Unfortunately, there was no other way to reach the study; his great-uncle who’d remodeled the house had, he’d long ago concluded, been a glutton for punishment.
The morning room was a light-filled chamber built out from the main house. A few steps below the level of the corridor, it was separated from it by three large arches. Two hosted huge flower arrangements in urns, which gave him some cover, but the middle arch was the doorway, open country.
As silent as a thief, he neared the first arch and, just out of sight, paused to listen. A babble of female voices reached him; the group was at the far end of the room, where a bow window allowed morning light to stream over two chaises and various chairs. It took a moment to attune his ear to pick out the individual voices. Ethelreda was there, Millie, Flora, Constance, Helen, and yes, Edith, too. All six of them. Chattering on about knots—French knots?—what were they?—and gross-something and leaf-stitch…
They were discussing embroidery.
He frowned. They all embroidered like martyrs, but it was the one arena in which real competition flourished between them; he’d never heard them discussing their shared interest before, let alone with such gusto.
Then he heard another voice, and his surprise was complete.
“I’m afraid I’ve never been able to get the threads to lie just so.”
Leonora.
“Ah, well, dear, what you need to do—”
He didn’t take in the rest of Ethelreda’s advice; he was too busy speculating on what had brought Leonora there.
The discussion in the morning room continued, Leonora inviting advice, his old dears taking great delight in supplying it.
Vivid in his mind was that piece of embroidery lying discarded in the parlor in Montrose Place. Leonora might have no talent for embroidery, but he’d have sworn she had no real interest in it, either.
Curiosity pricked. The nearest flower arrangement was tall enough to conceal him. Two swift steps and he was behind it. Peering between the lilies and chrysanthemums, he saw Leonora seated in the middle of one of the chaises surrounded on all sides by his collection of old dears.
Winter sunlight poured through the window at her back, a glimmering wash spilling over her, striking garnet glints from her coronet of dark hair yet leaving her face and its delicate features in faint and mysterious shadow. In her dark red walking dress, she looked like a medieval madonna, an embodiment of feminine virtue and passion, of feminine strength and fragility.
Head bowed, she was examining an embroidered anti-macassar laid across her knees.
He watched her encourage her elderly audience to tell her more, to participate. Also saw her step in, swiftly tamping down a sudden spurt of rivalry, soothing both parties with tactful observations.
She had them captivated.
And not only them.
He heard the words in his mind.
Inwardly humphed.
Yet he didn’t turn away. Silent, he simply stood, watching her through the screen of flowers.
“Ah—my lord!”
With incomparable reflexes, he stepped forward and turned, his back to the morning room. They’d be able to see him, but the movement would make it seem he’d just walked by.
He viewed his butler with a resigned eye. “Yes, Havers?”
“A lady has called, my lord. A Miss Carling.”
“Ah! Trentham!”
He turned as Ethelreda called.
Millie stood and beckoned. “We have Miss Carling here.”
All six beamed at him. With a nod of dismissal to Havers, he stepped down and crossed toward the group, not quite certain of the impression he was receiving—almost as if they believed they’d been keeping Leonora there, trapped, cornered, some special delight just for him.
She rose, a light blush in her cheeks. “Your cousins have been very kind in keeping me company.” She met his gaze. “I came because there have been developments in Montrose Place that I believe you should know.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you for coming. Let’s repair to the library, and you can tell me your news.” He held out his hand; inclining her head, she surrendered hers.
He drew her from the midst of his elderly champions, nodded to them. “Thank you for entertaining Miss Carling for me.”
He had no doubt of the thoughts behind their brilliant smiles.
“Oh, we enjoyed it.”
“So delightful…”
“Do call again, dear.”
They beamed and bobbed; Leonora smiled her thanks, then let him place her hand on his sleeve and lead her away.
Side by side they climbed the steps to the corridor; he didn’t need to glance back to know six pairs of eyes were still avidly watching.
As they passed into the front hall, Leonora glanced at him. “I didn’t realize you had such a large family.”
“I haven’t.” He opened the library door and ushered her in. “That’s the problem. There’s just me, and them. And the rest.”
Drawing her hand from his sleeve, she turned to look at him. “Rest?”
He waved her to the chairs angled to the blaze roaring in the hearth. “There’s eight more at Mallingham Manor, my house in Surrey.”
Her lips twitched; she turned and sat.
His smile faded. He dropped into the opposite chair. “Now cut line. Why are you here?”
Leonora lifted her gaze to his face, saw within it all she’d come to find—reassurance, strength, ability. Drawing breath, she leaned back in the chair, and told him.
He didn’t interrupt; when she’d finished he asked questions, clarifying where and when it was she’d felt under observation. At no point did he seek to dismiss her intuitive certainty; he treated all she reported as fact, not fancy.
“And you’re sure it was the same man?”
“Positive. I caught only a glimpse as he moved, but he had that same loose-limbed motion.” She held his gaze. “I’m sure it was he.”
He nodded. His gaze drifted from her as he considered all she’d said. Eventually, he glanced at her. “I don’t suppose you told your uncle or brother about any of this?”
She raised her brows, mock-haughtily. “I did, as it happens.”
When she said nothing more, he prompted, “And?”
Her smile wasn’t as lighthearted as she would have liked. “When I mentioned the feeling of being watched, they smiled and told me I was overreacting to the recent troubling events. Humphrey patted my shoulder and told me I shouldn’t worry my head about such things, that there really was no need—it would all blow over soon enough.
“As for the man at the bottom of the garden, they were sure I was mistaken. A trick of the light, the shifting shadows. An overactive imagination. I really shouldn’t read so many of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. Besides, as Jeremy pointed out—in the manner of one stating an absolute proof—the back gate is always kept locked.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” She met Trentham’s hazel eyes. “But the wall is covered on both sides with ancient ivy. Any reasonably agile man would have no difficulty climbing over.”
“Which would account for the thud you heard.”
“Precisely.”
He sat back. Elbow on one chair arm, chin propped on that fist, one long finger idly tapping his lips, he looked past her. His eyes glinted, hard, almost crystalline sharp beneath his heavy lids. He knew she was there, wasn’t ignoring her, but was, at present, absorbed.
She hadn’t before had such a chance to study him, to take in the reality of the strength in his large body, appreciate the width of his shoulders disguised though they were by the superbly tailored coat—Shultz, of course—or the long, lean legs, muscles delineated by tightly fitted buckskins that disappeared into glossy Hessians. He had very large feet.
He was always elegantly dressed, yet it was a quiet elegance; he did not need or wish to draw attention to himself—indeed, eschewed all opportunity to do so. Even his hands—she might dub them his best feature—were adorned only by
a plain gold signet ring.
He’d spoken of his style; she felt confident in defining it as quiet, elegant strength. Like an aura it hung about him, not something derived from clothes or manner, but something inherent, innate, that showed through.
She found such quiet strength unexpectedly attractive. Comforting, too.
Her lips had eased into a gentle smile when his gaze shifted back to her. He raised a brow, but she shook her head, remained silent. Their gazes held; relaxed in the chairs in the quiet of his library, they studied each other.
And something changed.
Excitement, an insidious thrill, slid slowly through her, a subtle flick, a temptation to illicit delight. Heat blossomed; her lungs slowly seized.
Their eyes remained locked. Neither moved.
It was she who broke the spell. Shifted her gaze to the flames in the hearth. Breathed in. Reminded herself not to be ridiculous; they were in his house, in his library—he would hardly seduce her under his own roof with his servants and elderly cousins standing by.
He stirred and sat up. “How did you get here?”
“I walked through the park.” She glanced at him. “It seemed the safest way.”
He nodded, rose. “I’ll drive you home. I need to look in at Number 12.”
She watched while he tugged the bellpull, gave orders to his butler when that worthy arrived. When he turned back to her, she asked, “Have you learned anything?”
Tristan shook his head. “I’ve been investigating various avenues. Searching for any whispers of men seeking something from Montrose Place.”
“And did you hear anything?”
“No.” He met her gaze. “I didn’t expect to—that would be too easy.”
She grimaced, then rose as Havers returned to say his curricle was being brought around.
While she donned her pelisse and he shrugged into his greatcoat and dispatched a footman to fetch his driving gloves, Tristan racked his brains for any avenue he’d left unexplored, any door open to him he hadn’t been through. He’d tapped any number of ex-servicemen, and some who were still serving in various capacities, for information; he was now certain that what they were dealing with was something peculiar to Montrose Place. There had been no whispers of gangs or individuals behaving in like manner anywhere else in the capital.
Which only added weight to their supposition that there was something in Number 14 the mystery burglar wanted.
As they bowled around the park in his curricle, he explained his deductions.
Leonora frowned. “I’ve asked the servants.” Lifting her head, she tucked back a strand of hair whipping in the breeze. “No one has any idea of anything that might be particularly valuable.” She glanced at him. “Beyond the obvious answer of something in the library.”
He caught her glance, then looked to his horses. After a moment, asked, “Is it possible your uncle and brother would hide something important—for instance if they made a discovery and wanted to keep it secret for a time?”
She shook her head. “I often act as hostess for their learned dinners. There’s a great deal of competition and rivalry in their field, but far from being secretive about any discoveries, the usual approach is to shout any new finding, no matter how minor, from the rooftops, and that as soon as possible. By way of claiming rights, if you take my meaning.”
He nodded. “So that’s unlikely.”
“Yes, but…if you were to suggest that Humphrey or Jeremy might have stumbled across something quite valuable, and simply not seen it for what it was—or rather they would recognize it but not attribute an accurate value to it”—she looked at him—“I’d have to agree.”
“Very well.” They’d reached Montrose Place; he drew rein outside Number 12. “We’ll have to assume something of the sort is at the heart of this.”
Tossing the reins to his tiger who’d jumped from the back and come running, he climbed down to the pavement, then handed her down.
Linking their arms, he walked her to the gate of Number 14.
At the gate, she drew back and faced him. “What do you think we should do?”
He met her gaze directly, without any hint of his usual mask. An instant passed, then he said, softly, “I don’t know.”
His hard gaze held hers; his hand found hers, his fingers twined with hers.
Her pulse leapt at his touch.
He raised her hand, brushed his lips across her fingers.
Held her gaze over them.
Then, lingeringly, touched his lips to her skin again, blatantly savoring.
Dizziness threatened.
His eyes searched hers, then he murmured, deep and low, “Let me think things through. I’ll call on you tomorrow, and we can discuss how best to go on.”
Her skin burned where his lips had brushed. She managed a nod, stepped back. He let her fingers slide from his. Pushing the iron gate, she stepped through, shut it. Looked at him through it. “Until tomorrow, then. Goodbye.”
Her pulse thrumming through her veins, throbbing in her fingertips, she turned and walked up the path.
Chapter
Five
“Is this the place?”
Tristan nodded to Charles St. Austell and reached for the doorknob of Stolemore’s establishment. By the time he’d dropped by one of his smaller clubs, the Guards, the previous evening, he’d already decided to call on Stolemore and be rather more persuasive. Encountering Charles, up from the country on business, also taking refuge at the club, had been too good a stroke of fortune to overlook.
Either of them could be menacing enough to persuade almost anyone to talk; together, there was no doubt Stolemore would tell them all Tristan wished to know.
He’d only had to mention the matter to Charles, and he’d agreed. Indeed, he’d leapt at the chance to help, to once again exercise his peculiar talents.
The door swung inward; Tristan led the way in. This time, Stolemore was behind the desk. He looked up as the bell tinkled, his gaze sharpening as he recognized Tristan.
Tristan strolled forward, his gaze trained on the hapless agent. Stolemore’s eyes widened. His gaze deflected to Charles. The agent paled, then tensed.
Behind him, Tristan heard Charles move; he didn’t look around. His senses informed him Charles had turned the wooden sign on the door to CLOSED, then came the rattle of rings on wood; the light faded as Charles drew the curtains across the front windows.
Stolemore’s expression, eyes filled with apprehension, said he understood their threat very well. He grasped the edge of his desk and eased his chair back.
From the corner of his eye, Tristan watched Charles cross soft-footed to lounge, arms folded, against the edge of the curtained doorway leading deeper into the house. His grin would have done credit to a demon.
The message was clear. To escape the small office Stolemore would have to go through one or other of them. Although the agent was a heavy man, heavier than either Tristan or Charles, there was no doubt in any of their minds that he would never make it.
Tristan smiled, not humorously yet gently enough. “All we want is information.”
Stolemore licked his lips, his gaze flicking from him to Charles. “On what?”
His voice was rough, underlying fear grating.
Tristan paused as if savoring the sound, then softly replied, “I want the name and all the details you have on the party who wished to purchase Number 14 Montrose Place.”
Stolemore swallowed; again he edged back, his gaze shifting between them. “I don’t go talking about my clients. Worth my reputation to give out information like that.”
Again Tristan waited, his eyes never leaving Stolemore’s face. When the silence had stretched taut, along with Stolemore’s nerves, he softly inquired, “And what do you imagine it’s going to cost you not to oblige us?”
Stolemore paled even more; the lingering bruises from the beating administered by the very people he was protecting were clearly visible beneath his pasty skin. He turned to Char
les, as if gauging his chances; an instant later, he looked back at Tristan. Puzzlement flowed behind his eyes. “Who are you?”
Tristan replied, his tone even, uninflected, “We’re gentlemen who do not like seeing innocents taken advantage of. Suffice to say the recent activities of your client do not sit well with us.”
“Indeed,” Charles put in, his voice a dark purr, “you could say he’s rattling our cages.”
The last words were laden with menace.
Stolemore glanced at Charles, then quickly looked back at Tristan. “All right. I’ll tell you—but on condition you don’t tell him it was me gave you his name.”
“I can assure you that when we catch up with him, we won’t be wasting time discussing how we found him.” Tristan raised his brows. “Indeed, I can guarantee he’ll have much more pressing claims on his attention.”
Stolemore smothered a nervous snort. He reached for a drawer in the desk.
Tristan and Charles moved, silent, deadly; Stolemore froze, then glanced nervously at them, now positioned so he was directly between them. “It’s just a book,” he croaked. “I swear!”
A heartbeat passed, then Tristan nodded. “Take it out.”
Barely breathing, Stolemore very slowly withdrew a ledger from the drawer.
The tension eased a fraction; the agent placed the book on the desk and opened it. He fumbled, hurriedly shuffling pages, then he ran his finger down one, and stopped.
“Write it down,” Tristan said.
Stolemore obliged.
Tristan had already read the entry, committed it to memory. When Stolemore finished and pushed the slip of paper with the address across the desk, he smiled—charmingly, this time—and picked it up.
“This way”—he held Stolemore’s gaze as he tucked the paper into his inner coat pocket—“if anyone should ask, you can swear with a clear conscience that you told no one his name or address. Now—what did he look like? There was just one man, I take it?”