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, that 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. Along with his staff, 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, whom 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 his 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 alone would not account for Dalziel’s courtesy in calling on him.
Even if it was just past nine o’clock.
Entering the library where Hungerford, his butler, had left Dalziel to kick his heels, the first thing he became aware of was the aroma of fresh coffee; Hungerford had served Dalziel a cup.
Nodding to Dalziel, elegantly disposed in an armchair, he went straight to the bellpull and tugged. Then he turned and, propping an arm along the mantelpiece, faced Dalziel, who had set down his cup and was waiting.
“I apologize for the early hour, but I understand from Whitley that you discovered a dead body last night.”
Tony looked into Dalziel’s dark brown eyes, half-hidden by heavy lids, and wondered if such occurrences ever slipped past his attention. “I did. Pure chance. What’s your—or Whitley’s—interest?”
Lord Whitley was Dalziel’s opposite number in the Home Office; Tony had been one, possibly the only, member of Dalziel’s group ever to have liaised with agents run by Whitley. Their mutual targets had been the spy networks operating out of London, attempting to undermine Wellington’s campaigns.
“The victim, William Ruskin, was a senior administrative clerk in the Customs and Revenue Office.” Dalziel’s expression remained uninformative; his dark gaze never wavered. “I came to inquire whether there was any story I should know?”
A senior administrative clerk in the Customs and Revenue Office; recalling the stiletto, an assassin’s blade, Tony was no longer truly sure. He refocused on Dalziel’s face. “I don’t believe so.”
He knew that Dalziel would have noted his hesitation; equally, he knew that his erstwhile commander would accept his assessment.
Dalziel did, with an inclination of his head. He rose. Met Tony’s eyes. “If there’s any change in the situation, do let me know.”
With a polite nod, he headed for the door.
Tony saw him into the hall and handed him into the care of a footman; retreating to the library, he wondered, as he often had, just who Dalziel really was. Like recognized like; he was certainly of the aristocracy, with his finely hewn Norman features, pale skin and sable hair, yet Tony had checked enough to know Dalziel wasn’t his last name. Dalziel was slightly shorter and leaner than the men he had commanded, all ex-Guardsmen, yet he projected an aura of lethal purpose that, in a roomful of larger men, would instantly mark him as the most dangerous.
The one man a wise man would never take his eye from.
The door to the street shut; a second later, Hungerford appeared with a tray bearing a steaming cup of coffee. Tony took it with a grateful murmur; like all excellent butlers, Hungerford always seemed to know what he required without having to be told.
“Shall I ask Cook to send up your breakfast, my lord?”
He nodded. “Yes—I’ll be going out shortly.”
Hungerford asked no more, but silently left him.
Tony savored the coffee, along with the premonition Dalziel’s appearance and his few words had sent tingling along his nerves.
He was too wise to ignore or dismiss the warning, yet, in this case, he wasn’t personally involved.
But she might be.
Dalziel’s query gave him the perfect excuse to learn more of her. Indeed, given Whitehall’s interest, it seemed incumbent upon him to do so. To assure himself that there wasn’t anything more nefarious than murder behind Ruskin’s death.
He needed to find the lady.
TWO
HE REGRETTED NOT ASKING HER NAME, BUT INTRODUCTIONS over a dead body simply hadn’t occurred to him, so all he had was her physical description. The notion of asking his godmother occurred, only to be dismissed; alerting
Over breakfast, he applied his mind to the question of how to track the lady down. The idea that occurred seemed a stroke of genius. Ham and sausages disposed of, he strode into his hall, shrugged on the coat Hungerford held, and headed for Bruton Street.
The lady’s gown had been a creation of considerable elegance; although he hadn’t consciously noted it at the time, it had registered in his mind. The vision leapt clearly to his inner eye. Pale green silk superbly cut to compliment a lithe rather than buxom figure; the fall of the silk, the drape of the neckline, all screamed of an expert modiste’s touch.
According to Hungerford, Bruton Street was still home to the ton’s most fashionable modistes. Tony started at the nearer end, calmly walking into Madame Francesca’s salon and demanding to see Madame.
Madame was delighted to receive him, but regretfully—and it truly was regretfully—could not help him.
That refrain was repeated all the way down the street. By the time he reached Madame Franchot’s establishment at the other end, Tony had run out of patience. After enduring fifteen minutes of Madame’s earnest inquiries regarding his mother’s health, he escaped, no wiser.
Going slowly down the stairs, he wondered where the devil else one of his lady’s ilk might obtain her gowns. Reaching the street door, he opened it.
And saw, large as life, walking along the opposite side of the street, the lady herself. So she did come to Bruton Street.
She was walking briskly, absorbed in conversation with a veritable stunner—a younger lady of what even to Tony’s jaded eye registered as quite fabulous charms.
He waited inside the doorway until they walked farther on, then went out, closed the door, crossed the street, and fell in in their wake, some twenty yards behind. Not so close that the lady might sense his presence, or see him immediately behind her should she glance around, yet not so far that he risked losing them should they enter any of the shops lining the street.
Somewhat to his surprise, they didn’t. They walked on, engrossed in their discussion; reaching Berkeley Square, they continued around it.
He followed.
