A Gentleman's Honor Read Online Free

impatience. Hunting a wife was ten times worse than hunting spies had ever been.
    His footsteps echoed. Another, distant footfall sounded; his agent’s senses, still very much a part of him, flaring to full attention, he looked up.
    Through the mist wreathing the street, he saw a man, well muffled in coat and hat and carrying a cane, step away from the garden gate of… Amery House. The man was too far away to recognize and walked quickly away in the opposite direction.
    Tony’s godmother’s house stood at the corner of Park and Green Streets, facing Green Street. The garden gate opened to a path leading up to the drawing-room terrace.
    By now the soirée would be in full swing. The thought of the feminine chatter, the high-pitched laughter, the giggles, the measuring glances of the matrons, the calculation in so many eyes, welled and pressed down on him.
    On his left, the garden gate drew nearer. The temptation to take that route, to slip inside without any announcement, to mingle and quickly look over the field, then perhaps to retreat before even his godmother knew he was there, surfaced… and grew.
    Closing his hand on the wrought-iron latch, he lifted it. The gate swung soundlessly open; passing through, he closed it quietly behind him. Through the silent garden, heavily shadowed by large and ancient trees, the sound of conversation and laughter drifted down to him.
    Mentally girding his loins, he drew in a deep breath, then quickly climbed the steep flight of steps that led up to the level of the garden.
    Through ingrained habit, he moved silently.
    The woman crouching by the side of the man lying sprawled on his back, shoulders propped against the trunk of the largest tree in the garden, didn’t hear him.
    The tableau exploded into Tony’s vision as he gained the top of the steps. Senses instantly alert, fully deployed, he paused.
    Slim, svelte, gowned for the evening in silk, her dark hair piled high, with a silvery shawl wrapped about her shoulders and clutched tight with one hand, the lady slowly, very slowly, rose. In her other hand, she held a long, scalloped stilletto; streaks of blood beaded on the wicked blade.
    She held the dagger by the hilt, loosely grasped between her fingers, pointing downward. She stared at the blade as if it were a snake.
    A drop of dark liquid fell from the dagger’s point.
    The lady shuddered.
    Tony stepped forward, driven by an urge to take her in his arms; catching himself, he halted. Sensing his presence, she looked up.
    A delicate, heart-shaped face, complexion as pale as snow, dark eyes wide with shock, looked blankly at him.
    Then, with a visible effort, she gathered herself. “I think he’s dead.”
    Her tone was flat; her voice shook. She was battling hysterics; he was thankful she was winning.
    Tamping down that impulsive urge to soothe her, shield her, a ridiculously primitive feeling but unexpectedly powerful, he walked closer. Forcing his gaze from her, he scanned the body, then reached for the dagger. She surrendered it with a shudder, not just of shock but of revulsion.
    “Where was it?” He kept his tone impersonal, businesslike. He crouched down, waited.
    After an instant, she responded, “In his left side. It had fallen almost out…I didn’t realize…” Her voice started to rise, became thready, and died.
    Stay calm . He willed the order at her; a cursory examination confirmed she was right on both counts. The man was dead; he’d been knifed very neatly, a single deadly thrust between the ribs from the back. “Who is he—do you know?”
    “A Mr. Ruskin—William Ruskin.”
    He glanced at her sharply. “You knew him.”
    He hadn’t thought it possible, but her eyes widened even more. “No!”
    Alicia caught her breath, closed her eyes, fought to summon her wits. “That is”—she opened her eyes again—“only to speak to. Socially. At the soirée…”
    Waving back at the house, she dragged in a breath and rushed on, “I came out for some air.