A Gentleman's Honor by Stephanie Laurens Page B

murder.”
    The instant he uttered the words, he wished them unsaid.
    Her head snapped up. She stepped back. “I do not understand what right you have to question me—interrogate me— or my family .” Her eyes blazed; her tone was scathing. “In future, please leave us alone.”
    She turned.
    He caught her hand. “Alicia—”
    She swung on him; fury lit her eyes. “ Don’t presume to call me that! I have not given you leave—and I won’t.” She looked down at his fingers circling her wrist. “Please release me immediately.”
    He had to force his fingers to do it, to slide from her skin; she snatched her hand away, backed two steps, watching him—as if she suddenly saw him for what he truly was.
    Her eyes had widened; for an instant, he glimpsed a vulnerability he couldn’t place.
    Alicia fought to subdue the emotions roiling inside her. Her stomach was knotted, her lungs tight. He’d played with her brothers, interrogated them and Adriana, flirted quite deliberately with her. All because… and she’d thought he was honest, that he was trustworthy, genuine…how foolish she’d been.
    When he said nothing, she dragged in a breath. “I’ve told you all I know. Please”—for the first time, her voice quavered—“don’t come near me again.”
    With that, she whirled and walked quickly away.
    Tony watched her go. Then he swore comprehensively in French and strode off in the opposite direction.
     
    He hailed a hackney and headed into the city. Resting his head against the squabs, he closed his eyes and concentrated on getting his temper under control and his thoughts straight; it had been years since they’d been so tangled.
    He’d stalked into the park furious with her for concealing from him such a potentially dangerous connection. Not because that concealment interfered with his investigation, but purely because the damned woman hadn’t availed herself of his abilities—his protection.
    Because she deliberately hadn’t trusted him.
    Stalking out of the park, he’d been furious with himself. She’d questioned who he was, his integrity, and he’d reacted by taking a high hand, which any fool could have predicted would fail miserably—in his case, spectacularly.
    He hadn’t meant it to sound as it had, hadn’t in the least meant to threaten her.
    Eyes still closed, he sighed. In thirteen years of operations, he’d never let his personal life interfere with his duty. Now the two were inextricably entwined. She hadn’t killed Ruskin, but courtesy of whoever had started the rumors, she was now involved. Worse, he had a nasty suspicion that the person who had started the rumors would prove to be Ruskin’s killer. If threatened, he might kill again.
    He spent the rest of the day in the city, using his erstwhile talents to gain access to Ruskin’s banking records. A combination of suggestion and implied threat, together with his title and the supercilious arrogance he’d learned long ago worked so well with those whose status depended on patronage, got him what he wanted.
    His first stop was Daviot & Sons, the bank Ruskin had favored, exclusively as far as the notes in his rooms went. Ten minutes, and he’d gained access to all documents relating to Ruskin’s dealings. The records revealed no major sums credited to Ruskin’s account, only a trickle of income the bank verified came from Gloucestershire, believed to be derived from Ruskin’s estate. There were no large deposits, nor any large withdrawals. Wherever the wealth Ruskin had used to pay off his considerable debts hailed from, it had not passed through the hands of the Messrs Daviot.
    He proceeded to check all the likely banks; they were located in close proximity, scattered about the Bank of England and the Corn Exchange. Using his success at Daviots to pave the way, he encountered no resistance; by afternoon’s end, he’d established that the city’s legitimate financiers had not facilitated the flow of pounds to Ruskin’s