A Gentleman's Honor

EIGHTEEN

“TAKE CARE!”

In the crush of Lady Carmody’s ballroom, Alicia watched Kit lecture her handsome husband, then she turned on Tony, standing beside Alicia.

“And you, too. I suppose I feel responsible after pulling you out of the water all those years ago, but regardless, I would prefer not to have to come to some dockside Watch House and explain to the interested who you both are.”

Tony raised his brows. “If we’re caught, it’ll be your husband’s fault—I haven’t been retired as long as he.”

From the look on Kit’s face, she didn’t know whether to take umbrage on Jack’s behalf or be more worried still. When no eruption ensued, Jack, behind her, glanced around at her face. Sliding his arm around her, he hugged her. “Stop worrying. I’ll—we’ll—be perfectly safe.”

Alicia turned to Tony. She fixed him with her most severe look, the one guaranteed instantly to wring the truth from her brothers. “Is he speaking the truth? Will you be all right?”

Tony smiled; lifting her hand, he pressed a warm kiss into her palm. “There’s no danger to speak of. Lloyd’s is just a coffeehouse—easy pickings.”

She wasn’t entirely convinced and let it show; his smile deepened.

Glancing around at the jostling throng, at the many gentlemen moving through its ranks, looking over the available ladies, he murmured, “I’m more concerned about you. Geoffrey will stay close, and Tristan and Leonora will meet you at the Hammonds’, then Geoffrey will see you home.” He met her gaze. “You face more danger than I.” He added, pointedly, “Take care.”

It was her turn to smile. “If worse comes to worst, I can always claim Sir Freddie’s arm.” And perhaps divert him from Adriana’s side; the baronet remained assiduously attentive despite Adriana’s hints.

Tony grimaced. Jack tapped him on the shoulder; he looked around.

“We’d better go.” With a nod, Jack took his leave of her.

Tony’s eyes returned to hers, lingered, then he released her hand and turned. With Jack, he moved into the crowd. They were taller than most, yet in seconds, neither Kit nor she could see them.

“Humph!” Kit pulled a face, and linked her arm in Alicia’s. “We’ve been deserted.” Surveying Adriana’s circle, she set her chin. “This is far too tame—come on.” She set off into the crowd, drawing Alicia with her. “Let’s find some useful distraction. I don’t know about you, but without it, I’ll go mad.”

Alicia laughed, and let herself be towed into the melée.

Gaining access to the records they sought wasn’t quite as easy as Tony had painted it, yet soon enough he and Jack were flicking through files in the offices above the coffee house, searching for, then poring over the bills of lading lodged for the other ten ships Ruskin had identified and which were subsequently taken.

While he worked, Tony’s mind revisited their logic, their strategies. “The connection had better not be through Lloyd’s itself.”

“Unlikely,” Jack answered from across the room. “As far as I know, they’ve never handled tea.”

Half an hour later, Tony wondered aloud, “In all of this”—he waved at the cabinets ringing the room—“do you think there’s any chance of identifying ships that docked with cargoes of tea or coffee say in the week before one that was taken?”

Jack looked up, then shook his head. “Needle in a haystack. Virtually every ship that passes through the Port of London will have a waybill in here. That’s often hundreds a day. We’d never be able to check enough to identify the ship we want.”

He resumed his searching. “Mind you, we will be able to confirm the link once we know the merchant and his shipping line.”

Tony nodded, and continued flipping through files.

It took them two hours to locate and examine the ten waybills. Then they quietly put the room to rights, eradicating any sign of their visit, and silently retreated from the room and the building.

By the time Tony reached Upper Brook Street, Mayfair was silent, the streets dark with shadows. Miranda, Adriana, and Alicia would have returned home long ago. They should all be asleep in their beds.

Closing the front door, he shot the well-oiled bolts, then crossed the hall. There was no lamp or candle left burning; Hungerford knew him better than that. Quite aside from his excellent night vision, he knew this house like the back of his hand, knew every creak in the stairs, every board that might groan.

At the top of the stairs, he turned away from the gallery leading to the east wing where Miranda, her daughters, and Adriana had their rooms, and headed for the room Alicia had been given, three doors from the master suite. Hand on the doorknob, he paused, struck by a sudden thought.

How had Mrs. Swithins known…?

The answer was obvious. He really was that transparent.

Grimacing, he turned the knob.

Alicia was in bed, but not asleep. Cocooned beneath the luxurious embroidered silk coverlet, silk sheets sliding seductively over her skin, she’d been waiting for the past hour, waiting to at least hear Tony’s footsteps, passing her door…or not, as the case might be.

Unable to sleep, made edgy by her own expectation— that he would come to her, that she wanted him to, even needed him to—an expectation she found somewhat damning—she was after all in his house, an old aristocratic mansion, yet while that fact might inhibit her, she doubted it would influence him—she had forcibly turned her mind to reviewing the day. A long day in which much had happened, and much had changed.

So easily.

That more than anything else, the ease with which the changes had been wrought, the ease with which she’d simply flowed into the position he’d created for her, niggled. In some odd way seemed to mock her. Everything had fallen into place so smoothly, she was still struggling to come to grips with the ramifications. As if he’d once more swept her off her feet, and her head had yet to stop whirling.

Not, for her, an uncommon feeling where he was concerned.

It wasn’t that she wished things were otherwise; she couldn’t convincingly argue against the move, not even to herself. But the uncertainty, the lack of clarity regarding her position here—the lack of sureness made it impossible to feel confident, at ease…

She never heard his footsteps; only a faint draft alerted her to the opening door. He was no more than a dark shadow slipping through; she recognized him instantly.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness; watching him cross the wide room toward her, she searched his face, all she could see of him, but could detect not even a limp. Kit’s worry had infected her, yet here he was unscathed, moving with his usual fluid grace toward the bed.

He stopped by a chair and sat, reaching down to pull off his boots. She sat up, wriggling in the sheets onto her side; he heard the shushing and glanced across, smiled a touch wearily.

“Did you find the lists? From the other ships?”

He nodded. Setting his boots aside, he stood, stretched.

“We found all ten—your theory was right. It’s tea and coffee that’s the link.”

He lowered his arms, weary tension falling from him.

She watched him undress—coat, cravat, waistcoat, and shirt hit the chair. Realizing her mouth was dry, she swallowed, forced her gaze to his face. “So now we have to look for the merchant.”

He nodded, looking down, bending down as he stripped off his trousers. “With all of us involved, that won’t take long.” Straightening, he grimaced. “Maybe a week.” He flung the trousers at the chair, then turned to the bed.

Her pulse leapt. “So we’re one step away from identifying A. C?”

“One step.” Lifting the covers, he slid in beside her. Dropping them, he turned to her. Framed her face with his hands and kissed her.

Deeply, thoroughly, druggingly… until she was swept away, her mind whirling on a sensual tide.

Leaving one hand cupping her jaw, with the other Tony reached down and tugged the sheet from between them, then settled his body against hers. Letting the sheets fall, he plundered her soft mouth while with his palm he traced the long, smooth curve from her shoulder, over the supple planes of her back to the swell of her bottom, molding her to him, easing her beneath him, spurred by the realization that her skin was already warm, by the immediate leap of her pulse to the caress, the dewed flush that spread over the silken skin of her bottom, the evidence of her arousal he discovered when he pressed his hand down between them, slid his fingers between her thighs, and found her.

Ready, waiting, urgent for him.

He pressed her back into the bed, parted her thighs with his and filled her, surged slowly into her, taking his time, glorying in the ease with which he could forge in, in the way she tilted her hips and took him deep, to the fluid harmony with which they then moved, sliding into the dance their bodies now knew so well.

A different dance to any he’d enjoyed with any other woman.

Mouths melded, tongues tangling, hot yet languid, their bodies moved, merged, flexed to a rhythm that held a deeper tune, a more powerful cadence.

A heady, dizzying delight, a pleasure that soared higher and reached deeper, that slid past their slick skins, through muscle and bone, past straining sinews and tightening nerves to their cores. To touch, sink into, and hold something there.

Something precious, fragile, yet strong enough to fuse their hearts.

He sensed it before they’d even started to scale the peak. Their bodies held, thrummed with, a driving urgency, yet they had the strength to dally—neither was in any rush, delighting instead in every small touch, each delicate caress.

Slowly, powerfully, he rode her, feeling her body surrender and take him in, feeling the heat of her draw him deeper, tempting him further into her fire. He went, but kept the reins firmly in his hands, as always orchestrating the moment; after all these years, pleasuring women was all but second nature.

Gradually, the tempo built. Beneath him, her body rose, meeting his, matching his, urging him on. Her fingers, on his back, tensed, nails lightly scoring. Without easing the steadily escalating rhythm, he drew back from the kiss, through the dimness studied her face; her eyes were closed, her lips swollen and parted, telltale concentration etched in every line.

He thrust deeper, harder, and she gasped, her body arching greedily under his.

Lifting his shoulders a fraction farther, enough to appreciate the way her body, all sumptuous curves and hot flushed skin, undulated with each thrust, absorbed each forceful penetration as he rode her, filled her, he watched as he pushed her step by slow step closer to sensual fulfillment.

He felt the tension inside her coil, felt her tighten beneath him, her thighs gripping his flanks as release flickered and beckoned. Her ragged breathing filled his ears, a softer sound overlaying his own raspy breaths.

She reached for him, tried to pull him down to her.

Without breaking their rhythm, he shifted his hips, pressing more intimately between hers, then thrust deeper still, harder still.

She gasped, tugged, but the sight of her held him. Eventually lifting his gaze to her face, he saw the glimmer of her eyes beneath her lashes.

Alicia studied his face, licked her lips, felt her world teeter. She was so close to that joyous edge, yet, as always since that first engagement, no matter how desperate the moment, he held to his control, waiting, watching, certain to follow her, yet still…

“Come with me.” She struggled to find breath enough to add, “Now.”

His black eyes, until then hooded, opened wide— enough for her to realize she’d asked something no other ever had.

Her nerves shivered, started to unravel. Dragging in a breath, she lifted a hand to his face, traced his cheek. “Be with me. Please.”

She wasn’t sure how, but she knew what she wanted. Needed.

He knew, too. He gave a shuddering sigh; the tension rippling through him increased, hardening his body as it rode against hers, thrust into hers.

Their gazes remained locked. He shifted his weight, freed a hand, held it open close by her head. “Give me your hand.”

She did, shifting her hand from his face, watching as he interdigitated his fingers with hers, then closed them, locking their palms. Then he pressed their linked hands into the pillow.

“Wrap your legs about my waist.”

She could barely make out the gravelly command. The silk sheets caressed her skin as she complied, then gasped as he shifted fully over her and drove deep. Her spine bowed, but his weight pinned her, held her down as his hips flexed in a faster, more urgent, more compulsive rhythm.

For an instant, gasping and breathless, she rode it, then she felt his eyes on her face, met his black gaze, once again screened. Felt the flames inside rise, coalesce, fuse to an inferno.

He lowered his head, drove into her harder, faster, more powerfully.

“Now.” He breathed the word against her lips, then took them, took her mouth as the conflagration roared— and caught them. Overwhelmed them. Consumed them.

As one. Together, as she’d asked.

Tony felt the reins he’d released whip away, sensed them cinder, all control sundered and gone. For only the second time in his life, he plunged into the heart of that familiar fire with a woman, by her side. Her hand was his anchor; he clung to it as her body tightened beneath his, closed powerfully around his, hot, scalding, driving him on, taking him with her into the world beyond the flames, into the pleasure of sexual satiation.

If she wished, so he would; they whirled, joined more intimately than he’d ever been with any other, not just their bodies but their awarenesses fused, experiencing together, simultaneously soaring. Higher, then yet higher.

Until they were both gasping, bodies locked and straining. Until they were there, twined together at the peak.

Until they fell, hearts thundering, senses merged, glory pouring through them. Souls as one.

She was his. Totally, completely, beyond recall.

The words drifted of their own volition across Alicia’s brain.

Her body, trapped beneath his, thighs vulnerably wide with him buried so deep inside her, was no longer hers.

Her lips curved in sleepy satisfaction. No matter her thoughts, her will, her determination, logic had no place here. Despite all uncertainty, despite the nebulous unease that even now she could sense, a fog hovering just beyond the bed, even now, despite all, her heart rejoiced.

Lifting the hand he hadn’t claimed, she laid it on his hair, then gently stroked. Let her fingers play among the silky strands.

Let her emotions have their way.

Let them well, and fill her mind, fill her throat and her chest, fill her heart, and overflow. Let them slide through her veins and sink into her flesh, a part of her, forever.

He lay heavy upon her; she delighted in his weight. Within her, the warmth of his seed radiated a glow of deep and abiding pleasure. She’d given him all she was; tonight, he’d taken, claimed, but when she’d wanted and needed, he had surrendered and given, too.

No matter what else the days might bring, tonight, he’d been with her.

As totally hers as she’d been his.

The gentle tangling of Alicia’s fingers in his hair drew Tony back to earth. To a world that was almost as wonderful as the one they’d visited; her body was a sensual cushion beneath him, her breasts beneath his chest, her hips and thighs cradling his, their bodies still intimately joined.

He was more comfortable than he’d ever thought to be, not just in body but on all other levels. Physically, mentally, emotionally, he was at peace, at home in her arms. Where he was meant to be.

His satisfaction was so profound it was frightening. It lay like a golden sea about him, deep, timeless, ageless, weighing on his limbs, soothing his mind, infinitely precious.

Eyes closed, he savored it, held it, let its waves lap about him—and tried not to think of ever losing it.

Eventually, he felt forced to stir, to draw back from that contented sea. Lifting from Alicia, he ignored her sleepy protest; she seemed as addicted to the moment as he. Settling beside her, he drew her to him, against him, brushing aside her long hair so he could see her face. He looked into her eyes, shadowed pools, mysterious in the night.

Marry me tomorrow.

The words burned his tongue; all the reasons he shouldn’t say them—not yet—doused them. Instead, bending his head, he touched his lips to hers, and spoke from his heart.

“Je t’aime.” He breathed the words across her lips; closing his eyes, he tasted them. “Je t’adore.”

He wasn’t even conscious of speaking in French; it had always been the language of love to him.

She touched his cheek, returned his kiss, soft, clinging.

Their lips parted; he drew breath, softly asked, “Is everything here as you wish? If there’s anything you need—”

She stopped him, laying her fingers across his lips. “There’s nothing—everything’s perfect.” She hesitated, then added, “I like your house.”

They were speaking in whispers, as if not to disturb the blanket of shared pleasure that still surrounded them. It was the deepest part of the night, the small hours of the morning, yet neither was sleepy. Sated, content, they lay in each other’s arms, limbs tangled, hands occasionally touching, brushing, stroking.

Time drifted, and with it the tide of their loving. It slowly turned. Returned. Alicia didn’t think, but simply flowed with it, knew he did the same.

Effortless. Their communication in that moment needed no words, no careful phrases. It was carried by their hands, their lips, mouths, tongues, every square inch of their bodies.

They moved over and around, worshipping, first one, then the other. Pleasure bloomed, ecstasy blossomed.

He opened her eyes to pleasures she hadn’t imagined, sensual delights beyond her ken. In turn, she set aside her inhibitions and let instinct and his guttural murmurs of appreciation guide her.

When at last they joined and again crested the final peak, and found the now-familiar splendor waiting, they were again together, senses open yet wholly merged, deliberately and completely one.

Later, when they lay spent, exhausted, in each other’s arms, Alicia heard his words echo in her mind. I love you. I adore you.

She wondered if he’d understood her reply.

Tony sank toward sleep, sated to his toes, his mind unfocused. Thoughts drifted, melted into the fogs as they closed in.

He’d told her he loved her, had said the words aloud. He’d surprised himself; he’d always imagined they would be so hard to say.

They’d slipped out, almost without conscious direction, a statement of fact with which he had no argument.

So easy. Now all that remained was to organize their wedding.

They were one step away from identifying A. C. One step away from being free to face their future, to give it their full and undivided attention.

If he had his way—and he was determined he would— the next time they indulged as they just had, they would be in his big bed at Torrington Chase, and Alicia would be his wife.

The following days passed in a frenzy of activity—social commitments on the one hand, covert investigation on the other.

To Alicia’s relief, the staff at Torrington House truly were, as Tony had told her, delighted to have three boys rampaging through the house. Once she realized how safe, secure, and cared for the boys now were, with so many benevolently watchful eyes on them, she relaxed her vigilance—one item she didn’t need to worry over.

She had plenty of others on her plate.

One was a lovers’ spat between Adriana and Geoffrey. It blew over in twenty-four hours, but left Alicia, the recipient of both principals’ outpourings, feeling battered. The event precipitated the long-desired meeting between Geoffrey, Adriana, and herself. She and Adriana made their financial situation crystal clear; Geoffrey looked at them as if they were mad, and then asked why they’d thought he would care. Without waiting for an answer, he formally offered for Adriana’s hand. Adriana, somewhat stunned by his unwavering singlemindedness, accepted him.

Alicia retired, pleased, relieved, but wrung out. They all agreed that any announcement should wait until Geoffrey had written to his mother in Devon and taken Adriana to meet her. On all other counts, Alicia felt justified in leaving them to plan their own future.

When, later that night, she regaled Tony with a description of the meeting, he laughed, amused. Later still, when she was lying sated and warm in his arms, he murmured, “Did you tell him you weren’t a widow?”

“No.” He sounded serious; she glanced up. “Should I have?”

He was fiddling with a lock of her hair; he met her gaze, after a moment, replied, “There’s no need to tell anyone, not anymore. It doesn’t concern anyone but you and me.”

She considered, then resettled her cheek on his chest. She listened to his heart beating strongly, steadily, and told herself all was well.

Only it wasn’t.

It took her until her fourth day in Torrington House to realize what was wrong, what was increasingly troubling her, converting nebulous unease into a more tangible fear.

In addition to Hungerford’s delight at her presence, the open acceptance by the grandes dames and hostesses of her sojourn in Upper Brook Street had allayed her concerns on one score. Contrary to her beliefs, it clearly was acceptable for a nobleman’s mistress to reside openly under his roof, in certain circumstances. She assumed the ameliorating circumstances included that she was a fashionable widow of whom society approved, that Miranda was present, and that A. C. had attempted to use her as his scapegoat.

Regardless, her initial fears on that point had proved groundless; society took her relocation in its stride. So did everyone else—except her.

Only she was having difficulties, and that in a way she hadn’t foreseen. At first, when Miranda had consulted her over this and that, deferring to her suggestions on the menus, the maids, the day-to-day decisions of managing the large household, she’d assumed Miranda was merely trying to ensure she felt at home.

But on the third morning, Miranda threw up her hands. “Oh, stuff and nonsense—this is all so silly. You’re hardly an innocent miss with no experience. Here”—she thrust the menus at her—“it’s only right and proper you should be handling this, and you don’t need my help.”

With a brilliant smile, Miranda rose, swung her skirts about, and left her to deal with Mrs. Swithins alone. Which, after swallowing her amazement, she did; it was transparent Mrs. Swithins fully expected her to.

From that point, the servants openly deferred to her. From that minute she became, in all reality bar the legal fact, the lady of Torrington House.

Tony’s wife.

It was a position she’d never thought to fill; now, she found herself living it. Bad enough. The associated development that transformed the situation into a deeply disturbing, unsettling experience was something she not only hadn’t foreseen, but hadn’t even dreamed of.

On the fourth morning, the truth hit her like a slap.

Since she’d moved into his house, Tony left her bed only minutes before the maids started their rounds. That morning, she rose from her disarranged couch, only to feel the dragging effects of real tiredness. The first weeks of the Season were packed with entertainments, morning, noon, and night; she, Adriana, and Miranda had attended six events the day before.

When Bertha appeared, she retreated to the bed, and let the little maid tidy away her evening gown. “We’ve a luncheon at two o’clock—I’ll dress for that, but now I’m going to rest. Please tell Mrs. Althorpe and my sister that I’m still sleeping.” If they had any sense, they’d be doing the same.

Bertha murmured sympathetically, efficiently tidied, then with a last whispered inquiry if she wished for anything else, which Alicia denied, the maid whisked out.

Left in blissful peace, Alicia snuggled down, closed her eyes. She expected to fall asleep, there was after all no urgent matter awaiting her attention, nothing she need worry about…

Her mind emptied, cleared—and the truth was suddenly there, abruptly revealed, rock-solid and absolute. Inescapable and undeniable.

Being the lady of Torrington House was the future her heart truly craved.

The revelation rocked her.

Lying back in the bed, she stared up at the silk canopy and tried to understand. Herself. How, why… when had she changed?

The answers trickled into her mind. She hadn’t changed, but never before had she allowed herself to think of what she wanted for her own life; she’d spent her life organizing the lives of others, and had deliberately spared no thought for her own. Intentional self-blindness; she knew why she’d done it—it had been easier that way. The wrench of sacrificing dreams… one never had to face that deadening choice if one never allowed oneself to dream at all.

Looking back at her younger self, to when she’d made that decision… she’d done it to protect her heart against the harsh reality she, even in her relative naïveté, had foreseen. But she was no longer that naive young girl trembling, trepidatious and alone, on the threshold of womanhood, weighed down by responsibilites and cares.

She hadn’t changed so much as grown. She was now experienced, assured. Her own actions in formulating and successfully carrying out her plan, and all that had flowed through her association with Tony, had opened her eyes, not just to what might be, but even more powerfully to who she was and what lay within her. Her own strengths, her own will, her abilities.

Beneath all ran a belief, a conviction, in her right to her own life—and a determination, quiet, until now unrecognized and unstated but definitely there, to seize what she wanted.

With the position of Tony’s wife hers in all but name… the role fitted her like a glove, soothed her by its rightness, fulfilled some deep-seated yearning, an unrealized but essential, fundamental part of her.

That was what she wanted.

Her breath caught; a vise tightened about her heart. Her determination didn’t waver.

Yet she was his mistress, not his wife.

He’d said he loved her. Her French was not good— she’d never had time to do more than learn the rudiments; he often murmured phrases during their lovemaking that she couldn’t make out, yet she felt confident she hadn’t misheard or mistaken those particular words.

She even believed them, or at least believed that he believed them.

What he meant by them was another matter.

Marriage had never been part of their arrangement. Just because she now yearned for it, wanted it—and not just because he got along so well with her brothers and had the wherewithal and character to guide and support them precisely as she’d always wished—just because she now realized that marrying him would satisfy every dream she’d never allowed herself to have, she couldn’t now turn back the clock.

Couldn’t now expect him to think in those terms just because her eyes had been opened. Shouldn’t be so naive as to read too much into a simple declaration of love. Pretending to herself would be the ultimate folly, the ultimate way to break her heart.

When Bertha returned at one o’clock, she rose, washed, and dressed. Calmly serene, she went downstairs and threw herself into the social round.

A note arrived from Christian Allardyce just as Tony was about to embark on another round of balls and parties at Alicia’s side. Also gathered in his front hall waiting for the coach to be brought around were Adriana, Geoffrey, and Miranda. Lady Castlereagh’s was to be their first port of call.

Tony scanned the note. Christian wrote to suggest they should meet at the Bastion Club to review progress. Tony surmised that the others—Christian, Charles, Tristan, Gervase, Jack Warnefleet, and even Jack Hendon—were keen to use the investigation as an excuse to avoid their social obligations.

Even with Alicia’s presence as reward, he, too, felt the temptation. For men of their ilk, balls were boring, pointless, and severely drained their never very deep reserves of civility. They’d spent the last decade avoiding fools— why change their ways now?

Noting Alicia, beside him, watching him, he handed her the note. While she read it, he glanced at Geoffrey. If it hadn’t been for the little chat they’d had that afternoon, he’d be irritated by Geoffrey’s and Adriana’s total absorption in the how and where of their nuptials; luckily, Geoffrey had had no argument with his assertion that he and Alicia should marry first, even if by no more than a week.

Given the way Geoffrey was watching over Adriana, as if determined now he’d won her no other would get close, it was clear he, at least, would resist the lure of the investigation.

Tony turned to Alicia as she looked up from the note.

“Are you going?”

He looked into her green eyes, hesitated. “If you would prefer I escort you to the balls tonight, I can put off the meeting until tomorrow.”

She looked at him steadily; he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Then she glanced down at the note. “But that would mean actions that could be instigated tomorrow if you met tonight would be delayed, wouldn’t it?”

She looked up again. He nodded. Put like that, it was almost incumbent upon him to leave her to Geoffrey’s care and devote his attention to unmasking A. C. Still he hesitated, not liking the fact he couldn’t follow her thoughts, or see her feelings in her eyes. He usually could. “Are you sure? Geoffrey will stay with you—”

She smiled, confident, and assured. “Yes, of course. Indeed, I’m sure we’re starting to be the butt of comments about being forever in each other’s pockets.” Turning to Miranda, she caught her eye. “Tony’s been called away— I’m assuring him we’ll be perfectly happy with just Geoffrey as escort.”

“Oh, indeed!” Miranda flicked her hand at him. “Go, go!” She grinned, a devilish light in her eye. “I assure you Alicia and I will be excellently well entertained.”

She meant it in purely teasing vein, yet the barb slipped under Tony’s guard and pricked. He glanced at Alicia; turning to him, she gave him her hand.

“I’ll bid you a good night, then. I daresay we’ll be home long before you get back.” She raised her gaze to his face, but not as far as his eyes.

A sudden chill touched him.

Having heard his name and ascertained from Miranda what was going on, Geoffrey turned to him. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring them all safely back at the end of Lady Selkirk’s affair.” Meeting Tony’s gaze, he quietly added,

“Send word tomorrow morning if there’s anything I can help with.”

Tony nodded. He released Alicia’s hand to shake Geoffrey’s. When he looked back, he found she’d turned away and was embroiled in a discussion with Adriana.

There seemed no reason to dally. “I’ll leave you, then.” He made the comment general; with a single nod for everyone, he headed for the door.

What he learned at the club drove all other thoughts temporarily from his mind.

“We’ve narrowed the field to three possibilities.” As he’d suggested, Christian had acted as a central contact, compiling and disseminating information as the others brought it in. They’d all been involved, but in order to keep things moving, they’d simply reported, then got on with the next task, and left Christian to make sense of the whole. This was the first time they’d all gathered since the meeting in Tony’s library—the first time they’d heard the results to date.

“Between them, Jack”—Christian nodded at Jack Warnefleet—“and Tristan came up with a list of tea and coffee merchants they’ve since verified as exhaustive.”

“Can one ask how?” Charles asked.

Jack Warnefleet grinned. “Not if you want details. But I’m sure those merchants would be amazed at how much their wives, especially their competitors’ wives, know.”

“Ah!” Charles turned a limpid glance on Tristan.

Who smiled. “I left that endeavor to Jack. My contribution was verifying the information via the appropriate guilds. By a sleight of argument, I convinced the guild secretaries that I needed to examine their registers for cases of accidental cross-listings, where coffee merchants had been listed as tea merchants, and vice versa.”

“Which naturally left you with a list of those who were both. Very nice.” Charles looked back up the table.

“The list comprised twenty-three companies,” Christian continued. “We eliminated those we know lost cargoes, assuming no merchant is going to send a precious cargo to France just to cover his tracks. That took twelve names out—some of the sixteen ships carried cargoes for the same merchant.”

“Poor beggars,” Jack Hendon said. “Knowing how close some of them sail to the wind, I’d be surprised if none have gone bankrupt.”

“Some have,” Gervase answered. “Yet more damage to add to A. C.’s account.”

Tony stirred. “So that left us with eleven companies.”

Christian nodded. “Courtesy of you all and your chameleon like talents, passing yourselves off as potential coffee-shop proprietors and the like, not to mention your ability to tell barefaced lies, by focusing on who had stock after the last A. C.-induced shortage, we’ve ended with three names—three merchants. All had stock to sell

when the price last soared, and even though that incident was nearly a year ago, we have enough corroboration to conclude that only those three had stock to sell at that time.”

A general hubbub ensued, centering on whether there was any easy way to narrow the list further.

Tony didn’t contribute; reaching out, he took the sheet lying in front of Christian and read the names. “So,” his voice fell into the lull as the prospect of a simple next step faded, “A. C. is associated with one of these three.”

“Yes, but,” Christian stressed, “two of the three are not involved. Given what we’ll need to do to ferret out a hidden partner, we need to be absolutely certain which of the three it is before we move in.”

Tony nodded. “If we get it wrong, we’ll alert A. C., and given his record in covering his tracks, all we’ll find is another corpse.”

Jack Warnefleet sat forward. “So how do we pinpoint the right merchant?”

“The right merchant landed cargoes before each prize was taken.” Tony looked across the table at Jack Hendon.

“You said once we had a merchant’s shipping line, we could verify the safe landing of A. C.’s cargo via the records at Lloyd’s. We have three merchants—if we learn which shipping lines they use, could we check all three lines for safe landings in the relevant weeks preceding each prize-taking, and check the cargoes landed?”

Jack held his gaze for a long moment, then asked, “How much time do we have?”

“By my calculation, not a lot. A. C.’s been quiet for nearly a week, but he must know we haven’t given up. He’ll try something else to deflect the investigation—he won’t succeed, but the faster we can conclude it, the better.” Tony paused, then added, “Who knows what he might do next?”

It was a point on which he tried not to speculate, yet it hovered in his mind, a constant threat. To Alicia, to him, to their future.

Jack was thinking, calculating—glancing around the table, he nodded. “Given our number, it’s possible. And it might be the best way. The first thing we need to learn is which shipping lines those three companies use, but to do that without alerting the companies, you’ll need to ask the shipping lines.”

“Can you do that?” Christian asked.

“Not me. As the owner of Hendon Shipping, the instant I start asking questions like that, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“No matter.” Charles shrugged. “You tell us what answers we need, and what questions will best elicit them, and leave it to us.”

“Right.”

“Easy enough.”

The others nodded. It was Tony who asked, “How many shipping lines are there?”

Jack met his gaze. “Seventy-three.”

When the others stopped groaning, Jack continued, “I’ll put a list together tonight—we can meet here first thing tomorrow. If we push, we should get the information by evening, and then”—he met Tony’s gaze again—“we’ll first need to get access to the shipping registers and get the ships’ names, then we’ll revisit Lloyd’s. We’ll be able to find the answer—which company A. C. is behind—there.”

Tony returned Jack’s gaze, then nodded. “Let’s do it.”