom.” That, indeed, was their primary interest.