Here, the company were the crème de la crème; only those accepted into the most rarefied of tonnish circles were present. The duchess remained with them for some time, introducing them to numerous others. Her generosity and determination added to the weight bearing down on Alicia’s conscience.

Then a waltz started up, and Tony swept her onto the floor and into an interlude of pleasant distraction. She knew better than to think of the nebulous worry dogging her, not while in his arms; he was guaranteed to notice, and question, then interrogate further, and that she was not ready for.

So she laughed and smiled at his witticisms, eventually insisting he return her to Adriana’s side. They joined her sister’s circle. Although in this venue the attractions of those who had gravitated into Adriana’s orbit was exceptional, it was clear, at least to Alicia, that her sister’s decision to lean on Geoffrey Manningham’s arm was not affected in the remotest degree.

Inwardly sighing, she made a mental note to arrange to speak with Geoffrey soon, to explain their financial state. Oddly, the prospect did not fill her with the dread she’d once thought it would.

Brows faintly rising, she realized she now knew Geoffrey too well to imagine mere money, or even their scheme, would weigh overmuch with him. His devotion to Adriana had remained unwaveringly constant throughout the weeks; indeed, it had only strengthened and grown. Adriana, at least, would achieve the goal they’d aimed for.

Her thoughts turned to herself; feeling a stir beside her, she abruptly pushed them aside, away, and turned.

“My dear Mrs. Carrington.” Sir Freddie Caudel bowed and shook the hand she offered. He glanced around, then met her gaze. He lowered his voice. “I can’t tell you how distressed I am to have learned of the problem besetting you.”

Alicia blinked; the phrasing sounded rather strange, but Sir Freddie was one of the old school, somewhat formal in his ways.

“However, it seems the ladies of the ton have rallied to your cause—you must be grateful to have gained the support of such champions.”

She’d learned that many gentlemen disapproved of the social power the grandes dames wielded; the edge to Sir Freddie’s words suggested he was one. “Indeed,” she replied, calmly serene. “I can’t tell you what a relief it’s been. The ladies have been so kind.”

He inclined his head, looking away over the crowd. “It’s to be hoped this man will be identified soon. Is there any information as to who the blackguard is?”

She hesitated, then murmured, “There are a number of avenues of investigation in hand, I believe. Lord Torrington could tell you more.”

Sir Freddie glanced at Tony, on her other side, presently engaged with Miss Pontefract. Sir Freddie’s lips curved lightly. “I don’t believe I’ll disturb him—it was purely an idle question.”

Alicia smiled and turned the conversation to the latest play, which she hoped to see during the next week. Sir Freddie remained for several minutes, urbanely chatting, then he excused himself and moved to Adriana’s side.

Turning back to Tony, Alicia saw he’d been tracking Sir Freddie. She raised her brows quizzically.

“Has he spoken—or even hinted—yet?”

“No—and don’t speak of it. I’m hoping not to tempt fate.” On a spurt of decision, she made a silent vow to speak with Geoffrey as soon as possible. There was no need to put Sir Freddie to the trouble of asking for Adriana’s hand—no need for her to have to face the ordeal of politely refusing him.

To her relief, the evening rolled on in pleasant vein. Nothing of any great note occurred, no difficult situation arose to challenge her, or them. The small hours of the morning saw them heading back to Waverton Street, tired but content with the way their plans had gone. Geoffrey parted from them at their door. Tony accompanied them in, ultimately accompanying her up the stairs to her bedchamber, and her bed.

Tony shrugged off his coat, dropped it on the chair, felt very much as if he was shedding some physical restraint along with his social facade.

I don’t like this. No more do I.

Charles’s words, his answer. A statement that grew more accurate with each passing day. Despite his erstwhile occupation, its shadowy nature and often nebulous threats, he and his colleagues had always, ultimately, dealt with foes face-to-face. Once the engagement had commenced, they’d always known the enemy.

Never had he had to cope with a situation like this. The action had commenced with Ruskin’s murder; subsequent acts, strikes at their side, had been mounted and executed with impunity, causing damage and difficulty in their camp. A. C. had forced them to respond, to deploy to meet his threats and the actions he’d unleashed, yet even though they’d managed thus far to weather all he’d thrown at them, they’d yet to sight his face.

An unknown enemy, with unassessed capabilities, made the battle that much harder to win.

Yet it was a battle he could not lose.

Glancing across the darkened room, he watched Alicia, sitting at her dressing table, brush out her long hair.

He couldn’t even contemplate conceding a minor skirmish; there was too much here that was now too precious to him.

Yanking his shirt from his waistband, he looked down, started sliding buttons free. Beneath the loosening linen, he shifted his shoulders, aware of muscles subtly easing in one way, tensing in another. A primitive want welling as the civilized screen fell.

I want him.

Dalziel’s tone had been lethal, yet no more than an echo of his own resolve. Whatever it took, he would find A. C. and ensure he was brought to justice. The villain had focused on Alicia, struck at her not once but multiple times; for him, there could be no rest until A. C. was caught.

Yet they did not, after weeks of searching, even know his name.

He shrugged off his shirt and felt the last shreds of social restraint fall from him. For a long moment, he stood, his shirt bunched in his hands, staring unseeing at the floor, inwardly watching the volcano of his emotions surge and swell.

The scraping of wood on wood snapped him out of his state. Alicia stood, pushing back her dressing stool.

He dropped his shirt on the chair; unbidden, he padded barefoot across the room to help with her laces.

She glanced at his face, then gave him her back. He could feel his need building; rapidly, with far less than his customary languid sophistication, he unpicked the knots, hooked the laces free.

He glanced up, met her gaze in the mirror.

Saw that she’d sensed the change in him.

She searched his face, then looked down.

Normally, he would have stepped back, given her space to remove her gown…he didn’t move.

Nor did she. Instead, she looked up, again met his eyes.

Her gaze was direct, questioning, waiting.

He dragged in a slow, deep breath, and reached for her.

Stripped the gown from her, let it and her chemise pool about her feet. Murmured darkly as he stepped close and wrapped his arms about her, locking her silken back to his bare chest, spreading his hands and claiming her glorious bounty. He shifted evocatively against her. Bending his head, he whispered, half in French, half in English, asking her to put her foot on the stool and remove her ruched garters and silk stockings.

Her breath shuddered as she breathed in, and complied.

While she did…he let his hands roam. Let them take and claim as his need willed, set his senses free to wallow and seize all she surrendered to him, would surrender to him, in that moment, and the moments to come.

One arm crossing her body, his palm covering one breast, fingers evocatively kneading, with his other hand, he lightly gripped her nape; as she bent forward to roll the first garter and stocking down, he traced her supple spine, possessively stroking down, over the back of her waist, through the indentation below it, smoothly stroking over the swell of her bottom, down and around to caress the soft, slickly swollen flesh between her thighs.

With one foot on the stool, she was open to him. He parted the soft folds and found her, flagrantly caressed, then worked two fingers deep.

By the time she’d paused, gathered herself, changed legs, when she finally dropped the second stocking to the floor, Alicia was hot, wet and quivering with need.

Her foot still on the stool, her body riding the repetitive probing of his fingers, she looked into the mirror, from under heavy lids met his gaze.

Breasts swollen and full, peaks tight and aching, her skin heated, her breathing already ragged, she waited.

Withdrawing his hand, he grasped her waist; the instant she straightened and her foot touched the floor, he turned her.

She’d expected something else. Instead, he stepped back, drawing her with him, with one hand unbuttoning the flap of his trousers, the only clothing he still wore.

The backs of his thighs hit the bed. He paused only to free his fully engorged staff from the folds of his trousers, then he lifted her. Ignoring her smothered gasp, he sat and brought her slowly down, setting her on her knees astride his hips.

With the broad head of his staff nudging into her body.

She could feel him there, throbbing, sense the promise of all that was to come. The hot, aching emptiness within her swelled.

She looked into his face, into his black, fathomless eyes. Raising her hands, she framed his face as his hands closed hard about her hips. Under mutual direction, their lips met. Clung, held.

Beneath his control she sensed all he held back, sensed the power, the desperate need.