“I wanted to apologize…” He paused, raised his head. Again she met his eyes, again found them waiting to capture hers. Something predatory flashed in the rich blackness, then he continued, “Not for this. Not for anything I’ve done or even said, but for how what I said in the park sounded.”
His tone was still low, slightly rough, teasing something—some response—from her.
Her gaze had drifted to his lips; his hands tightened on her back, and she looked up, eyes widening as she felt the heat between them flare again.
He caught her gaze, held it. “I’m not Ruskin. I will never hurt or harm you. I want to protect you, not threaten you.” He hesitated, then went on, “Even this—I didn’t plan it.”
“So—” She broke off, shocked by the sound of her voice, low, almost sultry. She moistened her lips, tried for a normal tone. Didn’t quite manage it. “What had you planned?” She met his eyes, clung to her bold front.
He studied her face, then his lips twisted. “I spoke the truth—I do need to speak with you.”
He made no move to release her. How would an experienced widow react? She forced herself to remain passive in his arms and raised a haughty brow. “About what? I wasn’t aware we had anything to discuss.”
One black brow arched—arrogantly; holding her gaze, he deliberately shifted her against him, settling her in his arms—sending her senses reeling again. “Obviously”— he gave the word blatant weight—“there’s much we could, and later will, discuss. However…”
The room, a small parlor overlooking the gardens, was unlit, but her eyes had adjusted—she could see his face well enough. Although he didn’t physically sigh, she sensed his mind lift from them and refocus on something beyond. A frown in his eyes, he looked down at her, studied her face.
“When did you marry Carrington?”
She stared at him. “Marry?”
His frown grew more definite. “Humor me. When was your wedding?”
“Ah.” She struggled to remember when it must have been. “Eighteen months—no, more like two years ago, now.”
She dragged in a breath, struggled to ignore the way her breasts pressed into his chest, how her nipples tightened, and dragooned her wits into order. He was investigating Ruskin’s death; she couldn’t afford to prod his suspicions. “It was a very short marriage. Poor Alfred—it was terribly sad.”
His brow arched again. “So you’ve been Alicia Carrington for only two years?”
She checked her calculations. “Yes.” She bit her tongue against adding anything more; better to keep her answers short.
He didn’t seem to notice; he seemed, not exactly relieved, but pleased. “Good!”
When she looked her surprise, he smiled rather grimly. “So you can’t be A. C.”
“Who’s A. C.?”
“The person who paid Ruskin for his treasonous services.”
She stared at him. Her lips formed the word twice before she managed to utter it.
Tony grimaced. He looked around. “Here.” Reluctantly releasing her, he steered her to a chaise. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”
It hadn’t come easily, his acceptance that if he wanted her trust, he would have to tell her, if not all, then at least most of what was going on, how he was involved, how she was involved—how she was threatened. He needed her cooperation for reasons that struck much deeper than his mission; that mission—his investigation—was a whip he could use to command her, but only one thing would suffice to make her trust him. To lean on him as he wished her to.
Appeasement—a peace offering, some gift on his part—was the only way to nudge her onto the path he’d chosen. The most important element between them right now was the truth; as far as he was able, he would give her that.
He waited while, with a suspicious and wary glance, she sat and settled her skirts, then he sat beside her and took her hand in his. Looked down, played with her fingers as he assembled his words.
Then, keeping his voice low yet clear enough for her to easily hear, he told her simply, without embellishment, all he’d learned of Ruskin.
She listened, increasingly attentive, but made no comment.
But when he came to how and where he’d discovered the initials A. C., her fingers tensed, tightened on his. He glanced at her.
She studied his eyes, searched his face. Then she breathed in tightly. “You know I didn’t kill him—that I’m innocent of all this?”
Not so much a question as a request for a clear statement.
“Yes.” He raised her hand to his lips, held her gaze as he kissed. “I know you didn’t kill him. I know you’re not involved in any treasonous use of shipping information.” He lowered their locked hands, then added, “However, you—we—have to face the fact that
“I can’t understand it—
“Are you sure, absolutely sure, that your secret, whatever it is, was known only by Ruskin?”
Frowning, she met his gaze, then looked away. Her hand remained resting in his. After a moment, she replied, “It might be possible that, in the same way Ruskin had learned what he had, then someone else might have, too. But what I can’t understand is how that someone could know Ruskin was using the information as he was.”
She looked at him.
“Indeed. Blackmail doesn’t work if others know.” He paused, then added, “From what I’ve learned of Ruskin, he wasn’t the sort to give away valuable information. He’d have charged for it, and—”
Releasing her hand, he stood; he thought better on his feet. “The dates of payments noted in his black book not only match the dates he paid his debts, but also follow by about a week the dates he noted for certain ships.” He paced, caught her eye. “However, there’s no other payment—any unaccounted payment—entered. So I think we’re on firm ground in assuming he hadn’t sold any information other than the shipping directives.”
Halting by the fireplace, he considered her. “So the question remains. Who would he have told about you, and why?”
Her brow creased as she looked at him; her gaze grew distant.
“What?”
She flicked him an impatient glance. “I was just wondering…”
When he moved toward her, she quickly continued, “When he left me, Ruskin was sure—absolutely confident—that I’d agree to his proposal. He”—she paused, blushed, but lifted her head and went on—“was so certain he expected to call the next evening and… receive my acceptance.”
After a moment, she met his eyes. “I didn’t know him well, but given his nature, he probably couldn’t help gloating. About me—I mean, about gaining a wealthy widow as his wife.”
Tony could visualize such a scenario readily, but he doubted it was her wealth Ruskin would have gloated about. Nevertheless…
“That would fit.” He paced again. “If Ruskin, quite unsuspectingly, mentioned his coup—and yes, I agree, he was the type of man to gloat, then…” Bits and pieces of the jigsaw slid into place.
“What?”
He glanced at her, and found her glaring at him; he felt his lips ease. “Consider this. If Ruskin was murdered by whoever he’d been selling his information to—”
“By this A. C., you mean?”
He nodded. “Then if he mentioned he was about to marry, quite aside from any risk from the blackmail going wrong—it’s always a risky business—the knowledge that Ruskin would soon have a wife would have increased the threat Ruskin posed to A. C.”
“In case he told his wife?”
“Or she found out. Ruskin even mentioning knowing A. C., even years from now, might have been
