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.
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.”
Sliding his hands from under hers, he ran his palms slowly upward. Heard the swift intake of her breath as his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts. She stiffened, stilled. He caressed knowingly, reassuringly; gradually, almost skittishly, she eased back.
“How—” She cleared her throat. “How do you plan to investigate…that?”
She was having trouble finding breath enough to speak; he decided to make it harder still. “I have a friend, not exactly up that way, but close enough.” Boldly turning his hands, he cupped her breasts.
Alicia thought she might faint. Her lungs seized; her head whirled. Desperate, she clung to her wits. Dragged in a tight breath. “Ah…what…?”
“I’ll ask him to check in Bledington. See if the initials A. C. mean anything to people there.”
She jerked as his hands shifted, frantically fought down all further reaction. She hadn’t imagined he would…
His voice had grown deeper, darker, more gravelly. Would a widow protest? On what grounds?
Giddiness threatened. She hauled in a breath, briefly closed her eyes, battered by conflicting impulses. Panic that his friend might stumble on more than she would wish. The urge to stiffen—not just in response to that, but to his boldness, to the liberties he was taking… her head was spinning. The countering instinct to sink against him, to arch her spine, press her breasts, now aching so strangely, into his hard hands only added to her dizziness.
Then he closed his hands and kneaded.
She lost the last of her breath. Her senses fractured. Her wits fled.
Beyond her control, her spine softened, gave; she had to lean fully against him, her hands dropping helplessly to brace against his muscled thighs.
His fingers shifted, then closed again. Tightened.
Fire lanced through her. She gasped, arched; eyes shut, she let her head fall back as he repeated the torture, then he bent his head to her throat, now exposed. His lips cruised, then settled.
Hot, wet, his mouth covered the spot where her pulse raced. He kissed, licked, laved, all the while massaging
