Eyes narrow, Tony waited; when she didn’t look at him, he looked away, unseeing. After a moment, he exhaled. “You are without doubt the most difficult female I’ve ever—” He bit the words off, abruptly stopped as his temper threatened to erupt. When he had his fury once more in hand, he drew breath and went on, his voice low, tight, very definitely just for her. “I’m not helping you in the expectation of gaining any specific…” He cast about in his mind, but could only come up with, “Service.”
Her eyes flicked to his face, wide, curious, wanting to know.
He trapped her gaze. “I want you, but not as a result of any damned gratitude!”
Her eyes remained on his, then scanned his features. “Why, then”—her voice, too, was low, intensely private—“are you helping me?”
For an instant, he inwardly rocked, then he found the right words—words he could say. “Because you deserve it. Because you and your sister and your demon brothers don’t deserve the censure of the ton, let alone being implicated in a murder.”
For a long moment, she held his gaze, then her lips gently lifted. “Thank you.” She looked away; he only just caught her last words. “You’re a good man.”
He wasn’t quite so good as he would have her believe, but he definitely wasn’t expecting her gratitude to stretch as far as an invitation to her bed. He did expect to be invited to her bed, but not because of his efforts on her behalf.
The next morning, he was still… not so much smarting as ruffled, a disordered sensation he appreciated not at all. A vague disgruntlement that she’d even imagined that he might need to resort to gratitude—
He cut off the thought and headed for the Bastion Club.
Sanity in a disconcerting world—a world with females in it.
He was looking for advice. In the club’s drawing room, he found Christian Allardyce slouched in an armchair, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, a news sheet propped before his face. He lowered it as Tony entered.
“Ho! And here I’ve been wondering about these tales of you stumbling over a dead body.”
Tony grimaced. “All true, I’m afraid, and there’s a deadly twist. The game’s fallen into Dalziel’s lap, and guess who he’s tapped on the shoulder?”
Christian’s brows rose. “And you agreed?”
Elegantly sitting in another chair, Tony shrugged. “Aside from the fact that refusing Dalziel is marginally more difficult than taking an enemy battery single-handed, there were other aspects that attracted me.”
“Quite apart from tripping over the body.”
“Indeed. From what we have, the man was a traitor of sorts.” Crisply, he outlined what he knew of Ruskin, omitting all mention of one lovely widow. After describing the payments made by A. C., he went on, “I wondered if perhaps, if A. C. was truly wise, he might have channeled the payments through a moneylender.”
Christian opened his eyes wide. “Used a moneylender to draw the large sums, then paid them back with numerous smaller amounts much easier to explain from his own accounts?”
“Exactly. Do you think that’s possible?”
Christian nodded. “I would say so.” He met Tony’s gaze. “Certainly worth asking.”
“Next question: who do I ask? I’ve never had any dealings with such gentlemen.”
“Ah! You’ve come to the right source.”
It was Tony’s turn to open his eyes wide. “I would never have imagined you deep in debt and reduced to dealing with moneylenders.”
Christian grinned and laid aside the news sheet. “No, I never was. But I once bailed out a friend, and along the way I made the acquaintance of a good handful of the gentlemen. Enough, certainly, to start you on your way.”
Folding his hands across his waistcoat, Christian leaned his head back; eyes on the ceiling, he started recounting all he knew.
Tony drank it in. At the end of fifteen minutes, he knew exactly who to approach, and even more importantly, how.
Thanking Christian, he left the club and headed into the city.
His interview with Mr. King, the most famous—or infamous depending on one’s point of view—usurer in London was an unqualified success. Mr. King’s office was a stone’s throw from the Bank of England; as Christian had prophesied, Mr. King was perfectly happy to assist the authorities given their investigation in no way threatened him or his trade.
A traitor lost all claim to confidentiality; Mr. King had ascertained that no gentleman with the initials A. C. had borrowed large sums of cash from him. He’d confirmed that the practice of disguising major debts in such a way was not uncommon, and had undertaken to inquire on the government’s behalf among the other moneylenders capable of advancing such sums.
Tony parted from Mr. King on genial terms. Hailing a hackney, he headed back to Mayfair. With the money angle in hand, he had two other avenues of inquiry to pursue; as the carriage rocked along, he considered how best to tackle them.
Nearing the fashionable quarter, he glanced out at the pavement. It was a glorious day, ladies walking, children laughing and dancing.
Temptation whispered.
Reaching up, he thumped on the roof, then directed the jarvey to Green Park.
He arrived to an exuberant welcome, and had just enough time to have a quick turn flying the kite before Alicia, feigning primness, gathered them all and herded them back to Waverton Street.
Although he quizzed her with his eyes, she remained spuriously aloof, walking smartly along, the boys skipping about them.
He matched his stride to hers, inwardly amused, not only with her but with himself. It had been a long time—thirteen years at least—since he’d felt so relaxed, experienced this kind of subtle content. He’d honestly enjoyed his time with her brothers; it was almost as if his military years, especially as he’d lived them, had been taken out of his life, excised, so the youth he’d been at nineteen had more in common with the man he had become.
Or perhaps all he’d seen, all he’d experienced in those thirteen years away, had left him with a deeper appreciation of life’s little pleasures.
Reaching their house, she opened the door. The boys tumbled in.
“Blackberry jam today!” Matthew sang, and rushed for the stairs.
The older two raced after him, laughing and calling. Jenkins, the kite in his arms, smiled and trudged after them.
Alicia called after him, “Do make sure they’re clean before they come down, Jenkins.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Jenkins looked back. “And I’ll let Cook know about tea.”
He nodded deferentially to the presence behind her; suddenly realizing, Alicia whirled. “Oh—yes.” She met Tony’s black eyes; uncertainty flared. “You…er, will stay for tea, won’t you?”
They were suddenly alone in the hall. He smiled, slowly, into her eyes, then inclined his head. “Blackberry jam’s my favorite.”
His gaze dropped to her lips; the image that flashed into her mind was of him licking blackberry jam from them. Heat rising in her cheeks, she quickly turned away. “Adriana will be in the parlor.”
She led the way, with some relief saw Adriana look up as they entered. Adriana and Tony exchanged easy greetings; as was her habit, Adriana was studying the latest fashion plates prior to designing their next round of gowns.
They all sat; a companionable, almost familial ease fell over them. From her corner of the chaise, Alicia watched as Adriana asked Tony’s opinions on various styles depicted in the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée. He responded readily; it was quickly apparent he understood more about ladies’ garments than one might suppose a gentleman would….
She broke off the thought. His attention was on the plates Adriana had spread before him; she seized the opportunity to study him.