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.
“There was nothing you could have done—he was already dead and you saw nothing to the point.” Adriana stated the facts decisively. “Nothing would have been gained and no point served by you becoming further involved.”
“Indeed,” Alicia agreed. She just wished she could rid herself of the niggling concern that she should have waited in Lady Amery’s drawing room, at least for the gentleman to return. He’d been uncommonly sensible and supportive; she should have thanked him properly. There was also the worry that he might have become embroiled in difficulties over finding a dead body—she had no idea of the correct procedures, or even if there were correct procedures—yet he’d seemed so competent, doubtless she was worrying over nothing.
She was still jumpy, nervy, hardly surprising but she couldn’t allow even a murder to distract her from their plan. Too much depended on it.
“I do hope Pennecuik can get that lilac silk for us—it’s a perfect shade to stand out among the other pastels.” Adriana glanced at her. “I rather think that design with the frogged jacket would suit—do you remember it?”
Alicia admitted she did. Adriana was trying to distract her, to deflect her thoughts into more practical and productive avenues. They’d just come from visiting Mr. Pennecuik’s warehouse, located behind the modistes’ salons at the far end of Bruton Street. Mr. Pennecuik supplied the trade with the very best materials; he now also supplied Mrs. Carrington of Waverton Street with the stuffs for the elegant gowns in which she and her beautiful sister, Miss Pevensey, graced the ton’s entertainments.
A most amicable arrangement had been reached. Mr. Pennecuik supplied her with the most exclusive fabrics at a considerable discount in return for her telling all those who asked—as hordes of matrons did and would when they clapped eyes on Adriana—that insisting on the best fabric was the key to gaining the most from one’s modiste, and the fabrics from Mr. Pennecuik’s were unquestionably the best.
As she patronized no modiste, the presumption was that she employed a private seamstress. The truth was she and Adriana, aided by their old nurse, Fitchett, sewed all their gowns. No one, however, needed to know that, and so everyone was pleased with the arrangement.
“Dark purple frogging.” Alicia narrowed her eyes, creating the gown in her mind. “With ribbons of an in-between shade to edge the hems.”
“Oh, yes! I saw that on a gown last night—it looked quite stunning.”
Adriana prattled on. Alicia nodded and hmmed at the right points; inwardly, she returned to the nagging possibility that continued to disturb her.
The gentleman had stated he wasn’t the murderer. She’d believed him—still did—but didn’t know why. It would have been so easy…he might have heard her on the path, propped Ruskin against the tree, hid in the shadows and waited for her to “discover” Ruskin, then walked up and “discovered” her. If anyone asked, she would be honor-bound to state he’d come up after she’d found Ruskin already dead.
Already stabbed.
The memory of the dagger sliding out…she shivered.
Adriana glanced at her, then tightened their linked arms, pressing closer. “Stop thinking about it!”
“I can’t.” It wasn’t Ruskin she was thinking most about, but the man who had emerged from the shadows; despite all, it was he who lingered most strongly in her mind.
Determinedly she redirected her thoughts to the crux of her worries. “After all our luck to date, I can’t help but worry that some whisper of my involvement with so scandalous a thing as murder will out, and will affect your chances.” She met Adriana’s gaze. “We all have so much riding on this.”
Adriana’s smile was truly charming; she was no giddy miss, but a sensible female not easily influenced by man or fate. “Just show me the field and leave the rest to me. I assure you I’m up to it, and while I’m swishing my skirts, you can retreat into the shadows if you wish. But truly, I think it unlikely any news of this murder, much less your part in it, will surface, beyond, of course, the customary ‘How unfortunate.’”
Alicia grimaced.
“Now,” Adriana continued, “I gather from Miss Tiverton that there’ll be quite a different crowd at Lady Mott’s tonight. Apparently, her ladyship has a wide acquaintance in the counties, and what with everyone coming up to town early, there’s sure to be many at her ball tonight. I think the cerise-and-white stripes will be best for me tonight, and perhaps the dark plum for you.”
Alicia let Adriana fill her ears with sartorial plans. Turning into Waverton Street, they headed for their door.
From the corner of the street, Tony watched them climb the steps and enter, waited until the door shut, then ambled past. No one watching him would have noticed his interest.
At the end of Waverton Street he paused, smiled to himself, then headed home.
Lady Mott’s ball had been talked of as a small affair.
The ballroom was certainly small. The