Impulsively, Tony stepped forward, driven to take her in his arms; catching himself, he halted. Sensing his presence, she looked up.
A delicate, heart-shaped face, complexion as pale as snow, dark eyes wide with shock, looked at him blankly.
Then, with a visible effort, she gathered herself. “I think he’s dead.”
Her tone was flat; her voice shook. She was clearly battling hysterics; he was thankful she was winning.
Tamping down that irrational urge to soothe her, shield her, a ridiculously primitive feeling but unexpectedly powerful, he walked closer. Forcing his gaze from her, he scanned the body, then reached for the dagger. She surrendered it with a shudder, not just of shock but of revulsion.
“Where was it?” He kept his tone impersonal, businesslike. He crouched down, waited…
After an instant, she responded, “In his left side. It had fallen almost out…I didn’t realize…” Her voice started to rise, became thready and died.
“A Mr. Ruskin—William Ruskin.”
He glanced up. “You knew him.”
He hadn’t thought it possible, but her eyes widened even more. “No!” Then she caught her breath, closed her eyes, made a valiant and quite transparent attempt to catch her wits. “That is…”—she opened her eyes again —“only to speak to. Socially. At the soiree…”
With her free hand, she waved back at the house. She dragged in a breath and rushed on, “I came out for some air. A headache…there was no one out here. I thought to wander…” Her gaze returned to the body. She gulped. “Then I found him.”
Tony rose, shifting so that in looking at him, she was no longer looking at the body. “Did you see anyone leaving?”
She stared at him. “No.” She glanced around, taking in the silent shadows, then abruptly swung her gaze back to him.
He sensed her sudden thought, her rising panic. Was irritated by it. “No—I didn’t kill him.”
His tone seemed to reassure her; her sudden tenseness eased fractionally.
He glanced again at the sprawled corpse, then at her; he waved back up the path. “Come. We must go in and tell them.”
She blinked at him.
Moving slowly, he reached for her elbow. She permitted it, let him turn her, unresisting, and steer her back toward the terrace. She moved like a puppet, still very much in shock. He glanced at her pale face, but the shadows revealed little. “Did Ruskin have a wife, do you know?”
She started; he felt the jerk through his hold on her arm. From beneath her lashes, she cast him a shocked glance. “No.” Her voice was tight, strained. Finding his gaze on her face, she looked ahead. “No wife.”
If anything, she’d paled even more. He prayed she wouldn’t swoon, at least not before he got her inside. Appearing at his godmother’s soiree via the terrace doors with a lady senseless in his arms would create a stir even more intense than murder.
She started shaking as they went up the steps, but she didn’t let go; she clung to her composure with a grim determination he was experienced enough to admire.
The terrace doors were ajar; they walked into the drawing room without attracting any particular attention. Finally in good light, he looked down at her, studied her, with his gaze traced her features, the straight, finely chiseled nose, her lips a trifle too wide, yet full, lush and tempting. She was above average in height, her dark hair piled high in gleaming coils on her head, exposing the delicate curve of her nape, the fine bones of her shoulders. Despite the circumstances, he felt the unmistakable flare of sensual attraction; given his earlier impulse, he wasn’t all that surprised.
She looked up, met his gaze. Her eyes were more green than hazel, large and well-set under arched brows; they were presently wide, their expression dazed, distant. Haunted.
He recognized the signs, but she seemed in no danger of succumbing to the vapors. Spying a chair along the wall, he guided her to it; she sank down with relief. “I must speak with Lady Amery’s butler. If you’ll remain here, I’ll send a footman with a glass of water.”
Her eyes lifted to his face. Her expression remained almost blank. “Please. If you would…”
He inclined his head; he was conscious of an inward wrench as he turned and headed into the crowd.
He found a footman first and dispatched him to revive the lady. Ignoring the many who tried to catch his eye, he found Clusters, the Amerys’ butler, in the hall, and pulled him into the library to explain the situation and give the necessary orders.
He’d been visiting Amery House since he’d been six months old; the staff knew him well. They acted on his orders, summoning his lordship from the cardroom and her ladyship from the drawing room, and sending a footman running for the Watch.
He wasn’t entirely surprised by the ensuing circus; his godmother was French, after all, and in this instance, she was ably supported by the Watch captain, a supercilious sort who saw difficulties where none existed. Having taken the man’s measure with one glance, Tony omitted mentioning the lady’s presence. There was in his view no reason to expose her to further and unnecessary trauma; given the dead man’s size and the way she’d held the dagger, it was difficult if not impossible to convincingly cast her as the killer.
The man he’d seen leaving by the garden gate was much more likely to have done the deed.
Besides, he didn’t know the lady’s name.
That thought was uppermost in his mind when, finally free of the responsibility of finding a dead body, he returned to the drawing room and discovered the lady gone. She wasn’t where he’d left her; he quickly scouted the rooms, but she was no longer among the guests.
The number of guests had thinned appreciably. No doubt she’d been with others, perhaps a husband, and they’d had to leave…
The possibility put a rein on his thoughts, dampened his enthusiasm.
Glibly extricating himself from the clinging coils of a particularly tenacious matron with two daughters to marry off, he slid into the hall, and headed for the front door.
On the front steps, he paused, and drew in a deep breath. The night was crisp; a sharp frost hung in the air.
His mind remained full of the lady.
He was conscious of a certain disappointment. He hadn’t expected her gratitude, yet…he wouldn’t have minded a chance to look into those wide green eyes again, to have them focus on him when they weren’t glazed with shock.
To look deep and see if she, too, had felt that stirring, the quickening in the blood, the first flicker of heat.
In the distance a bell tolled the hour. Drawing in another breath, he went down the steps and headed home.
Home was a quiet, silent place, a huge old house with only him in it. And his staff of servants, who were usually zealous in preserving him from all undue aggravation.
It was therefore a rude shock to be shaken awake by his father’s valet, who he’d inherited along with the title, and informed that there was a gentleman downstairs wishful of speaking with him even though it was only nine o’clock.
When asked to state his business, the gentleman had replied that his name was Dalziel and their master would assuredly see him.
Accepting that no one in their right mind would claim to be Dalziel if they weren’t, Tony grumbled mightily but consented to rise and get dressed.
Curiosity propelled him downstairs; in the past, he and his peers had always been summoned to wait on Dalziel in his office in Whitehall. Of course, he was no longer one of Dalziel’s minions, yet he couldn’t help feeling that that alone would not account for Dalziel’s courtesy in calling on him.
Even if it was just past nine o’clock.
