“Carrington.” Christian murmured. “That’s a C.”

“Indeed. More confusing, she’s Alicia Carrington, so she is A. C., but she married Carrington about two years ago, so wasn’t A. C. four years ago, when Ruskin first started receiving large sums from A. C. More to the point, her husband, deceased for two years, was Alfred Carrington. Although he can’t be the A. C. involved either, given the way names run in families there may be a connection with Ruskin of which Mrs. Carrington is unaware.”

“Oh, yes.” Jack nodded; for one instant, the dangerous man behind his hail-fellow-well-met cheerily handsome facade showed through. “Second cousin, third cousin, whatever. I’ll check.”

They all exchanged glances, then, as one, pushed back their chairs. They stood, stretched, resettled their coats; as they turned to the door, Christian murmured, “That shipping business sounds decidedly nasty.” He caught Tony’s eye, then glanced at the others. They were all thinking the same thing—that someone had been using the war for their own ends.

“We definitely need to learn what the information was used for, and how,” Gervase said.

“And, most importantly”—Tony followed Christian from the room—“by whom.” That, indeed, was their primary interest.

Tony returned to Upper Brook Street and spent the next few hours attending to numerous matters of business. Under his father’s hand, the Blake estates had grown considerably; he was determined that during his tenure, the family’s fortunes would continue to expand.

The activity naturally brought to mind the family—the people—that fortune was intended to support. When the clock struck two, he set aside his papers and strolled around to Green Park.

David, Harry, and Matthew were delighted to see him. Alicia was rather more circumspect; she greeted him with a polite smile and suspicious eyes. The wind was brisk, perfect for kites; together with the boys, he spent a thoroughly satisfactory hour making theirs soar higher than anyone else’s.

“It’ll get trapped in the trees,” Alicia grimly prophesied.

“Nonsense.” Halting before her, he looked into her eyes. Fought down the urge to see how she would respond if he kissed her there, in the middle of the park with all the nursemaids and Maggs looking on. He forced himself to turn and look at the boys. All three were hanging on to the kite strings, shrieking and whooping as the kite, courtesy of his maneuvering now high above the treetops, swooped and tugged in the wind. “I assure you I manage the reins better than that.”

An instant’s pause ensued, then she replied, “You might. They won’t.”

She was right, but before the kite could come to grief in the leafless branches, he stepped in and took control again, and gradually brought the flapping creation with its long tail safely back to earth.

The boys were ecstatic, their eyes shining, cheeks rosy, glowing with happiness. Walking to join the group, Alicia studied the man about whom her brothers danced; no matter her suspicions, she could not doubt that he, too, had enjoyed the play. His black eyes gleamed as he shared the moment with her brothers; his lips were curved, the normally austere lines of his face relaxed.

As usual, he was dressed with consummate elegance in a perfectly cut dark blue coat over a white shirt, his long legs encased in tight buckskin breeches that disappeared into glossy black Hessians. The wind ruffled the black locks of his hair as he helped her brothers gather the long tail of the kite.

He was sophisticated, worldly, a gentleman of the ton, yet at moments like this she could almost believe she could see the boy he must have been, the boyishly open soul still lurking behind his adult glamor.

When she stopped beside the group, he looked up and grinned, still very much the boy. She smiled spontaneously in return. “Tea?”

The boys instantly raised a chorus of entreaty, but he didn’t take his gaze from her; his grin eased into a smile of quite devastating charm. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

With the boys about them and Maggs following with the kite in his arms, they headed back to Waverton Street.

Teatime was the usual relaxed and comfortable interlude. Maggs brought in the tray. The boys peppered Tony with questions on their latest interest—horses, curricles, and phaetons, and racing the same, while devouring their usual quota of crumpets and jam.

Alicia exchanged a smiling glance with Adriana and sat back, content to let Tony—Torrington!—manage as he would; although his knowledge of such male subjects was patently wide, she now trusted him to know what was appropriate to tell her brothers, and what was not.

It wasn’t them he was intent on seducing; he was more than wise enough to know he’d have more chance with her—

She broke off that thought and looked at Adriana. Busy as usual with sketches of gowns, hats, and accessories, her sister seemed quieter than usual. She seemed to be thinking, mulling—over what Alicia could easily guess.

She leaned closer; under cover of a rowdy conversation about swan-necked phaetons and their propensity to overturn, she murmured, “Mr. King sent a reply. He’ll gather his information and dine with us the day after tomorrow.”

Adriana looked up, held her gaze for a moment, then, lips firming, nodded. “Good.” After a moment, she added, “If there’s any difficulty…I need to know now.”

Alicia patted her hand, then drew back.

Although courtesy of her brothers’ eager opinions Tony hadn’t heard what was said, he noted the sisters’ exchange and made a mental note to ascertain just how serious Geoffrey was. The last thing he wanted was for Alicia to become anxious over her sister’s budding romance. He wanted her attention, as much of it as he could get, for himself.

Maggs reappeared to remove the tea tray, bending a glance on Tony that he read with ease: nothing to report. At Alicia’s command, the boys stood and took their leave, resigned to returning to their lessons. As they trooped to the door, Tony looked at Adriana.

She met his gaze, then fleetingly, conspiratorially smiled. Gathering her papers and sketchbook, she stood; directing an airy, “I’ll be in my room if you need me,” to Alicia, she followed her brothers out of the door, shutting it behind her.

The instant the door closed, Tony rose and sank onto the chaise where Adriana had been. Alongside Alicia.

She directed a wide-eyed look his way. “Ah—have you learned anything more about Ruskin, about what he was up to?”

Habit prompted him to answer with a simple “No,” and then distract her from the subject, but his decision not to conceal such matters from her weighed against such a tack. “Nothing specific—as I said, I’ve various inquiries under way.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew out the originals of the lists he’d made of ships’ names, dates, and Ruskin’s payments. “This”—stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, he settled back. Straightening the lists, he held them up before him—“are all we have to work with at present.”

She hesitated, but had to lean closer to look.

Her shoulder brushing his arm, Alicia read the entries; she was determined to keep their conversation focused on the safe and highly pertinent subject of his investigation. Relatively safe; clearly, he was not above using every opportunity that came his way to ruffle her senses, even this. His writing was neat, precise, but quite small; she had to press closer still to make out the dates—her senses flared with awareness, of him, of his strength, of the promise of sensual delight her wanton wits now associated with him.

She waved at the lists. “These dates. They seem to be related in some way—not exactly, but…”

He nodded. “We think—”

Without further prompting, he explained what the lists were, what he believed they meant. To her surprise, he even told her what his assumptions regarding the lists’ significance were, what he hoped to learn from the shipping companies, the ports, and the mariners, and how that might indicate further avenues to explore …it was intriguing.

She found herself enthused with a zeal to in some way assist in working out the puzzle of what Ruskin’s information was used for, and why. She’d intended to do something—pushing the investigation to a rapid conclusion would remove the most compelling excuse Torrington had to call on her, to be close to her.

About to ask how she could help, she stopped; why ask? Reaching for the lists, she drew them from his fingers. “May I make copies of these?”

His brows rose, but he nodded. “If you like.”

Tony watched as she stood and crossed to the escritoire standing against the wall between the windows. She sat, drew out a sheet of paper, then settled to copy his lists. A slanting beam of sunlight struck coppery red glints from her dark hair. In the evenings, she wore it coiled high; during the day, the heavy loops were neatly constrained at her nape, the dark silk lustrous against her pale skin.

A fleeting notion of releasing that restrained abundance, of spreading it in a sheening mahogany veil over her bare shoulders, a distracting screen about her charms, filled him. Caught him. Momentarily held him.

She glanced at him, alerted, suspicious, but not knowing why.

He frowned, surreptitiously shifted. “What do you intend to do with those?”

Laying aside her pen, she blotted the lists, then rose and turned to him. “I don’t know. If I have them, then when I think of something…” She shrugged. His originals in her hand, she walked back to the chaise.

His frown wasn’t feigned. “If you do think of anything, or learn anything, promise me you’ll tell me immediately.”