Tony followed Alicia up the steps of the house, glancing as always to left and right. He’d caught a glimpse of his man on the corner, recalled the report that had been on his desk when he’d returned home that evening.
In the front hall, he waited with Alicia while Adriana went upstairs, and Maggs retreated to the nether regions; he was perfectly sure their charade wasn’t fooling Maggs, but he suspected it was important to Alicia, at least at that point, to preserve her facade as a virtuous widow.
Once Maggs’s footsteps had faded and Adriana had disappeared down the corridor to her room, he turned back to the front door and slid both bolts home. Alicia had picked up the candle from the hall table; on the lowest tread of the stair, she glanced back at him. He joined her; together they climbed the stairs to her room.
Her bedchamber was the largest, closest to the stairs. Adriana’s room lay along the corridor, two dressing rooms and a linen press separating the rooms. He had no idea whether Adriana knew he spent the nights in her elder sister’s bed; given the distance between their rooms, there was no reason she would have guessed.
The boys’ rooms were on the next floor, the servants’ rooms in the attics above. Following Alicia into her bedchamber and shutting the door, he reflected that thus far, her reputation remained safe.
If there was any reason to imagine it threatened, he would make his intentions public, but as things stood, with the ton believing her a widow and thus according her the associated license, there was no compelling urgency to declare his hand.
Indeed, he prayed the necessity wouldn’t arise, that once A. C. was unmasked and they were free of his threat, he would have time to woo her, to ask for her hand with all due ceremony. That was, to his mind, the least she deserved, regardless of their established intimacy.
He hadn’t intended that, but having once spent the night in her bed, the notion of not continuing to do so hadn’t even entered his head. The fact he’d simply assumed her agreement occurred to him. He glanced at her. She’d crossed the room to set the candlestick on the dressing table; seated on the stool, she was calmly letting down her long hair.
The simple, domestic sight never failed to soothe him—to soothe that part of him that was not, even at the best of times, all that civilized.
She had not at any time drawn back, either from him or from their relationship; her quiet, calm acceptance was both balm to his possessive soul and a wordless reassurance that they understood each other perfectly.
Indeed, words had never featured much between them. Aside from all else, he’d always believed actions spoke louder.
Sitting on the bed, he removed his shoes, then shrugged out of his coat. He stripped off his waistcoat, untied his cravat, all the while watching her brush the long, mahogany tresses that spilled down her back, a silken river reaching nearly to her waist.
When she laid down the brush and stood, he crossed to her. Bending his head, murmuring an endearment, he set his fingers to her laces, and his lips to the sensitive spot where her white shoulder and throat met. When her gown was loose, he forced himself to move away, allowing her to remove the gown, shake it out, and hang it up.
Unbuttoning his shirt, he inwardly frowned, returning to a thought that frequently nagged; it would be nice to give her more servants, a maid at least to take care of her clothes and see to her jewels…frowning, he pulled his shirt from his waistband. As far as he’d seen, she didn’t have any jewelry.
“Oh.” At her armoire, she turned, through the shadows looked at him. “I meant to tell you—something rather strange happened today.”
Clad in her chemise, she headed for the bed. He started unbuttoning his cuffs. “What?”
Picking up a silk robe, she slipped it over her shoulders. “A solicitor’s clerk called this morning.” Sinking onto the bed, she met his eyes. “Adriana and I were in the park. The man—”
“A weasely-looking fellow in black?” The description had been in Collier’s report; he’d read it before setting out for Richmond.
She blinked, then nodded. “Yes—that sounds like him. He insisted on waiting to see me even though Jenkins told him I’d be a while. Maggs and Jenkins discussed it, then left him in the parlor, but when I arrived home with Adriana and Geoffrey, the man wasn’t there.” She shrugged. “He must have got tried of waiting and left by the front door, but it seems strange that he left no message.”
He’d slowed, stopped undressing, giving her his undivided attention. He considered, then said, “The parlor?”
She nodded.
Biting back a curse, he swung on his heel and headed for the door.
“Tony?”
He heard her whisper, but didn’t answer. Glancing back as he went down the stairs, he saw her following, belting the silk robe as she came, her bare feet almost as silent as his.
Reaching the parlor, he opened the door. The fire was still glowing; picking up a three-armed candelabrum, he lit each candle from the embers, then, rising, set the candelabrum on the table beside the chaise.
Alicia silently closed the door. Her eyes felt huge. “What is it?”
Slowly swiveling, he studied the room, the window seat beneath the bow window, the bookselves flanking the fireplace and one corner of the room, the escritoire against one wall, and a high table with two drawers. “How long was he here—do you have any idea?”
Drawing the robe close, she considered. “It could have been half an hour. Probably not more.”
He waved to the armchair by the fire. “Sit down. This might take a while.”
Sinking into the chair, she drew her legs up, covering her cold toes with the hem of her robe, and watched him search the room. He was thorough—very thorough. He looked in places she’d never have thought of—like the undersides of the drawers of the table against the wall. He found nothing there, and moved on to the escritoire.
“Does this have a secret drawer?”
“No.”
He checked every possible nook and cranny, then shifted to the bookshelves. She quelled a shiver. Barefoot on the cold boards, he hunkered down; his shirt flapped loose about his chest, but he didn’t seem to feel the chill. He ran his hand along the spines, then started pulling out individual books, reaching into the gaps to check behind.
Tony had no idea what he was looking for, but instinct told him there would be something to find. He pulled out a slim volume; the title caught his eye. “A Young Lady’s Guide to Etiquette in the Ton.” Briefly, he raised his brows. Setting it aside, he pulled out a few more. They, too, dealt with similar subjects; clearly Alicia and Adriana had done considerable research before embarking on their scheme.
Making sure he missed no section of the shelves, he worked his way along.
He found what he was searching for behind a set of books on the lowest shelf, close by the room’s corner. A sheaf of papers had been jammed behind the books; drawing them out, he turned to Alicia. One look at her face, her eyes, assured him they weren’t hers.
“What are they?”
Rising, he moved closer to the candelabrum, and flicked through the sheaf. “Old letters.” He straightened them out, laying each on the table. “Five of them.” Sinking down on the chaise, he picked one up.
In a rustle of silk, Alicia left the armchair and came to join him. Sitting close beside him, she reached for one of the letters—he forestalled her, passing her the one he’d already scanned; she took it and he lifted the next.
When he laid down the fifth missive, she was still picking her way through the second. The letters were in French.
For a long moment, he sat, elbows on his thighs, and stared across the room, then he leaned back, reached for her, and drew her, letters and all, into his arms.