A Gentleman's Honor

THREE

HE REPAIRED TO THE BASTION CLUB.

With a sigh, he sank into a well-stuffed leather armchair in the library. “This place is a godsend.”

He exchanged a glance with Jack Warnefleet, ensconced in another chair reading an issue of The Sporting Life, savored a sip of his brandy, then settled his head against the padded leather and let his thoughts roam.

To his life—what it used to be, what it now was, most importantly what he wanted it to be. The past was behind him, finished, brought to a close at Waterloo. The present was a bridge, a transition between past and future, nothing more. As for the future….

What did he truly want?

His mind flashed on snippets of memory, a sense of warmth in company, of rare moments of closeness punctuating long years of being alone. Of camaraderie, a sense of shared purpose, a passion for life as well as justice.

Dalziel and his mention of Whitley had brought Jack Hendon to mind. The last he’d seen of Jack he’d been firmly caught in his lovely wife’s coils, trooping, gesticulating and protesting, at her dainty heels. A vision of Kit with their elder son in her arms, Jack hovering protectively over them both, swam through his mind. And stuck.

Jack and Kit were coming down to London this Season; they’d be here within a few days. It would be good to

see them again, not only to renew old friendships but to refresh his memory, to sense again how a successful marriage worked.

The restlessness that for a few hours had been in abeyance returned. Draining his glass, he set it aside and rose. With a nod to Jack, who returned a salute, he left the library and the club.

At that hour London’s streets were quiet, the last stragglers from the balls already at home while the more hardened cases were ensconced in their clubs, hells, and private salons for what was left of the night. Tony walked steadily, his strides long, his cane swinging. Despite his self-absorption, his senses remained alert, yet none of those hanging back in the shadows made any move to accost him.

Reaching his house in Upper Brook Street, he climbed the steps, fishing for his latch key. To his surprise, the door swung open.

Hungerford stood waiting to relieve him of his coat and cane. The hall lights were blazing. A footman stood to the side, still on duty.

“The gentleman who called this morning has returned, my lord. He insisted on waiting for your return. I’ve put him the library.”

“Dalziel?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

From Hungerford’s tone, it was clear that he, no more than Tony, was certain just who, or more correctly what, Dalziel was, other than someone it was unwise to disobey, let alone cross.

Tony headed for the library.

“The tantalus is well supplied. Do you require anything further, my lord?”

“No.” Tony paused and glanced back. “You and the staff can retire. I’ll see”—he’d been about to say his lordship; Dalziel was at the very least that—“the gentleman out.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Tony continued across the green-and-white tiles toward the library door. The hall was paneled in oak, an airy, high-ceilinged space…it was a night for memories. He could recall running here as a child, with a fire roaring in the hearth at the end, the dancing flames reflecting off the oak, a sense of warmth enveloping him.

Now the hall seemed… not cold, but it no longer held that encompassing warmth. It was empty, waiting for that time to come again, for that phase of life to return.

Hungerford and the footman had disappeared through the green baize door. Alone, Tony paused; with his hand on the knob of the library door, he looked around. Let his senses stretch farther than his eyes could see.

He was alone, and his house was empty. Like it, he was waiting. Waiting for the next phase of life to rush in and fill him, engage him.

Warm him.

For a moment he stood silent and still, then he shook off the mood and opened the door.

Dalziel was in an armchair facing the door, an almost empty brandy balloon in one long-fingered hand. His brows rose faintly; his lips curved, cynical and amused, in welcome.

Tony eyed the entire vision with a misgiving he made no attempt to hide; Dalziel’s smile only deepened.

“Well?” Crossing to the tantalus, Tony poured a small measure of brandy, more to have something to do than anything else. He raised the decanter to Dalziel, who shook his head. Replacing the decanter, picking up the glass, he crossed to the other armchair. “To what do I owe this…unexpected visit?”

They both knew it wouldn’t have anything to do with pleasure.

“We’ve worked together for a long time.”

Tony sat. “Thirteen years. But I work for the government no longer, so what has that to say to anything?”

Dalziel’s dark eyes held his. “Simply that there are matters I cannot use less experienced men for, and in this case your peculiar background makes you too ideal a candidate to overlook.”

“Bonaparte’s on St. Helena. The French are finished.”

Dalziel smiled. “Not that peculiar background. I have other half-French agents. I meant that you have experience of Whitley’s side of things, and you have a better-than-average grasp of the possibilities involved.”

“Involved in what?”

“Ruskin’s death.” Dalziel studied the amber lights in the glass he turned between his fingers. “Some disturbing items came to light when they started clearing the man’s desk. Jottings of shipping information derived from both Revenue and Admiralty documents. They appear to be scribbled notes for more formal communications.”

“Nothing in any way associated with his work?”

“No. He organized Customs clearances for merchantmen, hence his access to the internal Revenue and Admiralty notices. His job involved the dates of expected entry to our ports. The information jotted down relates to movement of ships in the Channel, especially its outermost reaches. There is no possible reason his job required such details.”

Dalziel paused, then added, “The most disturbing aspect is that these jottings span the years from 1812 to1815.”

“Ah.” As Dalziel had prophesied, Tony grasped the implication.

“Indeed. You now perceive why I’m here. Both I and Whitley are now extremely interested in learning who killed Ruskin, and most importantly why.”

Tony pondered, then looked at Dalziel, directly met his eyes. “Why me?” He could guess, but he wanted it confirmed.

“Because there is, as you’ve realized, the possibility that someone in Customs and Revenue, or the Home Office, or any of a multitude of government agencies is involved, in one capacity or another. It’s unlikely Ruskin could use the information himself, but someone knew he had access to it, and either made use of him themselves, or put someone else on to him. In either case, this nebulous someone might be in a position to know Whitley’s operatives. He won’t, however, know you.”

Dalziel paused, considering Tony. “The only connection you’ve had with Whitley’s crew was that operation you ran with Jonathon Hendon and George Smeaton. Both are now retired; both are sound. Despite Hendon’s background in shipping, he’s had no contact with Ruskin—and yes, I’ve checked. For the past several years, both Hendon and Smeaton have remained buried in Norfolk, and their only links in town are either purely social or purely commercial. Neither is a threat to you— and as I recall, no one else of Whitley’s crew ever knew who Antoine Balzac really was.”

Tony nodded. Antoine Balzac had been a large part of his past.

“On top of that, you found the body.” Dalziel met his gaze. “You are the epitome of an obvious choice.”

Tony grimaced and looked down, into his glass. It seemed as if the past was reaching out, trying to draw him back; he didn’t want to go. Yet all Dalziel said was true; he was the obvious choice…and Alicia Carrington was, at least peripherally, involved.

She wasn’t part of his past.

“All right.” He looked up. “I’ll nose around and see what connections I can turn up.”

Dalziel nodded and set his glass aside. “Ruskin worked at the main office of Customs and Revenue in Whitehall.” He gave details of the building, floor, and room. “I suggested that his papers, indeed, all his office be left as was. I gather that’s been done. Naturally, I’ve asked for no clearances. Let me know if you require any.”

Tony’s lips curved; he inclined his head. Both he and Dalziel knew he wouldn’t ask for clearances. He’d been an “unofficial agent” for too long.

“Ruskin lived in lodgings in Bury Street—Number 23. His home, Crawton Hall, is near Bledington in Gloucestershire, just over the border of north Oxfordshire, southwest of Chipping Norton, the nearest market town.”

Tony frowned, but his knowledge of England was nowhere near as detailed as his knowledge of France.

“Ruskin has a mother living, and an older spinster sister. They reside at Crawton Hall, and haven’t left it in decades. Ruskin spent but little time there in recent years. That’s what we know of him to date.”

“Odd habits?”

“None known—we’ll leave that to you. Obviously, we can’t afford any overt activity.”

“What about manner of death—any word from the surgeon?”

“I called Pringle in. According to him, Ruskin was knifed with the stiletto you found. Very professionally slipped between the ribs. Angle and point of entry suggest a right-handed assailant standing beside and a little behind his left side.”

They both could see how it was done.

“So.” Tony sipped. “A friend.”

“Certainly someone he in no way suspected of murderous intent.”

Such as a lady in a pale green silk gown.

Tony looked up. “Did Pringle give any guesses as to the murderer—size, strength, that sort of thing?”

Dalziel’s eyes, scanning his face, narrowed. “He did. A man almost certainly as tall as Ruskin and, of course, of reasonable strength.”

“How tall was Ruskin?”

“A trifle shorter than me. Half a head shorter than you.”

Tony hid his relief behind a grimace. “Not much help there. Any other clues?”

“No.” Dalziel stood, fluidly graceful.

Tony did the same, with even more innate flair.

Dalziel hid a grin and led the way to the door. “Let me know what you find. If I hear anything useful, I’ll send word.”

He paused as they reached the door and met Tony’s gaze. “If I do have anything to send, where should I send it?”

Tony considered, then said, “Here. Back door. My butler’s reliable, and the staff have been with me for years.”

Dalziel nodded. They stepped into the hall.

Tony saw Dalziel out and locked the front door, then returned to the library.

He went straight to one of the bookcases and crouched, scanning the spines, then he pulled out a large tome. Rising, he crossed to where the lamp on the desk threw a circle of stronger light. Opening the book—a collection of maps of England’s counties—he flicked through until he came to the pages showing Oxfordshire. He located Chipping Norton, and Banbury in the far north of the county.

It took a few minutes of flicking back and forth, comparing maps of Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and Warwickshire, before he had the geography straight. The only bit of Warwickshire “not far from Banbury” was also not far from Chipping Norton, and therefore, in turn, not far from Bledington.

Alicia Carrington’s home lay within ten miles of Ruskin’s.

Shutting the book, Tony stared across the room.

How likely was it, given the social round of county England that, living in such proximity, Alicia Carrington née Pevensey and Ruskin had never met?

The question suggested the answer. Ruskin hadn’t spent much time in Bledington recently, and despite telling him she and her sister hailed from the area, Alicia Carrington could well have meant their home was there now. The home she’d made with her husband; most likely she was referring to his house, not necessarily the area in which she and her family, the Pevenseys, had lived most of their lives. Of course.

He returned the book to the shelf, then headed for the door.

Of course, he’d check.

That, however, would have to come later. The first thing he needed to do, and that as soon as humanly possible, before any whisper of an internal investigation into Ruskin’s affairs could find its way to anyone, was search Ruskin’s office.

The Customs and Revenue Office in Whitehall was well guarded and externally secure, but for someone who knew how to approach it from within, down the long, intersecting corridors, it was much less impenetrable. Even better, Ruskin’s office was on the first floor at the back, and its small window faced a blank wall.

At four o’clock in the morning, the building was cold and silent. The porter was snoring in his office downstairs; lighting a lamp was safe enough.

Tony searched the desk, then the whole office methodically. He collected everything pertinent in the middle of the desk; when there was no more to discover, he transferred all he’d found to the deep pockets of his greatcoat.

Then he turned out the lamp, slipped out of the building, and went home, leaving not a trace of his presence, or anything to alert anyone that Ruskin’s office had been searched.

Despite his late night, he was out again at noon, heading for Bury Street. It was a fashionable area for single gentlemen, close to clubs, Mayfair, and the seat of government; Number 23 was a well-kept, narrow, three-story house. He knocked on the door and explained to the landlady that he worked alongside Mr. Ruskin and had been sent to check his rooms to make sure no Customs Office papers had been left there.

She led him up to a set of rooms on the first floor. He thanked her as she unlocked the door. “I’ll return the key when I leave.”

With a measuring glance that read the quality of his coat and boots in much the same way as a military pass, she nodded. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He waited until she was heading downstairs, then entered Ruskin’s parlor and shut the door.

Again, his search was thorough, but in contrast to Ruskin’s office, this time he found evidence someone had been before him. He found a pile of old IOUs lying in a concealed drawer in the escritoire atop more recent correspondence.

Dalziel and Whitley would never have permitted any other from either the official or unofficial sides of government to meddle in an affair they’d handed to him; whoever had been through Ruskin’s papers was from the “other side.” Indeed, the fact the rooms had been searched—he found further telltale signs in the bedroom—meant there was, most definitely, an “other side.”

Whatever dealings Ruskin had been involved in, someone had believed there might be evidence they needed to remove from his rooms.

Presumably they’d removed it.

Tony wasn’t unduly concerned. There were always threads left lying around in the aftermath of any scheme; he was an expert at finding and following such flimsy but real connections.

Such as those IOUs. He didn’t stop to analyze them in detail, but a cursory glance revealed that they’d been paid off regularly. More, the sums involved made it clear Ruskin had enjoyed an income considerably beyond his earnings as a government clerk.

Stowing the notes in his pockets, Tony concluded that discovering the source of that extra income was logically his next step.

After taking an impression of the key, he let himself out, returned the key to the landlady with typical civil service boredom, admitting to removing “a few papers but nothing major” when she asked.

Back on the street, he headed for Torrington House. He needed a few hours to study and collate all he’d found. However, the day was winging, and there was other information he needed to pursue that would, he suspected, be best pursued in daylight.

He’d been wondering how to approach Alicia Carrington and learn unequivocally all he needed to know. He’d left a corner of his brain wrestling with the problem; an hour ago, it had presented him with the perfect solution.

First, he needed to empty his pockets and let Hungerford feed him. Two o’clock would be the perfect time to essay forth to rattle Mrs. Carrington’s defenses.

He found her precisely where his devious mind had predicted—in Green Park with her three brothers and an older man who appeared to be their tutor.

The two older boys were wrestling with a kite; the tutor was assisting. The younger boy had a bat and ball; Alicia was doing her best to entertain him.

He spent a few minutes observing, assessing, before making his move. Recalling Alicia’s description of her demons, he grinned. The boys were sturdy, healthy-looking specimens with apples in their cheeks and shining brown hair. They were typical boys, rowdy and physical, yet they were quick to mind their elder sister’s strictures.

Obedient demons.

Amused, he walked toward her. The bat in her hands, she had her back to him. The youngest—Matthew?— tossed the ball to her; she swung wildly and missed. The ball bounced past her, giving him the perfect opening.

He stopped the ball with his boot, with a quick flick, tossed it up, and caught it. Strolling forward, he hefted the ball; as he reached Alicia’s side, he lobbed it to the boy.

And reached for the bat. “Here, let me.”

He twitched the bat from her nerveless fingers.

Alicia stared at him. “What are you doing here?”

Torrington glanced at her. “Playing ball.” He waved to the side. “You should stand over there so you can catch me out.”

Matthew, blinking at the changes, shook his head. “She’s not much good at catching.”

Her tormentor smiled at him. “We’ll have to give her a bit of practice, then. Ready?”

Alicia found herself stepping back in the direction Torrington had indicated. She was not sure about any of this, but…

Matthew pitched the ball to him, and he tapped it back between her and Matthew. Matthew squealed delightedly and pounced on it. A huge grin wreathing his face, he hustled to square up again.

After a few more shrewdly placed shots—one which came straight at her and surprised a shriek out of her— David and Harry left Jenkins with the kite and came hurrying to join in.

Normally, the older boys would have immediately taken over the game; she girded her loins to defend Matthew, but Torrington, bat still in his hand, elected himself director of play. He welcomed the older boys and waved them to fielding positions, leaving Matthew as bowler.

What followed was an education in how boys played, or could play if led by a competent hand. When Jenkins came up, the discarded kite in his hands, she waved him to take over her position. He might be more than twice her age, but he was better at catching.

The kite in her arms, she retreated to lean against a tree. Given the focus of the game, she naturally found herself gazing at Torrington.

Not a calming sight.

He literally made her pulse skitter and race. She was far enough away to appreciate his perfect male proportions, the wide shoulders and tapering chest, slim hips and long, lean legs. She’d yet to see him make an ungraceful move; she wasn’t sure he’d know how. His reflexes were excellent.

She saw the laughing humor in his face as he skied a ball to Harry, who with a rowdy whoop caught it. Torrington’s black locks, thick and lightly wavy, hugged his head; one fell forward across his broad brow as he good-naturedly surrendered the bat to Harry. He took the ball and bowled for a while, then tossed it to David.

And came strolling over the lawn to take up a fielding position near her. He grinned at her. “Coward.”

She tipped up her nose. “As you’ve been informed, I’m hopeless at catching.”

The look he gave her was enigmatic, but a ball hit his way recalled him to his duty.

She tried to watch the play and call encouragement as a good sister should, but having Torrington so close, watching him move and stretch and stand, hands on hips, then wave, directing her brothers, was distracting.

His occasional glances did nothing to slow her pulse.

What really worried her was why he was there.

As soon as David and Matthew had had a turn at batting, she called a halt. “Come along—we have to get back for tea.”

Her brothers, flushed and glowing with happiness, ran up.

“I say.” David tugged her hand. “Can Tony come home with us for tea?”

Alicia looked down into David’s bright eyes. Tony— Torrington was Tony to them. That seemed dangerous. But David, even more than the other two, was lonely here in London, and what, after all, could Torrington do? She smiled. “If he wishes.”

“Will you come? Will you come?” The chorus was instantaneous.

Joining them, Tony—Torrington—glanced at her. “If your sister doesn’t mind.”

She wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea, and he knew it; she met his gaze, but kept her expression easy. “If you have no objection to sitting down to a nursery tea, then by all means do join us.”

He smiled, not just with his lips but with those coal black eyes; if she’d had a fan, she would have deployed it. He bowed. “Thank you. I’d be delighted.”

Thrilled, thoroughly pleased with their new acquaintance, the boys took his hands; surrounding him, they danced by his side all the way back to Waverton Street, peppering him with questions.

At first, following behind with Jenkins, she merely listened, learning that Tony was an only child and had grown up mostly in Devon, but also in part in London. He knew all the childhood haunts. But when Harry, military mad, asked if he’d served overseas, and he replied he had, her protective instincts flared.

Quickly lengthening her stride, she came up beside Matthew, tripping along, Tony’s hand in his, gazing adoringly up at his new friend.

“So which were you in—the navy or the army?”

“The army—the Guards.”

“And you were at Waterloo?”

“Yes.”

“Did you lead a charge?”

She jumped in. “Boys, I really don’t think we need to hear about charges and fighting over tea.”

Torrington glanced at her briefly, a swift, penetrating look, then he turned back to her brothers. “Your sister’s right—war is not fun. It’s horrible, and frightening, and dreadful to be involved in.”

David’s eyes grew round. Harry’s face fell.

Alicia only just managed to keep her own jaw from falling.

“But…”Harry blinked at Torrington. “I want to be a major in the Guards when I grow up. Or the cavalry.”

“I was a major in both, and I’d suggest you rethink. Aside from all else, there are no more enemies to fight. Being in the cavalry in peacetime might not be the exciting life you imagine.”

They’d reached the front steps of the house. Torrington waved the boys ahead of him, then waited for Alicia to precede him. She went quickly up the steps and opened the door, then stood back, and the three boys filed in.

Gracefully, Torrington waved her on, then followed.

“Upstairs and wash your hands, please.” She shooed her brothers to the stairs. “Then you may join us in the parlor.”

They flashed swift smiles at Torrington, then clattered up the stairs. Jenkins shut the door. She turned to him. “If you could order tea, Jenkins?”

“Indeed, ma’am.” Jenkins bowed and left them.

She turned to Torrington. “Thank you.” She met his black eyes. “That was just the right thing to say.”

He studied her for a moment, then one black brow arched. “It’s no more than the truth.”

But one few ex-majors in the Guards would admit. Inclining her head, she led him to the parlor. Located at the back of the house, it was the room she and Adriana used most, when they were alone or with the boys, en famille. A comfortable room in which the boys could relax without worrying overmuch about the furniture, it was a trifle shabby, but she didn’t care as she led Torrington in; she’d warned him it was to be a nursery tea.

Adriana was there, poring over the latest fashion plates. She glanced up, saw Torrington, and rose, smiling.

After Adriana and Torrington exchanged greetings, they all sat. Even though the room was decently sized, Alicia was aware of his physical presence, his strength. Adriana asked how he had come to join them; he related the story of the game in the park. Every now and then, his gaze would touch Alicia’s, and a teasing smile would flirt about his lips. She was relieved when the boys rejoined them, bursting upon them in a noisy, albeit well-behaved wave, and the talk became more general.

Jenkins appeared with the tray; if Torrington noticed the oddity in that, he gave no sign.

She poured; on their best behavior, the boys offered Torrington the plate of crumpets first. He went up in their estimation—and hers—when he accepted one and smeared it with globs of jam, just as the boys did with theirs. All were soon munching happily.

Crumpet dealt with in three bites, Torrington wiped his fingers on his napkin, then reached for his teacup. He looked at her brothers. “Your sister told me you live in Warwickshire—is there much sport up that way? Shooting? Hunting?”

David wrinkled his nose. “Some fishing, some shooting, not much hunting just where we are. That’s south Warwickshire.”

Harry waved his remaining crumpet. “There’s hunting around Banbury, but not down near us.”

“Well,” David temporized. “There’s a small, really tiny pack runs out of Chipping Norton, but it’s not what you’d call a real hunt.”

From the corner of his eye, Tony saw Alicia and Adriana exchange a swift glance; the instant the boys had started mentioning towns, Alicia had tensed. He pressed harder. “Chipping Norton? Is that your nearest town? I’ve a friend who lives up that way.”

Alicia leaned forward. “Harry! Be careful. You’re about to drip jam.”

Adriana grabbed his napkin and wiped Harry’s fingers. Neither Tony nor Harry could see any physical reason for his sisters’ sudden action.

“There.” Adriana sat back. “Now why don’t you tell Lord Torrington about that huge trout you caught last year?”

Instead, the boys fixed Tony with round eyes.

“Are you really a lord?” Matthew asked.

Tony grinned. “Yes.”

“What sort of lord?” David asked.

“A viscount.” Tony could see from their faces they were trying to recall the order of precedence. “It’s a small lordship. The second smallest.”

They weren’t deterred. “Does that mean you get to wear a coronet at a coronation?”

“What sort of cloak do you get to wear?”

“Do you have a castle?”

He laughed, and answered as best he could, noting the relieved look Alicia threw Adriana; his presence in her parlor was making her skittish, and on more than one front.

Interrogating her brothers was not a gentlemanly act, yet he’d learned long ago that when it came to matters of treason, and that was what he and Dalziel and Whitley were dealing with in one guise or another, one couldn’t adhere to gentlemanly scruples. In that particular theater, adhering to such scruples was a fast way to die, failing one’s country in the process.

He felt no remorse for having used the three boys; they’d come to no harm, and he’d learned what he needed. Now he had to interrogate their elder sister. Again.

“Time for your afternoon lessons, boys. Come along, now.” Alicia stood, waving her brothers to their feet.

They rose, casting glances at Tony; knowing on which side his bread was buttered, he gave them no encouragement to defy their sister, but rose, too, and gravely shook hands.

With resigned polite farewells, the boys trooped out; Alicia followed them into the hall, consigning them into Jenkins’s care.

Seizing the moment, Tony turned to Adriana.

She’d risen, too, and now smiled. “I believe you’re acquainted with Lord Manningham, my lord.”

“Yes. He’s an old friend.”

Amusement flashed through her brown eyes, suggesting Geoffrey had painted their association with greater color.

He didn’t have much time. “I wanted to speak with you. Your sister will have mentioned the matter of Mr. Ruskin.” Adriana’s face immediately clouded; like Alicia, she possessed little by way of a social mask. “I gather you hadn’t met him in the country.”

“No.” Adriana met his gaze; her eyes were clear, but troubled. “He appeared a week or so after we arrived in town. We only met him a handful of times in the ballrooms, never anywhere else.”

She hesitated, then added, “He was not a man either of us could like. He was…oh, what is the word…‘importuning’. That’s it. He hovered about Alicia even though she discouraged him.”

From her expression, it was clear that while Alicia was mother lion, Adriana would be fierce in her sister’s defense. He inclined his head. “It’s perhaps as well, then, that he’s gone.”

Adriana muttered a guiltily fervent assent.

Alicia reentered; he turned to her and smiled. “Thank you for an entertaining afternoon.”

Her look said she wasn’t sure how to interpret that. He took his leave of Adriana, then, as he’d hoped, Alicia accompanied him to the door.

Following him into the hall, she shut the parlor door. He glanced about; fate had smiled—they were alone.

He gave her no time to regroup, but struck immediately. “Ruskin lived at Bledington, close to Chipping Norton. Are you sure you never met him in the country?”

She blinked at him. “Yes—I told you. We only met recently, socially in London.” Her eyes, searching his, suddenly widened. “Oh, was he a friend of your friend? The one you mentioned?”

He held her gaze; he could detect not the slightest hint of prevarication in the clear green, only puzzlement, and a hint of concern. “No,” he eventually said. “Ruskin’s friends are no friends of mine.”

The reply, especially his tone, further confused her.

“I understand he’d been bothering you—in what way?”

She frowned, clearly wishing he hadn’t known to ask; when he simply waited, she lifted her head and stiffly stated, “He was…attracted.”

He kept his eyes on hers. “And you?”

Irritation flashed in her eyes. “I was not.”

He felt his lips ease. “I see.”

They remained, gazes locked, for two heartbeats, then he reached out and took her hand. Still holding her gaze, he raised her fingers to his lips. Kissed, and felt the tremor that raced through her. Watched her eyes widen, darken.

She drew in a quick breath, tensed to step back.

He reacted. Tightening his grip on her fingers, he drew her nearer. Bent his head and touched his lips to hers in the lightest, most fleeting kiss.

Just a brushing of lips, more promise than caress.

He intended it to be that, not a real kiss but a tantalizing temptation.

Raising his head, he watched her lids rise, saw surprise, shock, and curiosity fill her eyes. Then she realized, stiffened, drew back.

Releasing her, he caught her gaze. “I meant what I said. I truly enjoyed the afternoon.”

He wondered if she understood what he was saying.

Before she could question him—before he could be tempted to say or do anything more—he bowed and turned to the door.

She saw him out and shut the door.

Gaining the pavement, he paused, letting the last moments fade from his mind, turning instead to running through all he’d learned thus far.

His instincts were pricking. Something was afoot, but just what he’d yet to divine. Turning on his heel, he headed for home and his library. There was a great deal he had to digest.