He’d scanned the room on entering; Alicia Carrington had not been present. As he moved from group to group, he resurveyed the guests, but she didn’t appear.

While moving to the fifth knot of conversationalists, he caught Felicité’s eye, noted her puzzled expression. Realized he was giving the impression he was searching for someone, waiting for someone.

Mentally shrugging, he strolled on.

He was with the sixth group, inwardly debating whether he’d dallied long enough, when he heard two matrons standing a little apart exchanging the latest gossip—the items they considered too titillating for their charges’ delicate ears.

His instincts flickered; he’d noticed there was some flutter—some piece of avid interest—doing the rounds among the older ladies.

The two biddies a yard behind him put their heads together and lowered their voices, but his hearing was acute.

“I had it this morning from Celia Chiswick. We met at Lady Montacute’s morning tea. You’ve heard about that fellow Ruskin being murdered—stabbed—just along the path there?”

From the corner of his eye, Tony saw the lady point into the garden.

“Well! It seems he was blackmailing some lady—a widow.”

“No! Who?”

“Well, of course no one knows, do they?”

“But someone must have some idea, surely.”

“One hardly likes to speculate, but… you do know who he was speaking with just before he left this room and walked to his death, don’t you?”

“No.” The second woman’s voice dropped to a strained whisper. “Who was it?”

Tony shifted and saw the first lady lean close to her companion and whisper the answer in her ear.

The second lady’s eyes widened; her jaw dropped. Then she looked at the first. “No! Truly?”

Lips thinning, the first lady nodded.

The second flicked open her fan and waved it. “Great heavens! And she with that ravishing sister of hers in tow. Well!”

Tony fought to keep his expression from hardening, from revealing anything of the maelstrom of emotions that rose up and buffeted his mind—and him. Inwardly grim, he spent a few more minutes with the sweet young things, then excused himself and headed for the door.

Only to have Felicité step into his path. “You’re not leaving so soon?” She put a hand on his arm; immediately concern flared in her eyes. She lowered her voice. “What is it?”

He hesitated, then said, “I’m engaged on some business. I have to go.”

Her concern only deepened. “I thought you’d finished with such things.”

His short laugh was harsh. “So did I. But not yet.” He eased her hand from his sleeve and bowed over it. “I must go—there’s someone I have to see.”

Her gaze had flicked to where he’d been, then to the garden. He could see the connections forming in her mind. He stepped away.

She looked back at him. “If you must go, you must, but take care. And you must tell me later.”

With a curt nod, he left. For once, he didn’t stop to consider his plan.

Alicia strolled the clipped lawns of the park in the wake of Adriana and her swains. A morning promenade was becoming a regular event in their schedule. The gentlemen preferred the less-structured, less-cramped encounters such a stroll allowed; it gave them more time to worship at her sister’s feet unfettered by any need to pay attention to any other young lady.

She’d countered that by inviting Miss Tiverton to walk with them. Adriana now strolled beside that young lady while five perfectly eligible gentlemen vied for their attention.

The most prominent, and most assiduous, was Lord Manningham. Alicia studied the undeniably attractive figure he cut in his morning coat, pale, tightly fitting breeches, and black Hessians. His address was polished without being oversmooth, his features were handsome rather than beautiful.

He was turning Adriana’s head, and her sister knew it.

It was time, perhaps, to learn more of Geoffrey Manningham.

Especially as he was apparently a friend of Lord Torrington’s. He who had almost-kissed her, who without provocation let alone permission had deliberately teased her in her own front hall.

The moment flared in her mind; her nerves tensed…

Ruthlessly, she bundled the memory aside—he probably did such things all the time. She refocused on Adriana and her court. Adjusting her parasol, she strolled on.

She had no warning, no premonition of danger, until she heard herself hailed in a voice that cut like a whip.

She whirled, but Torrington was already upon her. Hard fingers closing manacle-like about her elbow, he swung her around and marched her down the lawn, away from the carriageway.

“What—?” She tried to free her arm, but couldn’t. She glared at him. “Unhand me, sir!”

He ignored her. He strode on, forcing her with him; she either had to keep up, or stumble and fall. His face was set like stone, his expression unforgivingly grim. Thunderclouds would have looked more comforting.

She glanced back at the others, strolling on unaware. “Stop! I have to watch over my sister.”

He glanced briefly at her—too briefly for her to read his eyes—then lifted his gaze and looked back at the others. “She’s with Manningham. She’s safe.” Looking forward, he growled, “You aren’t.”

He’d lost his senses. She tugged against his hold, then dragged in a breath. “If you don’t stop this instant and let me go—”

Abruptly, he did both. She’d been strolling along the periphery of the fashionable throng; they were now in an area where no others were walking. They were out of earshot of everyone, too far from the carriageway for any to discern even the tenor of their exchange.

On top of that, he stood squarely between her and the rest of the ton. Cutting her off from the world. Stunned, she raised her eyes to his face.

His black gaze impaled her. “What was Ruskin blackmailing you about?”

She blinked; her eyes grew wide. The world lurched and fell away. “Wh—what?”

He gritted his teeth. “Ruskin was blackmailing you. About what?” His eyes narrowed to obsidian shards. “What was the hold he had over you?”

When she didn’t answer, couldn’t get her wits to stop whirling quickly enough—dear God, how had he found out?—his jaw set even harder. From the corner of her eye, she saw his hands clench; locking eyes, she sensed he wanted to seize her, shake her, but was exercising quite amazing restraint.

“Was. He. Blackmailing you?”

The words were uttered with such force they dragged the answer from her. “Yes—no! That is…” She stopped.

“Which?” He took a half step nearer, towering over her, menacing, intimidating. Aggression poured from him.

And ignited her temper. She straightened to her full height, tipped back her head, met his piercing black gaze. “Whichever, it is no concern of yours.”

“Think again.”

The low growl skittered over her nerves; she dug her heels in even deeper. “I beg your pardon?” Outraged, she held his gaze, absolutely determined not to quail. “You, my lord, are skating on thin ice. Don’t think to browbeat me!”

For an instant, they stood, all but toe to toe, certainly will against will, then, to her surprise and immense relief, he eased back. Reined in the sheer male power that beat against her senses.

Yet he didn’t shift back; his eyes didn’t leave hers. When he spoke, his tone was dark, definite, but harnessed, fractionally more civilized.

“I’ve been asked to investigate Ruskin’s death. I want to know what your connection with him was.”

She stared. “Why? Who—?”

“Just answer the question. What was your connection with Ruskin?”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “We didn’t have any—I told you!”

“Yet he was blackmailing you.”

“No—at least, not in the way you mean.”

He opened his eyes wide. “What other way is there?”

She had to reply; there was clearly no option. “It wasn’t about money. He wanted me to marry him.”

He blinked. His tone lost a little of it sureness. “He was blackmailing you to marry him?”

Lips tight, she nodded. “He…offered me a carte blanche. I refused, and he offered marriage. When I refused that… he thought to pressure me into agreeing.”

“With what?”

She searched his eyes; his demand was precise, implacable. Who was he?—she didn’t really know. “He’d learned something about us—about me—that if it became common knowledge, would make establishing Adriana…very difficult. It’s nothing nefarious or terrible, but you know what the gossipmongers are like.”

“Indeed.” The word was clipped, imbued with meaning. “You spoke with him immediately before he left Lady Amery’s drawing room. I want to know what was said, and exactly what happened to result in you going into the garden and finding his body.”

Whoever he was, he knew far too much. The thought chilled her. He also knew how to interrogate; even restrained, there was a threat in his manner—avoiding his questions wasn’t going to be possible. She had absolutely no doubt his claim of being asked to investigate was true.

“I…” Her mind slid back to that moment in the drawing room, when Ruskin had threatened to pull the rug from under their future. “As I said, I’d declined his offer of marriage. That evening, he came up and requested a private interview. I refused—I was watching Adriana. He insisted, so we retreated to the side of the room. He told me he lived near Bledington, and had seen us last Christmas, in the square at Chipping Norton.”

She refocused on the black eyes fixed so intently on her face. “He’d seen us—we hadn’t seen or met him. Not then. Only after we came to London.”