“I do hope Pennecuik can get that lilac silk for us—it’s a perfect shade to stand out among the other pastels.” Adriana glanced at her. “I rather think that design with the frogged jacket would suit—do you remember it?”
Alicia admitted she did. Adriana was trying to distract her, to deflect her thoughts into more practical and productive avenues. They’d just come from visiting Mr. Pennecuik’s warehouse, located behind the modistes’ salons at the far end of Bruton Street. Mr. Pennecuik supplied the trade with the very best materials; he now also supplied Mrs. Carrington of Waverton Street with the stuffs for the elegant gowns in which she and her beautiful sister, Miss Pevensey, graced the ton’s entertainments.
A most amicable arrangement had been reached. Mr. Pennecuik supplied her with the most exclusive fabrics at a considerable discount in return for her telling all those who asked—as hordes of matrons did and would when they clapped eyes on Adriana—that insisting on the best fabric was the key to gaining the most from one’s modiste, and the fabrics from Mr. Pennecuik’s were unquestionably the best.
As she patronized no modiste, the presumption was that she employed a private seamstress. The truth was she and Adriana, aided by their old nurse, Fitchett, sewed all their gowns. No one, however, needed to know that, and so everyone was pleased with the arrangement.
“Dark purple frogging.” Alicia narrowed her eyes, creating the gown in her mind. “With ribbons of an in-between shade to edge the hems.”
“Oh, yes! I saw that on a gown last night—it looked quite stunning.”
Adriana prattled on. Alicia nodded and hmmed at the right points; inwardly, she returned to the nagging possibility that continued to disturb her.
The gentleman had stated he wasn’t the murderer. She’d believed him—still did—but didn’t know why. It would have been so easy…he might have heard her on the path, propped Ruskin against the tree, hid in the shadows and waited for her to “discover” Ruskin, then walked up and “discovered” her. If anyone asked, she would be honor-bound to state he’d come up after she’d found Ruskin already dead.
Already stabbed.
The memory of the dagger sliding out…she shivered.
Adriana glanced at her, then tightened their linked arms, pressing closer. “Stop thinking about it!”
“I can’t.” It wasn’t Ruskin she was thinking most about, but the man who had emerged from the shadows; despite all, it was he who lingered most strongly in her mind.
Determinedly she redirected her thoughts to the crux of her worries. “After all our luck to date, I can’t help but worry that some whisper of my involvement with so scandalous a thing as murder will out, and will affect your chances.” She met Adriana’s gaze. “We all have so much riding on this.”
Adriana’s smile was truly charming; she was no giddy miss, but a sensible female not easily influenced by man or fate. “Just show me the field and leave the rest to me. I assure you I’m up to it, and while I’m swishing my skirts, you can retreat into the shadows if you wish. But truly, I think it unlikely any news of this murder, much less your part in it, will surface, beyond, of course, the customary ‘How unfortunate.’”
Alicia grimaced.
“Now,” Adriana continued, “I gather from Miss Tiverton that there’ll be quite a different crowd at Lady Mott’s tonight. Apparently, her ladyship has a wide acquaintance in the counties, and what with everyone coming up to town early, there’s sure to be many at her ball tonight. I think the cerise-and-white stripes will be best for me tonight, and perhaps the dark plum for you.”
Alicia let Adriana fill her ears with sartorial plans. Turning into Waverton Street, they headed for their door.
From the corner of the street, Tony watched them climb the steps and enter, waited until the door shut, then ambled past. No one watching him would have noticed his interest.
At the end of Waverton Street he paused, smiled to himself, then headed home.
Lady Mott’s ball had been talked of as a small affair.
The ballroom was certainly small. The ball, however, was such a crush Alicia was grateful that the size of Adriana’s court gave them some protection.
As was her habit, after delivering Adriana to her admirers, she stepped back to the wall. There were chairs for chaperones a little way along, but she’d quickly realized that, not truly being chaperone material, it behooved her to avoid those who were; they were too inquisitive.
Besides, standing just feet away, she was near if Adriana needed help in dealing with any difficult suitor or avoiding the more wolfish elements who had started to appear at the periphery of her court.
Such gentlemen Alicia showed no hesitation in putting to rout.
The strains of the violins heralded a waltz, one Adriana had granted to Lord Heathcote. Alicia was watching, relaxed yet eagle-eyed as her sister prettily took his lordship’s arm, when hard fingers closed about her hand.
She jumped, swallowed a gasp. The fingers felt like iron.
Outraged, she swung around, and looked up—into the dark, hard-featured face of the gentleman from the shadows.
Her lips parted in shock.
One black brow arched. “That’s a waltz starting— come and dance.”
Her wits scattered. By the time she’d regathered them, she was whirling down the room, and it was suddenly seriously difficult to breathe.
His arms felt like steel, his hand hard and sure on her back. He moved gracefully, effortlessly, all harnessed power, hard muscle and bone. He was tall, lean, yet broad-shouldered; the notion that he’d captured her, seized her and swept her away, and now had her in his keeping, flooded her mind.
She shook it aside, yet the sensation of being swept up by a force beyond her control, engulfed by a strength entirely beyond her power to counter, shocked her, momentarily dazed her.
Tangled her tongue.
Left her mentally scrambling to catch up—and filch the reins of her will back from his grasp.
The look on his face—one of all-seeing, patronizing, not superiority but control—helped enormously.
She dragged in a breath, conscious of her bodice tightening alarmingly. “We haven’t been introduced!” The first point that needed to be made.
“Anthony Blake, Viscount Torrington. And you are?”
Flabbergasted. Breathless again. The timbre of his voice, deep, low, vibrated through her. His eyes, deepest black under heavy lids, held hers. She had to moisten her lips. “Alicia…Carrington.”
Where were her wits?
“Mrs. Carrington.” She dragged in another breath, and felt the reel her wits had been whizzing through start to slow.
His eyes hadn’t left hers. Then he slipped his shoulder from under her hand, and that hand, her left, was trapped in his. His fingers shifted, finding the gold band on her ring finger.
His lips twisted fleetingly; he replaced her hand on his shoulder and continued to whirl her smoothly down the room.
She stared at him, beyond astonished. Inwardly thanking the saints for Aunt Maude’s ring.
Then she blinked, cleared her throat, and looked over his shoulder into safe oblivion. “I must thank you for your help last evening—I hope the matter was concluded without any undue difficulties. I do ask you to excuse my early retreat.” She risked a glance at his face. “I fear I was quite overcome.”
In her experience most men accepted that excuse without question.
He looked as if he didn’t believe it for a moment.
“Quite overcome,” she reiterated.
The cynical scepticism—she was sure it was that—in his narrowing eyes only deepened.
Theatrically, she sighed. “I was attending with my unmarried younger sister. She’s in my care. I had to take her home—my responsibility to her came first, above all else, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”