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. A headache… there was no one out here. I thought to wander…” Her gaze slid to Ruskin’s body. She gulped. “Then I found him.”
Ruskin had threatened her, her plan, her family’s future. He’d been blackmailing her—and now he was dead. His blood oozed in a black pool by his side, stained the dagger now in the stranger’s hand. It was a struggle to take everything in, to know even what she felt, let alone how best to react.
The unknown gentleman rose. “Did you see anyone leaving?”
She stared at him. “No.” She glanced around, suddenly aware of the deep silence of the gardens. Abruptly, she swung her gaze back to him.
Tony sensed her sudden thought, her rising panic. Was irritated by it. “No—I didn’t kill him.”
His tone reassured her; her sudden tenseness faded.
He glanced again at the corpse, then at her; he waved back up the path. “Come. We must go in and tell them.”