A Gentleman's Honor by Stephanie Laurens

more than Tony, was certain just who, or more correctly what, Dalziel was, other than someone it was unwise to disobey, let alone cross.
    Tony headed for the library.
    “The tantalus is well supplied. Do you require anything further, my lord?”
    “No.” Tony paused and glanced back. “You and the staff can retire. I’ll see”—he’d been about to say his lordship; Dalziel was at the very least that—“the gentleman out.”
    “Very good, my lord.”
    Tony continued across the green-and-white tiles toward the library door. The hall was paneled in oak, an airy, high-ceilinged space…it was a night for memories. He could recall running here as a child, with a fire roaring in the hearth at the end, the dancing flames reflecting off the oak, a sense of warmth enveloping him.
    Now the hall seemed… not cold, but it no longer held that encompassing warmth. It was empty, waiting for that time to come again, for that phase of life to return.
    Hungerford and the footman had disappeared through the green baize door. Alone, Tony paused; with his hand on the knob of the library door, he looked around. Let his senses stretch farther than his eyes could see.
    He was alone, and his house was empty. Like it, he was waiting. Waiting for the next phase of life to rush in and fill him, engage him.
    Warm him.
    For a moment he stood silent and still, then he shook off the mood and opened the door.
    Dalziel was in an armchair facing the door, an almost empty brandy balloon in one long-fingered hand. His brows rose faintly; his lips curved, cynical and amused, in welcome.
    Tony eyed the entire vision with a misgiving he made no attempt to hide; Dalziel’s smile only deepened.
    “Well?” Crossing to the tantalus, Tony poured a small measure of brandy, more to have something to do than anything else. He raised the decanter to Dalziel, who shook his head. Replacing the decanter, picking up the glass, he crossed to the other armchair. “To what do I owe this…unexpected visit?”
    They both knew it wouldn’t have anything to do with pleasure.
    “We’ve worked together for a long time.”
    Tony sat. “Thirteen years. But I work for the government no longer, so what has that to say to anything?”
    Dalziel’s dark eyes held his. “Simply that there are matters I cannot use less experienced men for, and in this case your peculiar background makes you too ideal a candidate to overlook.”
    “Bonaparte’s on St. Helena. The French are finished.”
    Dalziel smiled. “Not that peculiar background. I have other half-French agents. I meant that you have experience of Whitley’s side of things, and you have a better-than-average grasp of the possibilities involved.”
    “Involved in what?”
    “Ruskin’s death.” Dalziel studied the amber lights in the glass he turned between his fingers. “Some disturbing items came to light when they started clearing the man’s desk. Jottings of shipping information derived from both Revenue and Admiralty documents. They appear to be scribbled notes for more formal communications.”
    “Nothing in any way associated with his work?”
    “No. He organized Customs clearances for merchantmen, hence his access to the internal Revenue and Admiralty notices. His job involved the dates of expected entry to our ports. The information jotted down relates to movement of ships in the Channel, especially its outermost reaches. There is no possible reason his job required such details.”
    Dalziel paused, then added, “The most disturbing aspect is that these jottings span the years from 1812 to1815.”
    “Ah.” As Dalziel had prophesied, Tony grasped the implication.
    “Indeed. You now perceive why I’m here. Both I and Whitley are now extremely interested in learning who killed Ruskin, and most importantly why.”
    Tony pondered, then looked at Dalziel, directly met his eyes. “Why me?” He could guess, but he wanted it confirmed.
    “Because there is, as you’ve realized, the possibility that