Already stabbed.

The memory of the dagger sliding out…she shivered.

Adriana glanced at her, then tightened their linked arms, pressing closer. “Stop thinking about it!”

“I can’t.” It wasn’t Ruskin she was thinking most about, but the man who had emerged from the shadows; despite all, it was he who lingered most strongly in her mind.

Determinedly she redirected her thoughts to the crux of her worries. “After all our luck to date, I can’t help but worry that some whisper of my involvement with so scandalous a thing as murder will out, and will affect your chances.” She met Adriana’s gaze. “We all have so much riding on this.”

Adriana’s smile was truly charming; she was no giddy miss, but a sensible female not easily influenced by man or fate. “Just show me the field and leave the rest to me. I assure you I’m up to it, and while I’m swishing my skirts, you can retreat into the shadows if you wish. But truly, I think it unlikely any news of this murder, much less your part in it, will surface, beyond, of course, the customary ‘How unfortunate.’”

Alicia grimaced.

“Now,” Adriana continued, “I gather from Miss Tiverton that there’ll be quite a different crowd at Lady Mott’s tonight. Apparently, her ladyship has a wide acquaintance in the counties, and what with everyone coming up to town early, there’s sure to be many at her ball tonight. I think the cerise-and-white stripes will be best for me tonight, and perhaps the dark plum for you.”

Alicia let Adriana fill her ears with sartorial plans. Turning into Waverton Street, they headed for their door.

From the corner of the street, Tony watched them climb the steps and enter, waited until the door shut, then ambled past. No one watching him would have noticed his interest.

At the end of Waverton Street he paused, smiled to himself, then headed home.

Lady Mott’s ball had been talked of as a small affair.

The ballroom was certainly small. The ball, however, was such a crush Alicia was grateful that the size of Adriana’s court gave them some protection.

As was her habit, after delivering Adriana to her admirers, she stepped back to the wall. There were chairs for chaperones a little way along, but she’d quickly realized that, not truly being chaperone material, it behooved her to avoid those who were; they were too inquisitive.

Besides, standing just feet away, she was near if Adriana needed help in dealing with any difficult suitor or avoiding the more wolfish elements who had started to appear at the periphery of her court.

Such gentlemen Alicia showed no hesitation in putting to rout.

The strains of the violins heralded a waltz, one Adriana had granted to Lord Heathcote. Alicia was watching, relaxed yet eagle-eyed as her sister prettily took his lordship’s arm, when hard fingers closed about her hand.

She jumped, swallowed a gasp. The fingers felt like iron.

Outraged, she swung around, and looked up—into the dark, hard-featured face of the gentleman from the shadows.

Her lips parted in shock.

One black brow arched. “That’s a waltz starting— come and dance.”

Her wits scattered. By the time she’d regathered them, she was whirling down the room, and it was suddenly seriously difficult to breathe.

His arms felt like steel, his hand hard and sure on her back. He moved gracefully, effortlessly, all harnessed power, hard muscle and bone. He was tall, lean, yet broad-shouldered; the notion that he’d captured her, seized her and swept her away, and now had her in his keeping, flooded her mind.

She shook it aside, yet the sensation of being swept up by a force beyond her control, engulfed by a strength entirely beyond her power to counter, shocked her, momentarily dazed her.

Tangled her tongue.

Left her mentally scrambling to catch up—and filch the reins of her will back from his grasp.

The look on his face—one of all-seeing, patronizing, not superiority but control—helped enormously.

She dragged in a breath, conscious of her bodice tightening alarmingly. “We haven’t been introduced!” The first point that needed to be made.

“Anthony Blake, Viscount Torrington. And you are?”

Flabbergasted. Breathless again. The timbre of his voice, deep, low, vibrated through her. His eyes, deepest black under heavy lids, held hers. She had to moisten her lips. “Alicia…Carrington.”

Where were her wits?

“Mrs. Carrington.” She dragged in another breath, and felt the reel her wits had been whizzing through start to slow.

His eyes hadn’t left hers. Then he slipped his shoulder from under her hand, and that hand, her left, was trapped in his. His fingers shifted, finding the gold band on her ring finger.

His lips twisted fleetingly; he replaced her hand on his shoulder and continued to whirl her smoothly down the room.

She stared at him, beyond astonished. Inwardly thanking the saints for Aunt Maude’s ring.

Then she blinked, cleared her throat, and looked over his shoulder into safe oblivion. “I must thank you for your help last evening—I hope the matter was concluded without any undue difficulties. I do ask you to excuse my early retreat.” She risked a glance at his face. “I fear I was quite overcome.”

In her experience most men accepted that excuse without question.

He looked as if he didn’t believe it for a moment.

“Quite overcome,” she reiterated.

The cynical scepticism—she was sure it was that—in his narrowing eyes only deepened.

Theatrically, she sighed. “I was attending with my unmarried younger sister. She’s in my care. I had to take her home—my responsibility to her came first, above all else, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

For a full minute, not a muscle moved in his classically sculpted face, then his brows rose. “I take it Mr. Carrington was not present?”

A whisper of caution tickled her spine; she kept her eyes on his. “I’m a widow.”

“Ah.”

There seemed a wealth of meanings in the single syllable; she wasn’t sure she approved of any of them. Her tone sharp, she inquired, “And what do you mean by that?”

He opened his eyes wider, the heavy lids lifting; his lips, thin, mobile, the lower somewhat fuller, seemed to ease. His black gaze held hers trapped; he made no move to answer her question.

Not with words.

She suddenly felt quite warm.

Flustered—she was actually flustered.

The music reached its conclusion; the dance ended. She’d never been so thankful of any event in her life. She stepped out of his arms, only to feel his hand close once more about hers.

His gaze on her face, he set her hand on his sleeve. “Allow me to escort you back to your sister.”

She had little choice but to accept; she did so with a haughty inclination of her head, and permitted him to steer her up the room, tacking through the crowd to where Adriana had returned to the safety of her court.

Taking up her position a few steps away, close by the wall, she lifted her hand from Torrington’s sleeve and turned to dismiss him.

His gaze had gone to Adriana; he glanced back at her. “Your sister is very lovely. I take it you’re hoping to establish her creditably?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “There seems no reason she shouldn’t make an excellent match.” Especially now Ruskin was gone. The recollection had her meeting Torrington’s black gaze; it seemed fathomless, but far from cold.

Oddly intriguing. His gaze seemed to hold her, yet she didn’t, in fact, feel trapped. Just held….

“Tell me.” His expression eased a fraction more. “Have you seen the latest offering at the Opera House? Have you been in town long enough to do so?”

He glanced away; she blinked. “No. The opera is one experience we’ve yet to enjoy.” Studying him, she couldn’t see him enthralled by opera or a play. Couldn’t resist asking, “Have you succumbed to its lure recently?”

His lips twitched. “Opera isn’t my weakness.”

Weakness—did he have one? Given all she could sense, it seemed unlikely. She realized she was gazing at him, trying hard not to stare, not to show any consciousness of him, of the potent masculine aura of which, as the confines of the crowded ballroom necessitated them standing mere inches apart, she was very much aware.

She’d been going to dismiss him. She drew in a breath.

“I thought you’d want to know that the proper authorities were informed of Mr. Ruskin’s sad end.” Those fascinating black eyes returned to hers; he’d lowered his voice so only she could hear. “In the circumstances, I saw no need to implicate you. You knew nothing of the situation leading to Ruskin’s death—or so I understood.”

She nodded. “That’s correct.” As if in support of his judgment, she added, “I have no idea why he was stabbed, or by whom. I had no connection with him beyond a few social exchanges.”

Torrington’s black gaze remained steady on her face, then he inclined his head and looked away. “So from which part of the country do you and your sister hail?”

Given he’d just informed her he’d been instrumental in protecting her from precisely the sort of imbroglio she’d been frantic to avoid, she felt compelled to answer. “Warwickshire. Not far from Banbury.” She and Adriana had decided it would be wise henceforth to avoid all mention of Chipping Norton.

“Your and Miss Pevensey’s parents?”

“Are no longer alive.”

That earned her a glance, black and sharp. “She has no guardian other than yourself?”

“No.” She lifted her chin. “Be that as it may, I believe we’ll muddle through.”