on the cold boards, he hunkered down; his shirt flapped loose about his chest, but he didn’t seem to feel the chill. He ran his hand along the spines, then started pulling out individual books, reaching into the gaps to check behind.
Tony had no idea what he was looking for, but instinct told him there would be something to find. He pulled out a slim volume; the title caught his eye.
Making sure he missed no section of the shelves, he worked his way along.
He found what he was searching for behind a set of books on the lowest shelf, close by the room’s corner. A sheaf of papers had been jammed behind the books; drawing them out, he turned to Alicia. One look at her face, her eyes, assured him they weren’t hers.
“What are they?”
Rising, he moved closer to the candelabrum, and flicked through the sheaf. “Old letters.” He straightened them out, laying each on the table. “Five of them.” Sinking down on the chaise, he picked one up.
In a rustle of silk, Alicia left the armchair and came to join him. Sitting close beside him, she reached for one of the letters—he forestalled her, passing her the one he’d already scanned; she took it and he lifted the next.
When he laid down the fifth missive, she was still picking her way through the second. The letters were in French.
For a long moment, he sat, elbows on his thighs, and stared across the room, then he leaned back, reached for her, and drew her, letters and all, into his arms.
She shivered, and looked up at him. “I’ve only read one. Are they all similar?”
He nodded. “All to A. C. from French captains acknowledging ships taken on information supplied.” Three of the letters were from French naval captains; he could personally verify two of the names. He could also identify from his own knowledge the other two correspondents, both captains of French privateers.
The letters were extremely incriminating. For A. C.
Alicia had never been A. C., and indeed, the letters all dated from before her fictitous marriage had supposedly taken place. The name wasn’t what was worrying him.
She frowned at the letter she held, then shuffled the sheaf. “These are all addressed to A. C. at the Sign of the Barking Dog.”
Her tone alerted him; he glanced at her. “Do you know it?”
She nodded. “It’s not far from Chipping Norton.”
He sat forward. “An inn?” Getting to his feet, he drew her with him.
She shook her head. “No, a hedge tavern. Barely even that. It caters to a very rough crowd—most of the locals avoid it.”
He hid a grimace. The Barking Dog sounded like the perfect address for a villain. He doubted he would get any help from the innkeeper as to who had picked up the letters, but he’d send someone to inquire tomorrow.
Meanwhile…“Let’s go upstairs. You’re freezing.”
He drew her out of the room; she went unresisting, frowning, refolding the letters. Closing the parlor door, he saw her tiptoeing awkwardly to the stairs. Shutting his lips on a query regarding the whereabouts of her slippers, he strode after her, bent, and hefted her into his arms.
She looked into his face, then settled back and let him carry her upstairs. She’d left the door to her bedchamber open; he entered and nudged it closed. The lock clicked shut. She shifted, expecting to be put down.
He strode to the bed and dropped her on it. Filched the letters from her grasp when she bounced. “I’ll need those.”
She struggled up, watched as he crossed to his coat and slipped the sheaf into a pocket. “That clerk put them there, didn’t he? Why?”
“To confuse things.”
She swung her legs off the bed, stood, shrugged out of her robe and laid it aside. “How?” Turning back to the bed, she frowned at him. “What do you think will happen?”
“I think”—he stripped off his shirt and dropped it on his coat—“that you can expect a visit from someone in authority within the next few days. They’ll be looking for the letters, but”—he smiled evilly—“they won’t find them.”
Still clad in her chemise, she slipped under the covers. He looked down as he stripped off his trousers, hiding his smile, pretending not to notice as, once safely covered, she wriggled out of the fine chemise and tossed it to the floor. Once he joined her in the bed, it wouldn’t stay on her; better she remove it than risk him tearing it, or so he had given her to understand.
She was still frowning. “What should we do?”
Naked, he crossed to the dressing table and doused the candle. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. There’s nothing to be done tonight.”
He returned to the bed and slid under the covers beside her.
She was shivering, still frowning, but accepting his edict, turned into his arms as she always did, as ardent and as needy as he. Her openness was a blessing for which he would remain forever grateful; the instant their limbs met, and their lips found each other’s, there was only one thought between them, only one goal, one aim, one desire.
Her chill, her concern over the letters—and his—faded as that simple reality took control, claimed them, heart, minds, and souls fused them. Slumped, exhausted, and thoroughly heated, in each other’s arms, they surrendered, and slept. And left tomorrow’s problems for tomorrow.
Again, Alicia slept in. Lecturing herself that she couldn’t let the practice become habit, she climbed into a new morning gown of forest green, quickly coiled her hair, then hurried downstairs, expecting mayhem.
She came to a teetering halt on the threshold of the dining room. Alerted by the deep rumble of Tony’s voice, she looked in—stared.
He was seated at the foot of the table, keeping order, clearly in charge. Her brothers, of course, were on their best behavior; expressions angelic, they hung on his every word. Adriana… one glance at her sister as she slowly entered was enough to inform her that Adriana was intrigued.
The boys noticed her, and smiled.
Picking up her pace, as nonchalantly as she could she went to her accustomed place at the head of the table. “Good morning.” Sitting, she met Tony’s gaze. Inclined her head briefly. “My lord. To what do we owe this pleasure?”
A smile flashed behind his eyes; she prayed Adriana didn’t catch it, or if she had, wouldn’t be able to interpret it.
“I came to enjoy your company”—he smiled briefly at the boys; he was clearly their hero—“and also to discuss the most recent developments and remind you all to take care.” His gaze returned to her face. “It seems matters are progressing, just not as I’d thought, or hoped. You”—his gaze swept the table—“all of you, need to stay alert.”
“Why?” Eyes wide, David waited.
Alicia felt Adriana’s glance, then her sister leaned forward and looked down the table at Tony. “That odd man who called yesterday but didn’t wait—is it something to do with him?”
Looking straight down the table, Alicia met Tony’s eyes and read the question therein. Briefly, she nodded.
“Yes.” Assembling their collective interest with a glance, he went on to explain about the letters.
She listened, on one level monitoring his words and her brothers’ reactions, on another, thinking rather more personally.
At least he’d changed out of his evening clothes; he was wearing a morning coat of rich, dark brown over ivory inexpressibles reaching into gleaming black Hessians. His waistcoat was striped in ivory and browns, his cravat starched white, severely simple. On the little finger of his right hand the gold-and-onyx signet ring he always wore gleamed; his gold watch chain and the gold pin in his cravat completed the picture, one of simple yet formidable elegance.
He’d left her bed at dawn, as usual; he must have gone home, then returned. She hoped he’d rung the
