Spine poker straight, Lady Osbaldestone nodded regally back.

“I believe you’re both acquainted with Mrs. Carrington?”

Alicia curtsied.

“Indeed.” Lady Amery reached for her hands; her eyes glowed with welcome. “My dear, I must apologize for this dreadful business. I am most distressed that it was your attendance at my soirée that has given rise to such unpleasantness. Why, there are any number of widows in the ton, and as we all know, many of those others are much more certain to have secrets to hide. So foolish of these bourgeoisie”—with a contemptuous flick of her hand she dismissed them—“to imagine you had any connection with Mr. Ruskin beyond the natural one of living nearby.”

Her ladyship paused; bright eyes fixed on Alicia’s face, she surreptitiously pressed her fingers. “Tony tells me you spoke with Mr. Ruskin, but it was purely an exchange about mutual acquaintances in the country.”

In the corridor just before they’d reentered the ballroom, he’d primed her with that tale. Alicia longed to turn her head and glare at him; he hadn’t mentioned this little encounter he’d arranged for her.

“Indeed.” To her relief, the glamor she’d perfected over the last weeks didn’t waver; she smiled with easy assurance tempered with just the right touch of innocent bewilderment. “We hail from the same area. Although we only met recently, here in town, we shared a number of mutual acquaintances. It was they we discussed in your drawing room that evening.”

Lady Osbaldestone humphed, drawing Alicia’s attention. The old black eyes assessing her were a great deal sharper and harder than Tony’s ever were. “In that case, you’ll have to excuse those with nothing better to do than wag their tongues and make mischief. For my money, they’ve hay for brains.

“I ask you,” she continued, “even if Ruskin was blackmailing some widow, what has that to say to anything?” She gave a dismissive snort. “The idea of some lady in evening dress pulling a stiletto from her reticule and stabbing him to death is ludicrous. Aside from the fact he was no weakling, and would hardly have obligingly stood still while she poked him, where would she have carried the blade?” The black eyes flashed, at Tony as well as Alicia.

“That’s what I’d like to know. Have you ever seen one of those things? Pshaw! It’s not possible.”

Apparently entertained, Tony inclined his head. “As you say. I heard the authorities are looking for a man at least as tall as Ruskin.”

“Indeed?” Lady Osbaldestone brightened at the news.

“Not perhaps revealing, but interesting nevertheless.” She rose; although she carried a cane, she rarely used it.

She was a tall woman, taller than Alicia; her face had never been pretty, but not even age could dim the strength of its aristocratic lines. Her piercing black eyes rested on Alicia, then her lips lifted, and she looked at Tony. “Send my regards to your mother when next you bestir yourself to write. Tell her Helena sends her fondest wishes, too.” Lifting her cane, she jabbed it at him. “Don’t forget!”

“Naturally not.” Eyes on the cane, Tony bowed with a flourish. “I wouldn’t dare.”

With a glint in her eye, Lady Osbaldestone regally acknowledged Alicia’s bobbed curtsy and Lady Amery’s salute, then glided away.

“Well, there you are!” Lady Amery beamed at Tony and Alicia. “It is done, and Therese will do the rest, you may be sure.” She lifted a hand, waved it at Tony; he took it and helped her to her feet.

“Bien! So now I am going to enjoy myself, too, and see what a stir I can cause.” She glanced at Alicia, and patted her arm. “And you must go and dance, and pretend not to notice, and it will all blow over, my dear. You’ll see.”

Alicia looked into Lady Amery’s button-bright eyes, then implusively squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

Her ladyship’s eyes glowed brighter. “No, no, chérie. That is not necessary—indeed, it is I who must thank you.” Her gaze shifted to Tony. “I am an old woman, and I have been waiting an age to be asked to help. At last it has happened, and you are the cause. It is good.” She patted Alicia’s hand and released it. “Now go and dance, and I will go and make mischief.”

The first strains of a waltz were percolating through the room; Tony offered his arm. “I suspect your sister will be located most easily on the dance floor.”

Alicia narrowed her eyes at him, but consented to place her hand on his arm. He steered her to the floor; seconds later they were whirling.

She took a few minutes to adjust, to regain her breath, realign her wits and subdue her clamorous senses. The physical power with which he so effortlessly swept her along, the shift and sway of their bodies, the subtle repetitive temptation of their limbs brushing, touching, then moving away—the waltz was a seduction in itself, at least the way he danced it.

Surreptitiously clearing her throat, she looked up; she studied his expression, arrogant, latent charm lurking, yet difficult to read. “Why did you ask Lady Amery to help?”

He glanced down at her. “She’s my godmother. You heard her—she’s been waiting for the bugle call for years.” He looked ahead, then added, “It seemed appropriate.”

“It’s you she wanted to help, not me.”

His lips quirked. “Actually, no—it’s you she’s been waiting all my life to aid.”

She frowned and would have pursued the odd point, but a flash of dark curls caught her eye. Turning, she saw Adriana whirling down the room in Geoffrey Manningham’s arms. Her sister was… the only fitting word was scintillating. She drew eye after male eye, and a good many female ones, too. Her delight seemed to fill her and overflow.

Alicia looked at Tony, caught his eye. “Please tell me your friend is entirely trustworthy.”

He grinned; after whirling her through the turns at the end of the room, he dutifully parroted, “Geoffrey is entirely trustworthy.” He paused, then added, “At least where your sister’s concerned.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he won’t do anything you would disapprove of.”

She blinked at him. “Why not?”

“Because if he makes you unhappy, then I’ll be unhappy, and Geoffrey and I have been down that road before.”

She studied his eyes. A vise slowly tightened about her lungs. Then she forced in a breath, lifted her head, fixed her gaze over his left shoulder, and stated, “If you imagine I’ll be grateful…”

Her courage failed her; she couldn’t go on. But he thought her a widow, and clearly had a certain interest, and just possibly imagined….

He frowned at her; from the corner of her eye she watched…it took a moment for him to follow her reasoning, then his eyes flared. His lips set in a thin line. The fingers about her hand tightened; the hand at her back tensed… then, very slowly, eased.

Eyes narrow, Tony waited; when she didn’t look at him, he looked away, unseeing. After a moment, he exhaled. “You are without doubt the most difficult female I’ve ever—” He bit the words off, abruptly stopped as his temper threatened to erupt. When he had his fury once more in hand, he drew breath and went on, his voice low, tight, very definitely just for her. “I’m not helping you in the expectation of gaining any specific…” He cast about in his mind, but could only come up with, “Service.”

Her eyes flicked to his face, wide, curious, wanting to know.

He trapped her gaze. “I want you, but not as a result of any damned gratitude!”

Her eyes remained on his, then scanned his features. “Why, then”—her voice, too, was low, intensely private—“are you helping me?”

For an instant, he inwardly rocked, then he found the right words—words he could say. “Because you deserve it. Because you and your sister and your demon brothers don’t deserve the censure of the ton, let alone being implicated in a murder.”

For a long moment, she held his gaze, then her lips gently lifted. “Thank you.” She looked away; he only just caught her last words. “You’re a good man.”

He wasn’t quite so good as he would have her believe, but he definitely wasn’t expecting her gratitude to stretch as far as an invitation to her bed. He did expect to be invited to her bed, but not because of his efforts on her behalf.

The next morning, he was still… not so much smarting as ruffled, a disordered sensation he appreciated not at all. A vague disgruntlement that she’d even imagined that he might need to resort to gratitude—

He cut off the thought and headed for the Bastion Club.

Sanity in a disconcerting world—a world with females in it.

He was looking for advice. In the club’s drawing room, he found Christian Allardyce slouched in an armchair, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, a news sheet propped before his face. He lowered it as Tony entered.

“Ho! And here I’ve been wondering about these tales of you stumbling over a dead body.”

Tony grimaced. “All true, I’m afraid, and there’s a deadly twist. The game’s fallen into Dalziel’s lap, and guess who he’s tapped on the shoulder?”

Christian’s brows rose. “And you agreed?”

Elegantly sitting in another chair, Tony shrugged. “Aside from the fact that refusing Dalziel is marginally more difficult than taking an enemy battery single-handed, there were other aspects that attracted me.”

“Quite apart from tripping over the body.”

“Indeed. From what we have, the man was a traitor of sorts.” Crisply, he outlined what he knew of Ruskin, omitting all mention of one lovely widow. After describing the payments made by A. C., he went on, “I wondered if perhaps, if A. C. was truly wise, he might have channeled the payments through a moneylender.”