While moving to the fifth knot of conversationalists, he caught Felicité’s eye, noted her puzzled expression. Realized he was giving the impression he was searching for someone, waiting for someone.
Mentally shrugging, he strolled on.
He was with the sixth group, inwardly debating whether he’d dallied long enough, when he heard two matrons standing a little apart exchanging the latest gossip—the items they considered too titillating for their charges’ delicate ears.
His instincts flickered; he’d noticed there was some flutter—some piece of avid interest—doing the rounds among the older ladies.
The two biddies a yard behind him put their heads together and lowered their voices, but his hearing was acute.
“I had it this morning from Celia Chiswick. We met at Lady Montacute’s morning tea. You’ve heard about that fellow Ruskin being murdered—stabbed—just along the path there?”
From the corner of his eye, Tony saw the lady point into the garden.
“Well! It seems he was blackmailing some lady—a widow.”
“No! Who?”
“Well, of course no one knows, do they?”
“But someone must have some idea, surely.”
“One hardly likes to speculate, but… you do know who he was speaking with just before he left this room and walked to his death, don’t you?”
“No.” The second woman’s voice dropped to a strained whisper. “Who was it?”
Tony shifted and saw the first lady lean close to her companion and whisper the answer in her ear.
The second lady’s eyes widened; her jaw dropped. Then she looked at the first. “No! Truly?”
Lips thinning, the first lady nodded.
The second flicked open her fan and waved it. “Great heavens! And she with that ravishing sister of hers in tow. Well!”
Tony fought to keep his expression from hardening, from revealing anything of the maelstrom of emotions that rose up and buffeted his mind—and him. Inwardly grim, he spent a few more minutes with the sweet young things, then excused himself and headed for the door.
Only to have Felicité step into his path. “You’re not leaving so soon?” She put a hand on his arm; immediately concern flared in her eyes. She lowered her voice. “What is it?”
He hesitated, then said, “I’m engaged on some business. I have to go.”
Her concern only deepened. “I thought you’d finished with such things.”
His short laugh was harsh. “So did I. But not yet.” He eased her hand from his sleeve and bowed over it. “I must go—there’s someone I have to see.”
Her gaze had flicked to where he’d been, then to the garden. He could see the connections forming in her mind. He stepped away.
She looked back at him. “If you must go, you must, but take care. And you must tell me later.”
With a curt nod, he left. For once, he didn’t stop to consider his plan.
Alicia strolled the clipped lawns of the park in the wake of Adriana and her swains. A morning promenade was becoming a regular event in their schedule. The gentlemen preferred the less-structured, less-cramped encounters such a stroll allowed; it gave them more time to worship at her sister’s feet unfettered by any need to pay attention to any other young lady.
She’d countered that by inviting Miss Tiverton to walk with them. Adriana now strolled beside that young lady while five perfectly eligible gentlemen vied for their attention.
The most prominent, and most assiduous, was Lord Manningham. Alicia studied the undeniably attractive figure he cut in his morning coat, pale, tightly fitting breeches, and black Hessians. His address was polished without being oversmooth, his features were handsome rather than beautiful.
He was turning Adriana’s head, and her sister knew it.
It was time, perhaps, to learn more of Geoffrey Manningham.