A Gentleman's Honor

FOUR

HE SPENT THE REST OF THAT DAY AND THE ENTIRE EVENING analyzing all he’d retrieved from Ruskin’s office and lodgings. Ruskin’s scribbled notes and the receipts of his debts appeared to be the only clues, the only items warranting further investigation.

After assembling a schedule of the dates on which the debts, in groups, had been paid, along with the sums involved, Tony called it a night. At least working for Dalziel gave him an excuse not to attend the ton’s balls.

The next day, just after noon, he girded his loins and dutifully presented himself at Amery House for one of his godmother’s at-homes, to which he’d been summoned. He knew better than to ignore the dictate. Strolling into her drawing room, he bowed over her hand, resignedly noting he was one of only four gentlemen present.

Felicité beamed up at him. “Bon! You will please me and your maman by talking and paying attention to the demoiselles here, will you not?”

Despite the words, there was an ingenuous appeal in her eyes. He felt his lips quirk. Hand over heart, he declared, “I live to serve.”

She only just managed to suppress a snort. She rapped his knuckles with her fan, then used it to gesture to the knots of young ladies gathered by the windows. “Viens!” She shooed. “Go—go!”

He went.

It was a cynical exercise; none of the young things to whom the matrons prayed he’d fall victim had any chance of fixing his interest. Why they thought he might be susceptible escaped him, but he behaved as required, pausing by first one group, then another, chatting easily before moving on. He did not remain by any lady’s side for long; no one could accuse him of being the least encouraging.

He’d scanned the room on entering; Alicia Carrington had not been present. As he moved from group to group, he resurveyed the guests, but she didn’t appear.

While moving to the fifth knot of conversationalists, he caught Felicité’s eye, noted her puzzled expression. Realized he was giving the impression he was searching for someone, waiting for someone.

Mentally shrugging, he strolled on.

He was with the sixth group, inwardly debating whether he’d dallied long enough, when he heard two matrons standing a little apart exchanging the latest gossip—the items they considered too titillating for their charges’ delicate ears.

His instincts flickered; he’d noticed there was some flutter—some piece of avid interest—doing the rounds among the older ladies.

The two biddies a yard behind him put their heads together and lowered their voices, but his hearing was acute.

“I had it this morning from Celia Chiswick. We met at Lady Montacute’s morning tea. You’ve heard about that fellow Ruskin being murdered—stabbed—just along the path there?”

From the corner of his eye, Tony saw the lady point into the garden.

“Well! It seems he was blackmailing some lady—a widow.”

“No! Who?”

“Well, of course no one knows, do they?”

“But someone must have some idea, surely.”

“One hardly likes to speculate, but… you do know who he was speaking with just before he left this room and walked to his death, don’t you?”

“No.” The second woman’s voice dropped to a strained whisper. “Who was it?”

Tony shifted and saw the first lady lean close to her companion and whisper the answer in her ear.

The second lady’s eyes widened; her jaw dropped. Then she looked at the first. “No! Truly?”

Lips thinning, the first lady nodded.

The second flicked open her fan and waved it. “Great heavens! And she with that ravishing sister of hers in tow. Well!”

Tony fought to keep his expression from hardening, from revealing anything of the maelstrom of emotions that rose up and buffeted his mind—and him. Inwardly grim, he spent a few more minutes with the sweet young things, then excused himself and headed for the door.

Only to have Felicité step into his path. “You’re not leaving so soon?” She put a hand on his arm; immediately concern flared in her eyes. She lowered her voice. “What is it?”

He hesitated, then said, “I’m engaged on some business. I have to go.”

Her concern only deepened. “I thought you’d finished with such things.”

His short laugh was harsh. “So did I. But not yet.” He eased her hand from his sleeve and bowed over it. “I must go—there’s someone I have to see.”

Her gaze had flicked to where he’d been, then to the garden. He could see the connections forming in her mind. He stepped away.

She looked back at him. “If you must go, you must, but take care. And you must tell me later.”

With a curt nod, he left. For once, he didn’t stop to consider his plan.

Alicia strolled the clipped lawns of the park in the wake of Adriana and her swains. A morning promenade was becoming a regular event in their schedule. The gentlemen preferred the less-structured, less-cramped encounters such a stroll allowed; it gave them more time to worship at her sister’s feet unfettered by any need to pay attention to any other young lady.

She’d countered that by inviting Miss Tiverton to walk with them. Adriana now strolled beside that young lady while five perfectly eligible gentlemen vied for their attention.

The most prominent, and most assiduous, was Lord Manningham. Alicia studied the undeniably attractive figure he cut in his morning coat, pale, tightly fitting breeches, and black Hessians. His address was polished without being oversmooth, his features were handsome rather than beautiful.

He was turning Adriana’s head, and her sister knew it.

It was time, perhaps, to learn more of Geoffrey Manningham.

Especially as he was apparently a friend of Lord Torrington’s. He who had almost-kissed her, who without provocation let alone permission had deliberately teased her in her own front hall.

The moment flared in her mind; her nerves tensed…

Ruthlessly, she bundled the memory aside—he probably did such things all the time. She refocused on Adriana and her court. Adjusting her parasol, she strolled on.

She had no warning, no premonition of danger, until she heard herself hailed in a voice that cut like a whip.

She whirled, but Torrington was already upon her. Hard fingers closing manacle-like about her elbow, he swung her around and marched her down the lawn, away from the carriageway.

“What—?” She tried to free her arm, but couldn’t. She glared at him. “Unhand me, sir!”

He ignored her. He strode on, forcing her with him; she either had to keep up, or stumble and fall. His face was set like stone, his expression unforgivingly grim. Thunderclouds would have looked more comforting.

She glanced back at the others, strolling on unaware. “Stop! I have to watch over my sister.”

He glanced briefly at her—too briefly for her to read his eyes—then lifted his gaze and looked back at the others. “She’s with Manningham. She’s safe.” Looking forward, he growled, “You aren’t.”

He’d lost his senses. She tugged against his hold, then dragged in a breath. “If you don’t stop this instant and let me go—”

Abruptly, he did both. She’d been strolling along the periphery of the fashionable throng; they were now in an area where no others were walking. They were out of earshot of everyone, too far from the carriageway for any to discern even the tenor of their exchange.

On top of that, he stood squarely between her and the rest of the ton. Cutting her off from the world. Stunned, she raised her eyes to his face.

His black gaze impaled her. “What was Ruskin blackmailing you about?”

She blinked; her eyes grew wide. The world lurched and fell away. “Wh—what?”

He gritted his teeth. “Ruskin was blackmailing you. About what?” His eyes narrowed to obsidian shards. “What was the hold he had over you?”

When she didn’t answer, couldn’t get her wits to stop whirling quickly enough—dear God, how had he found out?—his jaw set even harder. From the corner of her eye, she saw his hands clench; locking eyes, she sensed he wanted to seize her, shake her, but was exercising quite amazing restraint.

“Was. He. Blackmailing you?”

The words were uttered with such force they dragged the answer from her. “Yes—no! That is…” She stopped.

“Which?” He took a half step nearer, towering over her, menacing, intimidating. Aggression poured from him.

And ignited her temper. She straightened to her full height, tipped back her head, met his piercing black gaze. “Whichever, it is no concern of yours.”

“Think again.”

The low growl skittered over her nerves; she dug her heels in even deeper. “I beg your pardon?” Outraged, she held his gaze, absolutely determined not to quail. “You, my lord, are skating on thin ice. Don’t think to browbeat me!”

For an instant, they stood, all but toe to toe, certainly will against will, then, to her surprise and immense relief, he eased back. Reined in the sheer male power that beat against her senses.

Yet he didn’t shift back; his eyes didn’t leave hers. When he spoke, his tone was dark, definite, but harnessed, fractionally more civilized.

“I’ve been asked to investigate Ruskin’s death. I want to know what your connection with him was.”

She stared. “Why? Who—?”

“Just answer the question. What was your connection with Ruskin?”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “We didn’t have any—I told you!”

“Yet he was blackmailing you.”

“No—at least, not in the way you mean.”

He opened his eyes wide. “What other way is there?”

She had to reply; there was clearly no option. “It wasn’t about money. He wanted me to marry him.”

He blinked. His tone lost a little of it sureness. “He was blackmailing you to marry him?”

Lips tight, she nodded. “He…offered me a carte blanche. I refused, and he offered marriage. When I refused that… he thought to pressure me into agreeing.”

“With what?”

She searched his eyes; his demand was precise, implacable. Who was he?—she didn’t really know. “He’d learned something about us—about me—that if it became common knowledge, would make establishing Adriana…very difficult. It’s nothing nefarious or terrible, but you know what the gossipmongers are like.”

“Indeed.” The word was clipped, imbued with meaning. “You spoke with him immediately before he left Lady Amery’s drawing room. I want to know what was said, and exactly what happened to result in you going into the garden and finding his body.”

Whoever he was, he knew far too much. The thought chilled her. He also knew how to interrogate; even restrained, there was a threat in his manner—avoiding his questions wasn’t going to be possible. She had absolutely no doubt his claim of being asked to investigate was true.

“I…” Her mind slid back to that moment in the drawing room, when Ruskin had threatened to pull the rug from under their future. “As I said, I’d declined his offer of marriage. That evening, he came up and requested a private interview. I refused—I was watching Adriana. He insisted, so we retreated to the side of the room. He told me he lived near Bledington, and had seen us last Christmas, in the square at Chipping Norton.”

She refocused on the black eyes fixed so intently on her face. “He’d seen us—we hadn’t seen or met him. Not then. Only after we came to London.”

“What was it he knew of you?”

Feeling compelled to keep her eyes on his, she considered, eventually moistened her lips. “It’s not anything to do with his death. It can’t be. It doesn’t concern anyone but me.”

Tony held her gaze for a full minute; she didn’t waver, didn’t offer anything more. She was no longer so defiant, but on that one point intractable; she wasn’t going to tell him. He forced himself to look away, over her head, forced himself to take a deep breath and think. Eventually, he looked down at her. “Does anyone else in London know of this thing that Ruskin knew?”

She blinked, thought. “No.” Her voice strengthened. “No one.”

He digested that, accepted it. “So he propositioned you—threatened you with exposure.” He forced himself to say the words, ignoring the violence the thought evoked. “What then?”

“I asked for time, and he agreed to twenty-four hours. He said he’d call on me the next evening.” Remembered horror flitted through her eyes; he wondered what she wasn’t telling him. “Then he walked away.”

When she said nothing more, he prompted, “What then?”

“I was upset.” She seemed not to notice the hand she raised to her throat. “I asked for a glass of water, sat, then I started to think again, and realized he…that it might be possible to buy him off. I stood and saw him slip out of the terrace doors. I decided to follow and speak with him—at least convince him to give me more time.”

Remembered fear tinged her voice. Swallowing an oath, he suppressed the urge to haul her into his arms; she’d probably struggle. “So you followed him out?”

She nodded. “But first I crossed the room to Adriana. I told her where I was going.”

“Then you went onto the terrace?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t there. It was chilly—I looked around and saw movement beneath that huge tree. I assumed it was he, so I went down. Then I found him…” She paused. “You know the rest.”

“Did you see anyone else go out on the terrace before you did—or before Ruskin did?”

“No. But I wasn’t watching the doors.”

Regardless, it was unlikely a gentleman wearing a coat and hat would leave Amery House via the drawing room and the terrace doors. Fitting her information with his, it seemed clear what had happened.

She’d taken advantage of his silence to regroup.

He met her gaze. “I take it Ruskin made no mention of going to meet anyone.”

“No. Why? Oh…I suppose he must have met someone.”

“He did. As I came up Park Street, I saw a gentleman in a coat and hat leave by the garden gate. He was too far away for me to identify, but he definitely came out of that gate. Allowing time for you to walk to the tree, and for me to walk to the gate, it must have been he—that man— you saw moving beneath the tree.”

She paled. Looked at him, stared at him. After a long moment, she asked, “Who are you?”

He let two heartbeats pass, then replied, “You know my name.”

“I know I have only your word that there was another man, that it wasn’t you who stabbed Ruskin.”

The accusation pricked; holding her gaze, he softly said, “You might want to consider that I’m all that stands between you and a charge of murder.”

The instant he uttered the words, he wished them unsaid.

Her head snapped up. She stepped back. “I do not understand what right you have to question me—interrogate me—or my family.” Her eyes blazed; her tone was scathing. “In future, please leave us alone.”

She turned.

He caught her hand. “Alicia—”

She swung on him; fury lit her eyes. “Don’t presume to call me that! I have not given you leave—and I won’t.” She looked down at his fingers circling her wrist. “Please release me immediately.”

He had to force his fingers to do it, to slide from her skin; she snatched her hand away, backed two steps, watching him—as if she suddenly saw him for what he truly was.

Her eyes had widened; for an instant, he glimpsed a vulnerability he couldn’t place.

Alicia fought to subdue the emotions roiling inside her. Her stomach was knotted, her lungs tight. He’d played with her brothers, interrogated them and Adriana, flirted quite deliberately with her. All because… and she’d thought he was honest, that he was trustworthy, genuine…how foolish she’d been.

When he said nothing, she dragged in a breath. “I’ve told you all I know. Please”—for the first time, her voice quavered—“don’t come near me again.”

With that, she whirled and walked quickly away.

Tony watched her go. Then he swore comprehensively in French and strode off in the opposite direction.

He hailed a hackney and headed into the city. Resting his head against the squabs, he closed his eyes and concentrated on getting his temper under control and his thoughts straight; it had been years since they’d been so tangled.

He’d stalked into the park furious with her for concealing from him such a potentially dangerous connection. Not because that concealment interfered with his investigation, but purely because the damned woman hadn’t availed herself of his abilities—his protection.

Because she deliberately hadn’t trusted him.

Stalking out of the park, he’d been furious with himself. She’d questioned who he was, his integrity, and he’d reacted by taking a high hand, which any fool could have predicted would fail miserably—in his case, spectacularly.

He hadn’t meant it to sound as it had, hadn’t in the least meant to threaten her.

Eyes still closed, he sighed. In thirteen years of operations, he’d never let his personal life interfere with his duty. Now the two were inextricably entwined. She hadn’t killed Ruskin, but courtesy of whoever had started the rumors, she was now involved. Worse, he had a nasty suspicion that the person who had started the rumors would prove to be Ruskin’s killer. If threatened, he might kill again.

He spent the rest of the day in the city, using his erstwhile talents to gain access to Ruskin’s banking records. A combination of suggestion and implied threat, together with his title and the supercilious arrogance he’d learned long ago worked so well with those whose status depended on patronage, got him what he wanted.

His first stop was Daviot & Sons, the bank Ruskin had favored, exclusively as far as the notes in his rooms went. Ten minutes, and he’d gained access to all documents relating to Ruskin’s dealings. The records revealed no major sums credited to Ruskin’s account, only a trickle of income the bank verified came from Gloucestershire, believed to be derived from Ruskin’s estate. There were no large deposits, nor any large withdrawals. Wherever the wealth Ruskin had used to pay off his considerable debts hailed from, it had not passed through the hands of the Messrs Daviot.

He proceeded to check all the likely banks; they were located in close proximity, scattered about the Bank of England and the Corn Exchange. Using his success at Daviots to pave the way, he encountered no resistance; by afternoon’s end, he’d established that the city’s legitimate financiers had not facilitated the flow of pounds to Ruskin’s gaming acquaintances.

Hailing a hackney, he headed back to Mayfair. On the evidence of Ruskin’s IOUs, the man had been not only a poor gambler but an addicted one. He’d lost steadily for years, yet there was no indication of any panic in his dealings. He’d paid off every debt regularly…

Muttering a curse, Tony tapped on the roof; when the jarvey inquired his pleasure, he replied, “Bury Street— Number 23.”

There had to be—had to be—some record somewhere. Ruskin was a clerk by nature; the contents of his desks, both in his office and his rooms, testified to his compulsive neatness. He’d even kept those old IOUs in chronological order.

The hackney halted in Bury Street; Tony swung down to the pavement, tossed a coin to the jarvey, and strode quickly up the steps of Number 23. This time, an old man let him in.

“I’m from Customs and Revenue—I have to check Mr. Ruskin’s rooms for something I might have missed when I checked yesterday.”

“Oh, aye.” The old man stood back. “You’ll know the way, then.”

“Indeed. I have his key. I’ll be a few minutes—I can see myself out.”

The old man merely nodded and shuffled back into the downstairs front room. Tony climbed the stairs.

Once in Ruskin’s rooms with the door shut and re-locked, he stood in the center of the rug and looked around. He imagined himself in Ruskin’s shoes; assuming he’d kept a record of his illicit dealings and had wanted to keep that record secret, where would he have hidden it?

The room was clean, neat, dusted; the furniture was polished and well cared for. Someone came in to clean. Whatever secret hole Ruskin had, it would be somewhere not likely to be found by a busy char woman.

Behind the solid skirting boards was unlikely; the cleared floor space, even under the rugs, would be too risky. Working as silently as he could, Tony shifted the heavy furniture and checked beneath and behind, but found only solid walls and solid floorboards, and dust.

Undeterred, he checked inside the small closet, shifting the items he’d searched before. He pressed, prodded, gently tapped, but there was no hint of any secret place. Next, he examined the door and window frames, searching for any crevice opening into a useful gap within the walls. There wasn’t one.

Which left the fireplaces and their chimneys.

There were two—one in the parlor and a smaller one in the bedroom. The mantelpieces and hearths were easily examined; no luck there. With a resigned sigh, Tony stripped off his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves before tackling the chimneys.

He saw the place as soon as he crouched down, ducked his head, and looked into the parlor chimney. Enough light seeped past his shoulders for him to discern the single brick, up on the side well above the flames’ reach, that was considerably less grimed than its fellows. Its edges were free of soot and the detritus of years. Reaching in, he pressed one corner; the brick edged out of place. It was easy to grip it and drag it free.

Setting the brick down, he dusted his fingers, then reached into the gaping hole. His fingertips encountered the smooth surface of leather. He felt around, then drew out a small, black leather-bound book.

Grinning, he laid the book on the floor and replaced the brick. That done, he cleaned his hands on his handkerchief, then rolled down his sleeves and shrugged on his coat. Picking up the book, he hefted it—then gave in to temptation and quickly leafed through it.

It was exactly what he’d hoped to find—a miniledger that many gamesters kept, noting their wins and losses. The book was almost full; the entries stretched back to1810. Each entry comprised a date, the initials of the opponent, and sometimes the name of the game—whist, piquet, hazard—and the sum involved; the latter was placed in one of two columns ruled at the right of the page—either a loss or a win.

In Ruskin’s little black book, the losses greatly outnumbered the wins. However, the tally of wins and losses, scrupulously noted at the end of each page, was readjusted every few months, being brought back into balance by an entry, repeated again and again, of a substantial sum, noted as a win.

Tony checked back through the book. The regular “wins” started in early 1812. Although always substantial, the sums varied; the initials noted for each payment did not.

A. C.

Tony felt his face harden. He looked up. His mind in a whirl, he closed the book and slid it into his pocket. A moment later, he stirred, and headed for the door.

He was on his way down the stairs when the old man stuck his head out of the downstairs room. He squinted at Tony, then recognized him, nodded, and moved to retreat.

Tony reacted. “One moment, sir, if you would.”

The old man turned back.

Tony assumed a faintly harrassed expression. “Have there been any other visitors to Mr. Ruskin’s rooms since he died?”

The old man blinked, thought, then opined, “Well, not since you folk came by, but there was a gentl’man called here the night Mr. Ruskin met his end. It was late, so mayhap that was after he died.”

“This gentleman, was he one of Mr. Ruskin’s friends? A regular acquaintance?”

“Not that I ever saw. Never seen him before.”

“What happened on that night?”

The old man leaned on his cane; he peered up at Tony with eyes that retained a deal of shrewdness. “It was late, as I said. The man rapped politely, and as it wasn’t after midnight, I let him in. I was sure Ruskin was out, but the gentleman insisted he’d go up and check… didn’t seem any harm in that, so I let him. He went up the stairs, and a minute later I heard the door open, so I thought, then, that Ruskin must have slipped in, and I hadn’t noticed. I left them to it and went back to my fire.”

Tony stirred. “Ruskin hadn’t come home. He spent most of the evening at a soirée in Green Street. It was there, in the garden, that he was killed.”

“Aye. So we heard the next day. Howsoever, that night, the gentleman that called and went into Ruskin’s rooms stayed for more than an hour. I could hear him moving around; he wasn’t thumping about, but it’s quiet around here at night. One hears things.”

“Did you see him when he left?”

“No—I’d put the door on the latch and gone to bed. They can still let themselves out, but the door locks as it closes.”

“Can you describe this gentleman?”

Running his eye up Tony, the old man grimaced. “I can’t recall much—no reason to, then. But he was decently tall, not so tall as you though, but more heavily built. Well built. He was nicely kitted out, that I do remember—his coat had one of those fancy fur collars, like rippling curls.”

Astrakhan. A vision flashed into Tony’s mind—the glimpse he’d caught at a distance as the unknown man leaving the Amery House gardens had passed beneath a streetlamp. His thought had been “well rugged up”— prompted by the astrakhan collar of the man’s coat.

“And,” the old man continued, “he was a toff like you. Spoke well, and had that way about him, the way he walked and carried his cane.”

Tony nodded. “How old? What color hair? Was there anything notable about him—a squint, a big nose?”

“He’d be older than you—forties at least, but well kept. His hair was brownish, but as for his face, there was nothing you’d notice. Regular features”—the old man squinted again at Tony—“though not as regular as yours.” He shrugged. “He was a well-dressed gentl’man such as you’d find on any street about here.”

Tony thanked the man.

Once on the pavement, he paused, then set off for Upper Brook Street; the walk would do him good, perhaps clear his mind. An A. C. had paid Ruskin large sums for the last four years. Be that as it may, he was perfectly certain things were not as they seemed.

A few hours closeted in his library clarified matters, at least as far as identifying his immediate next steps.

Through Ruskin’s blackmail and fateful coincidence, Alicia Carrington was being drawn further and further into his investigation. Given his personal interest, he needed to regain lost ground rapidly—needed to regain her trust. Doing so would require an apology, and worse, explanations. All of which necessitated a certain amount of planning, which in turn required a certain amount of reconnoitering. His groom returned from the mews near Waverton Street with the necessary details, by which time he’d formulated his plan.

He began its implementation with a note to his godmother, then sent a different note around to Manningham House.

When the clocks struck nine, he and Geoffrey were propping the wall of Lady Herrington’s ballroom, keeping a careful eye on the arrivals.

“I would never have thought of sending around a groom.” Eyes on the throng, Geoffrey seemed to be relishing his role.

“Stick with me, and you’ll learn all sorts of useful tricks.” Tony kept his gaze on the ballroom stairs.

Geoffrey softly snorted.

The strands of old companionship had regrown quickly, somewhat to the surprise of them both. Tony was four years Geoffrey’s senior; much of their childhood had been colored by Geoffrey’s need to cast himself as Tony’s rival. Despite that, there’d been many occasions when they’d combined forces in various devilry; the friendship beneath the rivalry had been strong.

“There they are.” Tony straightened. At the top of the steps, he’d glimpsed a coronet of dark hair above a pale forehead.

Geoffrey craned his head. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Which was of itself revealing. “Remember—the instant they reach the bottom of the steps. Ready?”

“Right behind you.”

They swooped as planned, a perfectly executed attack that separated Alicia and Adriana the instant the sisters set foot on the ballroom floor. Geoffrey took Adriana’s hand—offered with a delighted smile—and smoothly cut in, drawing Adriana forward while simultaneously insinuating himself between the sisters, cutting Alicia off from Adriana’s immediate view.

Before Alicia could even gather her wits, she was captured, swept aside; Tony propelled her across the front of the ballroom steps and around into their lee, where a small and as yet uncrowded little foyer stood before a closed door.

They’d reached the foyer before she caught her breath.

Then she did. Her eyes swung to his face. They blazed.

He caught that scorching glance, held it. Her breasts swelled; her lips parted—on a scathing denunciation he had not a doubt. “Don’t fight me.” He spoke softly; there was steel in his voice. “Don’t look daggers at me, and for God’s sake don’t rip up at me. I have to talk to you.”

Her jaw set mulishly. She tugged her right arm, firmly gripped in his right hand; his left arm was around her waist, steering her on. She tried to stop, to dig in her heels, but she was wearing ballroom slippers. “If we must, we can talk here!”

He didn’t pause, but looked down at her, leaned closer, drawing her into the shield of his body. “No, we can’t. You wouldn’t like it, and neither would I.”

He released her arm to fling open the door, catching her in his left arm when she tried to step back. He swept her over the threshold and followed, shutting the door behind him, by sheer physical presence forcing her on along the corridor beyond.

She hissed in frustration, took two steps, then swung to face him and glared. “This is ridiculous! You can’t simply—”

“Not here.” He caught her arm again, propelled her on.

“The door on the left at the end is our best bet.”

He could sense her temper rising, seething like a volcano. “Our best bet for what?” she muttered beneath her breath.

He glanced at her, but held his tongue.

They reached the door in question; he sent it swinging wide. This time, she entered of her own volition, sweeping in like a galleon under full sail. He followed, shutting the door, taking note of her gown—a sleekly draped silk confection in bronzy, autumnal shades that became her extremely well.

She turned on him, faced him; the silk tightened over her breasts as she dragged in a deep breath—

He heard a click as the door at the head of the corridor opened. The noise of the ball washed in, abruptly cut off again as the door was shut. A woman giggled, the sound quickly smothered.

Reaching behind him, he snibbed the lock on the door.

Too far from the corridor to realize the danger, eyes blazing, Alicia opened her mouth to deliver the broadside he undoubtedly deserved.

He stepped forward, jerked her into his arms, and silenced her—saved them—in the only possible way.