A Gentleman's Honor

FOURTEEN

THE FOLLOWING DAYS WERE AMONG THE STRANGEST Alicia had known. And quite the fullest.

With the Season about to commence, the social pace approached the frenetic; not only were there three or more major balls every night, but the days, too, were crammed with activities—driving in the park, at-homes, teas, luncheons, picnics, and all manner of diversions. So established were they now among the ton that their absence at such events would have been remarked; people expected to see them—they needed to be there.

She’d schemed, hoped, worked for, plotted so that at the start of the Season she and Adriana would be accepted members, indeed fixtures on the social scene. Fate had granted her wish, and they were dancing every night.

Those who had only recently come to town cast covetous eyes at their now-combined circle, with Tony, Geoffrey, Sir Freddie, and a bevy of others regularly forming part of that select company. But most, certainly the major hostesses and the matrons on whose opinion tonnish acceptance hung, had grown used to them; they merely smiled, nodded graciously, and moved on through the crush.

Of course, given Adriana’s clear preference for Geoffrey’s company, and his for hers, such social prominence was no longer necessary, yet Alicia would have managed society’s demands easily enough—if it hadn’t been for the distraction of all else in her suddenly and unexpectedly full life.

Tony left her bed every morning before dawn; through the day, he traveled—to the coast, to various towns and hamlets, over the Downs, to Southampton and Dover— speaking with his mysterious “contacts,” constantly seeking information that might shed light on A. C.’s nefarious activities.

In the evening, he’d return, not to Waverton Street but his own house; later still, he’d join her at whichever ball or soirée, musicale or rout they had chosen to attend.

Each evening, she’d wait, chatting with those about her but with her thoughts elsewhere, wondering, circling… until he arrived. Every time he appeared to bow over her hand, then set it on his sleeve and take his place by her side, her heart leapt. Quelling it, she’d wait still further, impatient yet resigned, for the ballrooms were now too crowded to risk talking of his findings.

Only later when he’d escorted them home, then followed her to her bedchamber would they talk. He’d tell her all he’d done that day, all he’d learned. Snippets of information verified their suspicions that A. C. had somehow profiteered by ensuring certain ships had been taken by the enemy, yet nothing they’d discovered so far had shed enough light to show them how.

Later yet…they’d come together in her bed, and the day would fall away, and nothing else—nothing beyond the cocoon of the coverlets and the circle of each other’s arms—seemed real, of any consequence.

Later still, she’d lie wrapped in his arms, surrounded by his strength, listening to his steady heartbeat, and wonder…at herself, at where she was, where she was heading…but those moments were fleeting, too brief to reach any conclusion.

And then the sun would rise, and there’d be another day of frantic activity, of ensuring her brothers’ lives and their lessons stayed on track, that Adriana and Geoffrey’s romance continued to prosper, and that all else—the facade of her making—continued as it needed to.

Beneath the social bustle, she was conscious of an undercurrent of action. Things were happening; Tony and his friends were steadily, quietly, chipping away at A. C.’s walls—at some point they’d break through. Twice, she glimpsed a watchful face in the street; the sight reminded her of the potential danger, kept her on her mental toes.

She tried, once, to find time alone to think, but Adriana burst in in a panic over a new gown that wouldn’t drape straight, and she put aside her nebulous concerns. Time enough when the Season had run at least a few weeks, enough to take the edge from society’s appetite, and A. C. had been exposed and her family was safe again, and Geoffrey had proposed… time enough, then, to think of herself.

That evening, she nearly suggested they stay home— perhaps send a note to Torrington House, and another to Geoffrey Manningham, inviting them to a quiet dinner… then she sighed and climbed into the fabulous apple green silk gown Adriana had fashioned. It was the Duchess of Richmond’s ball tonight.

The traditional, recognized, start of the Season.

Even before they reached the duchess’s door, it was clear the crowd would be horrendous; their carriage took forty minutes just to travel up the drive and deposit them beneath the awning erected to protect the ladies’ delicate toilettes from the light showers sweeping past. Once inside, the noise of a thousand chattering tongues engulfed them; friends called greetings through the throng—it was impossible not to be infected with the gaiety.

Geoffrey was the first to find them. “Let me.” He took Adriana’s arm, offered Alicia the other, then steered them to where a trio of potted palms gave some respite from the packed and shifting bodies.

They stopped, caught their breaths. Alicia snapped open her fan and waved it. “Now I see why they refer to such events as ‘crushes.’”

Geoffrey threw her a commiserating look. “Luckily, it doesn’t get much worse than this.”

“Thank heaven for that,” Adriana murmured.

Gradually, the others with whom they’d become most friendly found them; it was a comfortable circle that formed by the side of the room, Miss Carmichael and Miss Pontefract, both sensible and well-bred young ladies, helping to balance the genders. They exchanged the latest stories they’d heard during the day; the gentlemen, most of whom kept to their clubs during the daytime, often had not heard what the ladies had, and vice versa.

Occasionally, a matron would stop by and engage Alicia; some brought their daughters to be introduced. Lady Horatia Cynster smiled and nodded; later, the Duchess of St. Ives stopped by Alicia’s side and complimented her on her gown.

“You have become as ravissante as your sister.” The duchess’s pale green eyes quizzed her. “I confess I am surprised Torrington is not here. Do you expect him?”

She wasn’t sure how to answer, in the end admitted, “I believe he’ll arrive shortly.”

“Indeed, and no doubt he will see you home.” The duchess’s smile deepened. She laid a hand on Alicia’s wrist. “Bien. It is good. I am most pleased that he has had the sense to act, rather than prevaricate—it is pleasing to see that he takes such excellent care of you.” Her pale gaze fell on Geoffrey. “And this one, if my eyes do not lie, will take good care of your sister, hein?”

Alicia raised her brows. “It appears he wishes to, certainly, although she has yet to tell him he may do so.”

The duchess laughed. “Bon! It is wise to keep such as he wondering, at least for a little time.”

With a nod to Adriana, and to Sir Freddie Caudel, who had noticed her and bowed low, the duchess patted Alicia’s hand, then moved on into the crowd.

The dance floor was in the next salon, separated by an archway. Alicia refused all offers to lead her thence, remaining by the palms chatting with whichever gentlemen were not engaged with the ladies on the floor.

Such was the crowd, she was almost surprised that Tony managed to find them. It was late when he did.

His fingers slid around her wrist; she looked up, smiling in welcome, aware as usual of faint but definite relief. A relief that turned to concern when she met his eyes and saw her weariness mirrored there.

He raised her hand to his lips, using the gesture to mask his grimace. “I’d forgotten how bad these affairs could be.”

She smiled, and let him draw her close. “The dance floor is unnavigable, I’ve heard.”

He raised a brow at her. “There’s always the terrace.”

“Is there a terrace?”

He nodded. “Through the drawing room.”

She considered the question in his eyes, then faintly smiled. “I’d rather go home.”

His black eyes held hers. After a moment, he murmured, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He held her gaze for an instant, then nodded. With a look and a quiet word, he gathered Adriana; not surprisingly, Geoffrey came, too. Sir Freddie bade them a suavely courteous good night, remaining to chat with Miss Pontefract and Sir Reginald Blaze. Leaving the group, they made their way through the still dense crowd to the foyer.

Tony sent a footman for their carriage. Richmond was a long way from Mayfair; in response to a pointed look from Adriana, Alicia invited Geoffrey to share their carriage. He accepted; minutes later, the carriage arrived, and they set off on the long rocking ride back to town. Once they were free of the gate and bowling along the main road, Geoffrey looked at Tony. “Have you learned anything yet?”

Tony felt Alicia’s glance, shook his head. “Nothing definite. Corroboration, yes, but nothing that defines the game A. C. was playing.”

“Was playing? You’re sure of that? That it’s all in the past?”

He wasn’t surprised to find Geoffrey interrogating him; if he’d been in his shoes, enamored of the lovely Adriana, he, too, would want to know. “That much seems certain. Indeed, that’s why Ruskin was no longer valuable—why he became an expendable liability.”

Geoffrey thought, then nodded.

Conversation lapsed, then Adriana asked Geoffrey something; he looked down at her, and replied. They continued talking, their voices low.

Tony wasn’t in the mood to chat; he was in truth tired—he’d traveled down to Rye and spent much of the day chasing men who rarely ventured forth in sunshine. Nevertheless, he’d found them, and learned all he’d needed to know.

He looked at Alicia; shifting his hand, he found hers and wrapped his fingers about it. She glanced at him; in the weak light he saw her smile gently, then she looked forward, leaned her head against his shoulder, her other hand finding and covering their clasped hands. He sensed she was as tired as he; he was tempted to put his arm around her and gather her against him, but in light of the pair on the opposite seat, refrained.

It took nearly an hour to reach Waverton Street.

Geoffrey jumped down; Tony followed. They handed their ladies down, then Geoffrey took his leave of Adriana and Alicia, and walked off.

Tony followed Alicia up the steps of the house, glancing as always to left and right. He’d caught a glimpse of his man on the corner, recalled the report that had been on his desk when he’d returned home that evening.

In the front hall, he waited with Alicia while Adriana went upstairs, and Maggs retreated to the nether regions; he was perfectly sure their charade wasn’t fooling Maggs, but he suspected it was important to Alicia, at least at that point, to preserve her facade as a virtuous widow.

Once Maggs’s footsteps had faded and Adriana had disappeared down the corridor to her room, he turned back to the front door and slid both bolts home. Alicia had picked up the candle from the hall table; on the lowest tread of the stair, she glanced back at him. He joined her; together they climbed the stairs to her room.

Her bedchamber was the largest, closest to the stairs. Adriana’s room lay along the corridor, two dressing rooms and a linen press separating the rooms. He had no idea whether Adriana knew he spent the nights in her elder sister’s bed; given the distance between their rooms, there was no reason she would have guessed.

The boys’ rooms were on the next floor, the servants’ rooms in the attics above. Following Alicia into her bedchamber and shutting the door, he reflected that thus far, her reputation remained safe.

If there was any reason to imagine it threatened, he would make his intentions public, but as things stood, with the ton believing her a widow and thus according her the associated license, there was no compelling urgency to declare his hand.

Indeed, he prayed the necessity wouldn’t arise, that once A. C. was unmasked and they were free of his threat, he would have time to woo her, to ask for her hand with all due ceremony. That was, to his mind, the least she deserved, regardless of their established intimacy.

He hadn’t intended that, but having once spent the night in her bed, the notion of not continuing to do so hadn’t even entered his head. The fact he’d simply assumed her agreement occurred to him. He glanced at her. She’d crossed the room to set the candlestick on the dressing table; seated on the stool, she was calmly letting down her long hair.

The simple, domestic sight never failed to soothe him—to soothe that part of him that was not, even at the best of times, all that civilized.

She had not at any time drawn back, either from him or from their relationship; her quiet, calm acceptance was both balm to his possessive soul and a wordless reassurance that they understood each other perfectly.

Indeed, words had never featured much between them. Aside from all else, he’d always believed actions spoke louder.

Sitting on the bed, he removed his shoes, then shrugged out of his coat. He stripped off his waistcoat, untied his cravat, all the while watching her brush the long, mahogany tresses that spilled down her back, a silken river reaching nearly to her waist.

When she laid down the brush and stood, he crossed to her. Bending his head, murmuring an endearment, he set his fingers to her laces, and his lips to the sensitive spot where her white shoulder and throat met. When her gown was loose, he forced himself to move away, allowing her to remove the gown, shake it out, and hang it up.

Unbuttoning his shirt, he inwardly frowned, returning to a thought that frequently nagged; it would be nice to give her more servants, a maid at least to take care of her clothes and see to her jewels…frowning, he pulled his shirt from his waistband. As far as he’d seen, she didn’t have any jewelry.

“Oh.” At her armoire, she turned, through the shadows looked at him. “I meant to tell you—something rather strange happened today.”

Clad in her chemise, she headed for the bed. He started unbuttoning his cuffs. “What?”

Picking up a silk robe, she slipped it over her shoulders. “A solicitor’s clerk called this morning.” Sinking onto the bed, she met his eyes. “Adriana and I were in the park. The man—”

“A weasely-looking fellow in black?” The description had been in Collier’s report; he’d read it before setting out for Richmond.

She blinked, then nodded. “Yes—that sounds like him. He insisted on waiting to see me even though Jenkins told him I’d be a while. Maggs and Jenkins discussed it, then left him in the parlor, but when I arrived home with Adriana and Geoffrey, the man wasn’t there.” She shrugged. “He must have got tried of waiting and left by the front door, but it seems strange that he left no message.”

He’d slowed, stopped undressing, giving her his undivided attention. He considered, then said, “The parlor?”

She nodded.

Biting back a curse, he swung on his heel and headed for the door.

“Tony?”

He heard her whisper, but didn’t answer. Glancing back as he went down the stairs, he saw her following, belting the silk robe as she came, her bare feet almost as silent as his.

Reaching the parlor, he opened the door. The fire was still glowing; picking up a three-armed candelabrum, he lit each candle from the embers, then, rising, set the candelabrum on the table beside the chaise.

Alicia silently closed the door. Her eyes felt huge. “What is it?”

Slowly swiveling, he studied the room, the window seat beneath the bow window, the bookselves flanking the fireplace and one corner of the room, the escritoire against one wall, and a high table with two drawers. “How long was he here—do you have any idea?”

Drawing the robe close, she considered. “It could have been half an hour. Probably not more.”

He waved to the armchair by the fire. “Sit down. This might take a while.”

Sinking into the chair, she drew her legs up, covering her cold toes with the hem of her robe, and watched him search the room. He was thorough—very thorough. He looked in places she’d never have thought of—like the undersides of the drawers of the table against the wall. He found nothing there, and moved on to the escritoire.

“Does this have a secret drawer?”

“No.”

He checked every possible nook and cranny, then shifted to the bookshelves. She quelled a shiver. Barefoot on the cold boards, he hunkered down; his shirt flapped loose about his chest, but he didn’t seem to feel the chill. He ran his hand along the spines, then started pulling out individual books, reaching into the gaps to check behind.

Tony had no idea what he was looking for, but instinct told him there would be something to find. He pulled out a slim volume; the title caught his eye. “A Young Lady’s Guide to Etiquette in the Ton.” Briefly, he raised his brows. Setting it aside, he pulled out a few more. They, too, dealt with similar subjects; clearly Alicia and Adriana had done considerable research before embarking on their scheme.

Making sure he missed no section of the shelves, he worked his way along.

He found what he was searching for behind a set of books on the lowest shelf, close by the room’s corner. A sheaf of papers had been jammed behind the books; drawing them out, he turned to Alicia. One look at her face, her eyes, assured him they weren’t hers.

“What are they?”

Rising, he moved closer to the candelabrum, and flicked through the sheaf. “Old letters.” He straightened them out, laying each on the table. “Five of them.” Sinking down on the chaise, he picked one up.

In a rustle of silk, Alicia left the armchair and came to join him. Sitting close beside him, she reached for one of the letters—he forestalled her, passing her the one he’d already scanned; she took it and he lifted the next.

When he laid down the fifth missive, she was still picking her way through the second. The letters were in French.

For a long moment, he sat, elbows on his thighs, and stared across the room, then he leaned back, reached for her, and drew her, letters and all, into his arms.

She shivered, and looked up at him. “I’ve only read one. Are they all similar?”

He nodded. “All to A. C. from French captains acknowledging ships taken on information supplied.” Three of the letters were from French naval captains; he could personally verify two of the names. He could also identify from his own knowledge the other two correspondents, both captains of French privateers.

The letters were extremely incriminating. For A. C.

Alicia had never been A. C., and indeed, the letters all dated from before her fictitous marriage had supposedly taken place. The name wasn’t what was worrying him.

She frowned at the letter she held, then shuffled the sheaf. “These are all addressed to A. C. at the Sign of the Barking Dog.”

Her tone alerted him; he glanced at her. “Do you know it?”

She nodded. “It’s not far from Chipping Norton.”

He sat forward. “An inn?” Getting to his feet, he drew her with him.

She shook her head. “No, a hedge tavern. Barely even that. It caters to a very rough crowd—most of the locals avoid it.”

He hid a grimace. The Barking Dog sounded like the perfect address for a villain. He doubted he would get any help from the innkeeper as to who had picked up the letters, but he’d send someone to inquire tomorrow.

Meanwhile…“Let’s go upstairs. You’re freezing.”

He drew her out of the room; she went unresisting, frowning, refolding the letters. Closing the parlor door, he saw her tiptoeing awkwardly to the stairs. Shutting his lips on a query regarding the whereabouts of her slippers, he strode after her, bent, and hefted her into his arms.

She looked into his face, then settled back and let him carry her upstairs. She’d left the door to her bedchamber open; he entered and nudged it closed. The lock clicked shut. She shifted, expecting to be put down.

He strode to the bed and dropped her on it. Filched the letters from her grasp when she bounced. “I’ll need those.”

She struggled up, watched as he crossed to his coat and slipped the sheaf into a pocket. “That clerk put them there, didn’t he? Why?”

“To confuse things.”

She swung her legs off the bed, stood, shrugged out of her robe and laid it aside. “How?” Turning back to the bed, she frowned at him. “What do you think will happen?”

“I think”—he stripped off his shirt and dropped it on his coat—“that you can expect a visit from someone in authority within the next few days. They’ll be looking for the letters, but”—he smiled evilly—“they won’t find them.”

Still clad in her chemise, she slipped under the covers. He looked down as he stripped off his trousers, hiding his smile, pretending not to notice as, once safely covered, she wriggled out of the fine chemise and tossed it to the floor. Once he joined her in the bed, it wouldn’t stay on her; better she remove it than risk him tearing it, or so he had given her to understand.

She was still frowning. “What should we do?”

Naked, he crossed to the dressing table and doused the candle. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. There’s nothing to be done tonight.”

He returned to the bed and slid under the covers beside her.

She was shivering, still frowning, but accepting his edict, turned into his arms as she always did, as ardent and as needy as he. Her openness was a blessing for which he would remain forever grateful; the instant their limbs met, and their lips found each other’s, there was only one thought between them, only one goal, one aim, one desire.

Her chill, her concern over the letters—and his—faded as that simple reality took control, claimed them, heart, minds, and souls fused them. Slumped, exhausted, and thoroughly heated, in each other’s arms, they surrendered, and slept. And left tomorrow’s problems for tomorrow.

Again, Alicia slept in. Lecturing herself that she couldn’t let the practice become habit, she climbed into a new morning gown of forest green, quickly coiled her hair, then hurried downstairs, expecting mayhem.

She came to a teetering halt on the threshold of the dining room. Alerted by the deep rumble of Tony’s voice, she looked in—stared.

He was seated at the foot of the table, keeping order, clearly in charge. Her brothers, of course, were on their best behavior; expressions angelic, they hung on his every word. Adriana… one glance at her sister as she slowly entered was enough to inform her that Adriana was intrigued.

The boys noticed her, and smiled.

Picking up her pace, as nonchalantly as she could she went to her accustomed place at the head of the table. “Good morning.” Sitting, she met Tony’s gaze. Inclined her head briefly. “My lord. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

A smile flashed behind his eyes; she prayed Adriana didn’t catch it, or if she had, wouldn’t be able to interpret it.

“I came to enjoy your company”—he smiled briefly at the boys; he was clearly their hero—“and also to discuss the most recent developments and remind you all to take care.” His gaze returned to her face. “It seems matters are progressing, just not as I’d thought, or hoped. You”—his gaze swept the table—“all of you, need to stay alert.”

“Why?” Eyes wide, David waited.

Alicia felt Adriana’s glance, then her sister leaned forward and looked down the table at Tony. “That odd man who called yesterday but didn’t wait—is it something to do with him?”

Looking straight down the table, Alicia met Tony’s eyes and read the question therein. Briefly, she nodded.

“Yes.” Assembling their collective interest with a glance, he went on to explain about the letters.

She listened, on one level monitoring his words and her brothers’ reactions, on another, thinking rather more personally.

At least he’d changed out of his evening clothes; he was wearing a morning coat of rich, dark brown over ivory inexpressibles reaching into gleaming black Hessians. His waistcoat was striped in ivory and browns, his cravat starched white, severely simple. On the little finger of his right hand the gold-and-onyx signet ring he always wore gleamed; his gold watch chain and the gold pin in his cravat completed the picture, one of simple yet formidable elegance.

He’d left her bed at dawn, as usual; he must have gone home, then returned. She hoped he’d rung the doorbell, and hadn’t simply waltzed in… then again, would anyone have deemed it odd if he had?

Was this a taste of things to come—a guide to how their relationship would develop? That gradually he would become more than just a frequent visitor, over time gaining the status of accepted member of the household, moreover a member whose edicts carried weight.

As they clearly already did with her brothers. Yet he was impressing on them the need to take care, more, to avoid taking any risks; she wasn’t about to complain. They paid his warnings far greater heed than they would any from her.

Deep down, she was conscious of a small, very small, degree of irritation that he’d been able so easily to assume a role that for a decade had been hers, that her family—even Adriana—accepted his usurpation without question…yet as, with a glance, he extended his edicts to Adriana, too, who just as avidly as the boys had been drawn in by his glib, truthful but not unnecessarily revealing, or worrying, account of the planted letters and what he thought they would mean, she couldn’t find it in her actively to oppose him.

Nevertheless, some part of her, the most private side of her, felt almost exposed. Most definitely uncertain, both of the rightness of the present and what next might come. Until this morning, what had grown between them had remained between them alone, yet now… perhaps this was how things were done in his world?

She honestly didn’t know; she’d traveled far beyond the limits of the books in the parlor. Not one gave any description of the normal pattern of behavior, the day-today arrangements that might exist between a member of the nobility and his mistress.

Presumably he knew how things should be; she would have to, as she’d had to so often thus far, follow his lead.

“I don’t know exactly what will happen, or when.” Tony met the boys’ eyes, then glanced briefly at Adriana.

“It’s possible nothing at all might occur—we might catch whoever it is before he takes the next step.”

He didn’t believe that for a moment; Alicia’s slight frown suggested she didn’t either.

Returning his attention to the boys, he reiterated, “But you can’t be too careful—I want you all to be on guard, and not panic if there is some development. I, and others, won’t be far away.”

The boys, eyes wide, nodded solemnly.

Jenkins came in at that moment; Alicia forced a smile and spoke with him regarding the boys’ lessons, then looked at her brothers. “Up you go.”

Tony reinforced her command with a look. The boys finished their milk; he inclined his head as they bobbed bows before taking themselves off.

Letting his gaze drift past Adriana, he looked at Alicia. “If I could speak with you for a moment?”

She blinked, glanced at Adriana, and rose. “Yes, of course. If you’ll come into the drawing room?”

Rising, he took his leave of Adriana, who seemed totally at ease over his unorthodox presence, then followed her across the front hall. She paused by the drawing room door; he waved her in and followed, closing the door behind them.

She stopped and faced him; halting before her, he met her gaze. “Regardless of what I just said, I fully expect something to happen.” He grimaced, let her see his unease. “I just don’t know what, or exactly when.”

She studied his face, then said, “Thank you for speaking with them. We’ll be on guard now.”

“My men outside gave me a decent description of this clerk, but there must be thousands like him in London—I don’t expect to be able to trace him, let alone his employer.” He paused, wondered if she’d see his next maneuver for the revelation it was—decided he didn’t care.

“With your leave, I’ll send another footman—he’ll arrive within the hour. Maggs tells me there’s room in the attics—I want him—Maggs—free to follow any other strange visitors who come to call.”

She blinked. A frown grew in her eyes. “We have Jenkins. I’m sure he can cope—”

“Your brothers.” Ruthlessly he fell back on the one argument he knew would overcome her resistance. “I’d rather Jenkins concentrated on keeping watch over them, and I don’t want you and Adriana left without some degree of male support.”

She held his gaze, evaluating, realizing he’d left her no option. Her lips tightened, but only fractionally. “Very well. If you truly think it necessary.”

“I do.” Absolutely, definitely necessary; if he thought he could get her to agree, he’d have half a dozen men about her. “I’ll be staying in London—Gervase should be back from Devon, and with luck Jack Hendon might have something to report.”

“If you learn anything, you will send word, won’t you?”

He smiled, a flash of teeth and resolution. “I’ll bring any news myself.” He studied her eyes. “If anything happens, Scully, the new footman, or Maggs, will get word to those watching—they’ll find me. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

For an instant, her expression remained serious, sober, the reality of the threat, the potential but unknown difficulty she and her family might have to face—that he and she both felt sure they would face—dulling the gold and green, then a smile softened her eyes. “Thank you.” Putting a reassuring hand on his arm, she held his gaze. “We’ll manage.”

Her “we” included him; that was clear in her eyes, in her inclusive smile.

His expression eased. He hesitated, then bent his head. Cradling her face in one palm, he kissed her, briefly yet… the link between them was now so strong, even that brief caress communicated volumes.

Raising his head, he stepped back. Saluted her. “Au revoir.”

Tony returned to Upper Brook Street to discover messages from Jack Hendon and Gervase Tregarth awaiting him. Both expected to have firm information by noon; Gervase suggested they meet at the Bastion Club. Tony sat at his desk and dashed off a note to Jack, giving him directions and a brief explanation—enough to whet his appetite.

After that he sat and mentally reviewed all he knew thus far. Action was clearly imminent; why plant incriminating evidence if not to expose it? How, by whom, and precisely when he didn’t know, but he could and did clear everything on his desk, all matters that might need his attention over the next few days.

Summoning Hungerford, he gave orders that would ensure, not only that his houses and estate would continue on an even keel were he to be otherwise engaged for a week or so, but also that the various members of his extended staff, some of whom did not fit any common description, were apprised of his intentions, and thus would hold themselves ready to act on whatever orders he flung their way.

At a quarter to twelve, he headed for the Bastion Club.

Climbing the stairs to the first floor, he heard Jack, already in the meeting room, questioning, clearly intrigued by the club and its genesis. He pricked up his ears as other voices answered—Christian, Charles, and Tristan were there, regaling Jack with the benefits of the club, especially as applied to unmarried gentlemen of their ilk.

“I’m already leg-shackled,” Jack confessed, as Tony appeared in the doorway.

“To a spitfire, what’s more.” Tony entered, smiling.

Jack raised his wineglass. “I’ll tell her you said that.”

“Do.” Unperturbed, Tony took a seat opposite and grinned at Jack. “She’ll forgive me.”

Jack mock-scowled. “I’m not so silly as to encourage her.”

Quick footsteps on the stairs heralded Gervase. He strode in quickly, brown curls windblown, the light of the hunt in his eyes. Every man about the table recognized the signs.

Christian, Charles, and Tristan exchanged glances. Christian made as if to rise. “We’ll leave you…”

Tony waved him back. “If you have the time, I’d value any insight you might have on these matters. For our sins, we’re all sufficiently connected with Dalziel, and Jack worked for Whitley.”

Gervase drew out a chair and sat. “Right, then.” He looked at Tony. “Who do you want to hear from first?”

“Jack’s been checking the specific ships.” Tony looked across the table. “Let’s start there.”

Jack nodded. “I concentrated on the sixteen vessels listed in Ruskin’s notes that we know were taken. Thus far, I’ve only been able to get a general picture of their cargoes—asking too many specific questions would attract too much interest.”

“Were they carrying anything in common?” Christian asked.

“Yes, and no. I’ve got word on six of the sixteen, and each was carrying general cargo—furniture, foodstuffs, raw products. No evidence of any peculiar item common to all ships.”

“Six,” Tony mused. “If there’s nothing in common between six, then chances are that’s not the distinguishing factor.”

Jack hesitated, then went on, “All the ships are still registered—there’s no hint of any insurance fraud. On top of that, all the ships I’ve got information on were owned by various lines, their cargoes by a variety of merchants. There’s no common link.”

Tony frowned. “But if you think of what’s lost when a ship is taken as a prize, rather than sunk…” He met Jack’s eyes. “The lines buy back their ships—it’s the cargo that’s lost irretrievably.”

“To this side of the Channel.” Charles looked at Jack.

“But aren’t cargoes insured?”

His gaze locked with Tony’s, Jack shook his head. “Not in such circumstances. Cargoes are insured against loss through the vessel being lost, but they aren’t covered if the goods are seized during wartime.”

“So it’s considered a loss through an act of war?” Tristan asked.

Jack nodded. “The cargoes would be lost, but there’d be no claim to worry the denizens of Lloyd’s Coffee House, no fuss perturbing any of the major guilds like the shipowners.”

“And if the merchants were unconnected individuals, and the losses varied and apparently random…”Tony paused, frowning. “Who would that benefit?”

None of them could offer an answer.

“We need more information.” Tony looked at Gervase.

Who smiled grimly. “It took a bit of persuasion, but I heard three separate tales from three unconnected individuals of ‘special commissions’ being offered in the Channel Isles. The contacts were all English, and all were miffed that these ‘commissions’ were being offered solely to, not specifically French, but only to non-English captains.”

Gervase exchanged a glance with Tony. “You know what the sailors in and about the Isles are like—they consider themselves a law unto themselves, and largely that’s true. It never was clear where they stood in recent times.”

Tony humphed. “My reading is that they’re for themselves, regardless.”

“Indeed,” Charles put in. “But I assume the links between our shores and the Isles, and the Isles and Brittany and Normandy continued to operate throughout the war?”

“Oh, yes.” Both Tony and Gervase nodded; Jack, too.

“Located as they are…” Jack shrugged. “It would be wonderful were they not the haunt of ‘independent captains.’”

Tony turned to Gervase. “Did you get any confirmation on those particular ships?”

Gervase shook his head. “None of my contacts had information on specific ships—they’d never been in the running for those ‘special commissions’ and it seems whoever was making the offer played his cards very close to his chest.”

Tony grimaced. “I could go over and scout about, but…”

Jack shook his head. “Aside from all else, there’d be more than a few who might remember one Antoine Balzac, and that not fondly.”

Tony raised his brows fleetingly. “There is that.” He reached into his pocket. “Which brings us to my discovery, which makes me even less inclined to go fossicking on foreign shores.”

He tossed the bundle of letters on the table; the others’ eyes locked on them. “Yesterday, a greasy-looking clerk in dusty black called at Mrs. Alicia Carrington’s house in Waverton Street while she and her sister were in the park, as might have been predicted, the hour being what it was. Said clerk insisted on waiting, and was shown into the parlor, but when Mrs. Carrington returned home, no sign of this clerk could be found.

“Later, when I searched the parlor, I found these, wedged behind books in a corner bookshelf.”

The others all glanced at him, then reached for the letters. Their faces grew more and more impassive as they read each, passing them around the table. Finally, when all five letters had been tossed back on the table, Christian leaned forward and looked at Tony. “Tell me why Mrs. Alicia Carrington cannot be A. C.”

Tony didn’t bridle; Christian was playing devil’s advocate. “She’s been married just less than two years—before that, she was Alicia Pevensey, and that’s been checked.” He gestured at the letters. “All five of these were written while she would still have been A. P.”

Christian nodded. “Her husband—what was his name?”

“Alfred.” Tony didn’t like pretending Alfred Carrington had ever existed, but life would be easier if he stuck to Alicia’s fabrication. “But he died nearly two years ago, so he wasn’t the A. C. who was continuing to seek and buy information from Ruskin. Further, the Carrington family have no connections through which they might have used such information, nor wealth enough to have played A. C.’s game. The payments, the system, are consistent throughout—we’re looking for one man, A. C., who’s very much alive.”

“And up to no good, what’s more.” Charles flicked one of the letters. “I don’t like this.”

Tony let a moment elapse, then softly said, “No more do I.”

After a moment, he went on, “However, the letters confirm that the track we’re pursuing is correct. They show A. C. did engage French naval captains and French privateers to capture ships, presumably using information Ruskin supplied.” He added his knowledge of the Frenchmen involved.

“Stop a minute.” Tristan said. “What have we got so far? How could a scheme based on what we’ve surmised work?”

They tossed around scenarios, pooling their experience to approve some suggestions as possible, discounting others.

“All right,” Tony eventually said. “This seems the most likely then: Ruskin supplied information on convoys, especially when and where certain ships would leave a convoy to turn aside to their home ports.”

Charles nodded. “That, and also when frigates were called off convoy duty to serve with the fleets—in other words when merchantmen would be sailing essentially unprotected.”

“The merchantmen would have made a good show”— Jack looked increasingly grim—“but against an enemy frigate, they’d stand little chance.”

“So, armed with said knowledge, A. C. arranges for a foreign captain to pick off a specific merchantman. Once the deed was done, and Ruskin’s information proved good, A. C. paid him, and both he and A. C. went home happy.” Tony grimaced. “We need to work out why A. C. was so keen on removing specific merchantmen, thus preventing their cargoes from reaching London.”

He looked at Jack, who nodded. “We need the specifics of the cargoes, not just the general description. The only way to access those details after all this time is via Lloyd’s—they always keep records.”

“Can you learn what we need without alerting anyone?” Tony held Jack’s gaze. “We have no idea who A. C. might be, nor yet what contacts he might have.”

Jack shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on asking anyone— I know where the records are kept. No reason I can’t drop by late one night and take a look.”

Charles grinned. “A man after our collective heart— are you sure you don’t want to join the club?”

Jack answered with a brief grin. “I have my hands full just at present.”

“How long will it take you to gather what we need?” Tony asked.

Jack considered. “Two days. I’ll need to scout things out before I go in. Wouldn’t do to get caught.”

“No, indeed.” Christian looked at Tony. “This business of those letters planted in Mrs. Carrington’s parlor more than worries me. Whoever A. C. is, he’s blackguard enough to happily deflect blame onto an innocent lady, without regard for the damage to her—”

Heavy thuds fell on the front door, reverberating up to the meeting room.

They all froze, waited…

The door downstairs opened; voices were heard, then footsteps, not precisely running but hurrying, came up the stairs.

Gasthorpe, the club’s majordomo, appeared in the doorway. “Your pardon, my lords.” He looked at Tony. “My lord, a footman has arrived with an urgent summons.”

Tony was already rising. “Waverton Street?”

“Indeed, my lord. The authorities have descended.”