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one, possibly the only, member of Dalziel’s group ever to have liaised with agents run by Whitley. Their mutual targets had been the spy networks operating out of London, attempting to undermine Wellington’s campaigns.
    “The victim, William Ruskin, was a senior administrative clerk in the Customs and Revenue Office.” Dalziel’s expression remained uninformative; his dark gaze never wavered. “I came to inquire whether there was any story I should know?”
    A senior administrative clerk in the Customs and Revenue Office; recalling the stiletto, an assassin’s blade, Tony was no longer truly sure. He refocused on Dalziel’s face. “I don’t believe so.”
    He knew that Dalziel would have noted his hesitation; equally, he knew that his erstwhile commander would accept his assessment.
    Dalziel did, with an inclination of his head. He rose. Met Tony’s eyes. “If there’s any change in the situation, do let me know.”
    With a polite nod, he headed for the door.
    Tony saw him into the hall and handed him into the care of a footman; retreating to the library, he wondered, as he often had, just who Dalziel really was. Like recognized like; he was certainly of the aristocracy, with his finely hewn Norman features, pale skin and sable hair, yet Tony had checked enough to know Dalziel wasn’t his last name. Dalziel was slightly shorter and leaner than the men he had commanded, all ex-Guardsmen, yet he projected an aura of lethal purpose that, in a roomful of larger men, would instantly mark him as the most dangerous.
    The one man a wise man would never take his eye from.
    The door to the street shut; a second later, Hungerford appeared with a tray bearing a steaming cup of coffee. Tony took it with a grateful murmur; like all excellent butlers, Hungerford always seemed to know what he required without having to be told.
    “Shall I ask Cook to send up your breakfast, my lord?”
    He nodded. “Yes—I’ll be going out shortly.”
    Hungerford asked no more, but silently left him.
    Tony savored the coffee, along with the premonition Dalziel’s appearance and his few words had sent tingling along his nerves.
    He was too wise to ignore or dismiss the warning, yet, in this case, he wasn’t personally involved.
    But she might be.
    Dalziel’s query gave him the perfect excuse to learn more of her. Indeed, given Whitehall’s interest, it seemed incumbent upon him to do so. To assure himself that there wasn’t anything more nefarious than murder behind Ruskin’s death.
    He needed to find the lady. Cherchez la femme.

TWO
    H E REGRETTED NOT ASKING HER NAME, BUT INTRODUCTIONS over a dead body simply hadn’t occurred to him, so all he had was her physical description. The notion of asking his godmother occurred, only to be dismissed; alerting Tante Felicité to any interest on his part—especially when he wasn’t sure of his ground—didn’t appeal, and the lady might have arrived with others. Felicité might not know her personally.
    Over breakfast, he applied his mind to the question of how to track the lady down. The idea that occurred seemed a stroke of genius. Ham and sausages disposed of, he strode into his hall, shrugged on the coat Hungerford held, and headed for Bruton Street.
    The lady’s gown had been a creation of considerable elegance; although he hadn’t consciously noted it at the time, it had registered in his mind. The vision leapt clearly to his inner eye. Pale green silk superbly cut to compliment a lithe rather than buxom figure; the fall of the silk, the drape of the neckline, all screamed of an expert modiste’s touch.
    According to Hungerford, Bruton Street was still home to the ton’s most fashionable modistes. Tony started at the nearer end, calmly walking into Madame Francesca’s salon and demanding to see Madame.
    Madame was delighted to receive him, but regretfully—and it truly was regretfully—could not help him.
    That refrain was repeated all the way down the street. By the time he