“Can you describe this gentleman?”
Running his eye up Tony, the old man grimaced. “I can’t recall much—no reason to, then. But he was decently tall, not so tall as you though, but more heavily built. Well built. He was nicely kitted out, that I do remember—his coat had one of those fancy fur collars, like rippling curls.”
Astrakhan. A vision flashed into Tony’s mind—the glimpse he’d caught at a distance as the unknown man leaving the Amery House gardens had passed beneath a streetlamp. His thought had been “well rugged up”— prompted by the astrakhan collar of the man’s coat.
“And,” the old man continued, “he was a toff like you. Spoke well, and had that way about him, the way he walked and carried his cane.”
Tony nodded. “How old? What color hair? Was there anything notable about him—a squint, a big nose?”
“He’d be older than you—forties at least, but well kept. His hair was brownish, but as for his face, there was nothing you’d notice. Regular features”—the old man squinted again at Tony—“though not as regular as yours.” He shrugged. “He was a well-dressed gentl’man such as you’d find on any street about here.”
Tony thanked the man.
Once on the pavement, he paused, then set off for Upper Brook Street; the walk would do him good, perhaps clear his mind. An A. C. had paid Ruskin large sums for the last four years. Be that as it may, he was perfectly certain things were not as they seemed.
A few hours closeted in his library clarified matters, at least as far as identifying his immediate next steps.
Through Ruskin’s blackmail and fateful coincidence, Alicia Carrington was being drawn further and further into his investigation. Given his personal interest, he needed to regain lost ground rapidly—needed to regain her trust. Doing so would require an apology, and worse, explanations. All of which necessitated a certain amount of planning, which in turn required a certain amount of reconnoitering. His groom returned from the mews near Waverton Street with the necessary details, by which time he’d formulated his plan.
He began its implementation with a note to his godmother, then sent a different note around to Manningham House.
When the clocks struck nine, he and Geoffrey were propping the wall of Lady Herrington’s ballroom, keeping a careful eye on the arrivals.
“I would never have thought of sending around a groom.” Eyes on the throng, Geoffrey seemed to be relishing his role.
“Stick with me, and you’ll learn all sorts of useful tricks.” Tony kept his gaze on the ballroom stairs.
Geoffrey softly snorted.
The strands of old companionship had regrown quickly, somewhat to the surprise of them both. Tony was four years Geoffrey’s senior; much of their childhood had been colored by Geoffrey’s need to cast himself as Tony’s rival. Despite that, there’d been many occasions when they’d combined forces in various devilry; the friendship beneath the rivalry had been strong.
“There they are.” Tony straightened. At the top of the steps, he’d glimpsed a coronet of dark hair above a pale forehead.
Geoffrey craned his head. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Which was of itself revealing. “Remember—the instant they reach the bottom of the steps. Ready?”
“Right behind you.”
They swooped as planned, a perfectly executed attack that separated Alicia and Adriana the instant the sisters set foot on the b
allroom floor. Geoffrey took Adriana’s hand—offered with a delighted smile—and smoothly cut in, drawing Adriana forward while simultaneously insinuating himself between the sisters, cutting Alicia off from Adriana’s immediate view.
Before Alicia could even gather her wits, she was captured, swept aside; Tony propelled her across the front of the ballroom steps and around into their lee, where a small and as yet uncrowded little foyer stood before a closed door.
They’d reached the foyer before she caught her breath.
Then she did. Her eyes swung to his face. They blazed.
He caught that scorching glance, held it. Her breasts swelled; her lips parted—on a scathing denunciation he had not a doubt. “Don’t fight me.” He spoke softly; there was steel in his voice. “Don’t look daggers at me, and for God’s sake don’t rip up at me. I have to talk to you.”
Her jaw set mulishly. She tugged her right arm, firmly gripped in his right hand; his left arm was around her waist, steering her on. She tried to stop, to dig in her heels, but she was wearing ballroom slippers. “If we must, we can talk here!”
He didn’t pause, but looked down at her, leaned closer, drawing her into the shield of his body. “No, we can’t. You wouldn’t like it, and neither would I.”
He released her arm to fling open the door, catching her in his left arm when she tried to step back. He swept her over the threshold and followed, shutting the door behind him, by sheer physical presence forcing her on along the corridor beyond.
She hissed in frustration, took two steps, then swung to face him and glared. “This is ridiculous! You can’t simply—”