his eyes. “Adriana and I were in the park. The man—”
“A weasely-looking fellow in black?” The description had been in Collier’s report; he’d read it before setting out for Richmond.
She blinked, then nodded. “Yes—that sounds like him. He insisted on waiting to see me even though Jenkins told him I’d be a while. Maggs and Jenkins discussed it, then left him in the parlor, but when I arrived home with Adriana and Geoffrey, the man wasn’t there.” She shrugged. “He must have got tried of waiting and left by the front door, but it seems strange that he left no message.”
He’d slowed, stopped undressing, giving her his undivided attention. He considered, then said, “The parlor?”
She nodded.
Biting back a curse, he swung on his heel and headed for the door.
“Tony?”
He heard her whisper, but didn’t answer. Glancing back as he went down the stairs, he saw her following, belting the silk robe as she came, her bare feet almost as silent as his.
Reaching the parlor, he opened the door. The fire was still glowing; picking up a three-armed candelabrum, he lit each candle from the embers, then, rising, set the candelabrum on the table beside the chaise.
Alicia silently closed the door. Her eyes felt huge. “What is it?”
Slowly swiveling, he studied the room, the window seat beneath the bow window, the bookselves flanking the fireplace and one corner of the room, the escritoire against one wall, and a high table with two drawers. “How long was he here—do you have any idea?”
Drawing the robe close, she considered. “It could have been half an hour. Probably not more.”
He waved to the armchair by the fire. “Sit down. This might take a while.”
Sinking into the chair, she drew her legs up, covering her cold toes with the hem of her robe, and watched him search the room. He was thorough—very thorough. He looked in places she’d never have thought of—like the undersides of the drawers of the table against the wall. He found nothing there, and moved on to the escritoire.
“Does this have a secret drawer?”
“No.”
He checked every possible nook and cranny, then shifted to the bookshelves. She quelled a shiver. Barefoot on the cold boards, he hunkered down; his shirt flapped loose about his chest, but he didn’t seem to feel the chill. He ran his hand along the spines, then started pulling out individual books, reaching into the gaps to check behind.
Tony had no idea what he was looking for, but instinct told him there would be something to find. He pulled out a slim volume; the title caught his eye. “A Young Lady’s Guide to Etiquette in the Ton.” Briefly, he raised his brows. Setting it aside, he pulled out a few more. They, too, dealt with similar subjects; clearly Alicia and Adriana had done considerable research before embarking on their scheme.
Making sure he missed no section of the shelves, he worked his way along.
He found what he was searching for behind a set of books on the lowest shelf, close by the room’s corner. A sheaf of papers had been jammed behind the books; drawing them out, he turned to Alicia. One look at her face, her eyes, assured him they weren’t hers.
“What are they?”
Rising, he moved closer to the candelabrum, and flicked through the sheaf. “Old letters.” He straightened them out, laying each on the table. “Five of them.” Sinking down on the chaise, he picked one up.
In a rustle of silk, Alicia left the armchair and came to join him. Sitting close beside him, she reached for one of the letters—he forestalled her, passing her the one he’d already scanned; she took it and he lifted the next.
When he laid down the fifth missive, she was still picking her way through the second. The letters were in French.
For a long moment, he sat, elbows on his thighs, and stared across the room, then he leaned back, reached for her, and drew her, letters and all, into his arms.
She shivered, and looked up at him. “I’ve only read one. Are they all similar?”
He nodded. “All to A. C. from French captains acknowledging ships taken on information supplied.” Three of the letters were from French naval captains; he could personally verify two of the names. He could also identify from his own knowledge the other two correspondents, both captains of French privateers.
The letters were extremely incriminating. For A. C.
Alicia had never been A. C., and indeed, the letters all dated from before her fictitous marriage had supposedly taken place. The name wasn’t what was worrying him.
She frowned at the letter she held, then shuffled the sheaf. “These are all addressed to A. C. at the Sign of the Barking Dog.”