She wished she could see into his mind.
Since they’d parted the previous evening, she’d been plagued by one question: how did he think of her? How did he see her—what were his intentions, his expectations? What direction did he imagine they were headed in?
Given the circumstances, those were not only valid questions; learning the answers was vital to maintaining her charade and succeeding in their aim of having Adriana marry well.
Tony—Viscount Torrington—could easily scupper their plans. If he learned of them, and if he so chose. There was, at present, no reason he should stumble on their—her—crucial secret. That secret, however, was precisely the fact that most complicated her way forward.
Along with all the ton, he thought her a widow.
Last night had been a warning. If she was to maintain her charade long enough to establish Adriana, and then disappear, she was going to have to as far as possible restrict her interaction with Torrington.
And what she couldn’t avoid, she was going to have to respond to as if she was indeed a widow; she couldn’t risk all they’d done, all their success to date, by succumbing to any missish sentiment.
The thunder of feet on the stairs heralded her brothers’ arrival. They burst in, full of chatter and exclamations. Jenkins followed with the tray. In seconds, the parlor was filled with rowdy, boisterous warmth and comfort; if anything was needed to remind her why she was playing the role she was, it was there before her in her brothers’ smiling, laughing, happy faces.
Torrington—thinking of him by his title helped to keep a sensible distance between them, at least in her mind— gave his attention to the boys, answering questions, joining in their speculations and wonderings, occasionally teasing in a way the boys not only understood and accepted, but took great delight in.
As the guardian of three males, she’d long known they were incomprehensible beings; watching Tony— Torrington!—slouched on the floor, munching a muffin slathered with blackberry jam only compounded her wonder.
He caught her watching; their gazes touched, locked, then he smiled. A fleeting, wholly personal, even intimate gesture, then he looked again to David, who’d posed the question of when the animals in the zoo were most likely fed.
To the boys’ disappointment, Tony admitted he didn’t know; to their delight, he promised to find out.
It was time to step in. She leaned forward. “Enough, boys! Time for your lessons.”
With artistic groans, they clambered to their feet; eyes alight, each shook hands with Tony. Armed with his promise to let them know what he learned with all speed, they left with remarkable alacrity for their books.
Inwardly frowning, Alicia watched them disappear. Jenkins entered and removed the tray.
As he was leaving, Adriana bounced to her feet. “I want to do some sketching. I’ll be up in my room.”
Before Alicia could think of a suitably worded protest, given he whose presence occasioned that protest was stretched at her feet looking thoroughly at home, Adriana had blithely taken her leave of him, then, without meeting her eyes, her sister whisked out of the room.
And closed the door behind her.
SIX
ALICIA CONSIDERED THE CLOSED DOOR, THEN LOOKED AT Tony. Torrington! He remained on the floor, shoulders against the side of an armchair; his expression gently amused, he raised a brow at her.
She cleared her throat. “Have you learned anything more about Ruskin?” She needed to keep his mind away from her, from his interest in her; his investigation was assuredly her best bet.
His eyes opened a fraction wider. “Yes, and no. I haven’t learned anything definite, but I have certain inquiries in train. Whether they bear fruit remains to be seen.”
When she waited, pointedly, Tony grinned. “I spent a most illuminating morning learning about moneylenders.”
“Moneylenders?” Alarm flared across her face; her hand instinctively rose to her breast.
“Not on my account.” He frowned fleetingly at her.
“It’s not unknown for gentlemen like A. C. to move the large sums they use to pay their informants via moneylenders, thus concealing their part in the transaction. I visited Mr. King this morning, and asked if he knew of any gentleman with the initials A. C. who had borrowed large sums regularly over recent years.”
She continued to stare at him; her stillness was strange. “Any gentleman…” She drew breath. “I see. And did he?”
“No.” Tony studied her, trying to fathom the cause of her reaction. “He had no such borrower on his books. However, he agreed to check with the other moneylenders. Given he’s something of an institution in the field, if A. C. has been using moneylenders to cover his tracks, I believe we can rely on Mr. King to unearth him.”
She blinked; some of her tension had faded. “Oh.” She searched his face, then abruptly rose; with a swish of skirts, she went to stand before the window. “Ruskin’s information must have some bearing on this. Presumably A. C. used it to his benefit, or why seek and pay for it?”
“Indeed.” His gaze on her, Tony got to his feet, resettled his coat, then approached. “There are other avenues I’m exploring.”
His voice warned her; she glanced over her shoulder as he halted behind her, so close she was to all intents and purposes—certainly his intents and purposes—trapped between him and the wide windowsill.
Her eyes widened; she sucked in a quick breath. “What avenues?”
Standing this close, with the perfume of her hair and skin rising, wreathing his senses, his mind wasn’t on his investigation. “The shipping is one.” He slid one palm across her waist, then splayed his fingers and urged her back against him.
She hesitated, then permitted it, letting him settle her, warm and alive, against him. “How are you going to investigate that?”
The words were thready, starved of breath. He inwardly grinned, and sent his other hand to join the first, anchoring her before him, savoring the supple strength of her beneath his palms, her warmth and the softness of the feminine curves riding against him. “I have a friend, Jonathon Hendon. He and his wife will be in London in a few days.”
Bending his head, he set his lips to cruise the fine skin above her temple. “Jonathon owns one of the major shipping lines. If anyone can indentify the likely use of Ruskin’s information, Jonathon will.”
There was a nervous tension in her he couldn’t place, didn’t understand.
“So you’ll learn what A. C. used the information for from Jonathon?”
Beneath his hands, she stirred. Her pulse had accelerated; her breathing was shallow.
“Not quite.” He bent lower, let his breath caress her ear. “Jonathon will be able to say what the information might have been used for, but proving that someone did use it, then following the trail back to that someone won’t be quite so simple.”
“But…it would work.”
“Yes. Regardless of how we identify A. C., we’ll still need to piece his scheme together. Eventually.” He breathed the last word as he set his lips to her ear, then lightly traced with his tongue.
A telltale shudder racked her spine, then she surrendered and sank back against him. Feeling ludicrously victorious, he changed position so he could minister to her other ear.
Her hands closed over his at her waist, gripped. “What other route…you said avenues… plural…”
Her voice faded as he artfully teased; when he lifted his head, she sighed. He grinned openly—wolfishly—knowing she couldn’t see. “There’ll be some other connection between Ruskin and A. C. They’ll have met somewhere, have known each other, even if only distantly. Their lives will have touched somewhere, at some time.”