The Lady Chosen

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning, Leonora breezed down to the breakfast parlor somewhat later than usual; she was normally the first of the family up and about, but this morning she’d slept in. With a definite spring in her step and a smile on her lips, she swept over the threshold—and came to an abrupt halt.

Tristan sat beside Humphrey, listening intently while calmly demolishing a plate of ham and sausages.

Jeremy sat opposite; all three men looked up, then Tristan and Jeremy rose.

Humphrey beamed at her. “Well, my dear! Congratulations! Tristan has told us your news. I have to say I’m utterly delighted!”

“Indeed, sis. Congratulations.” Leaning over the table, Jeremy caught her hand and drew her across to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Excellent choice,” he murmured.

Her smile became a trifle fixed. “Thank you.”

She looked at Tristan, expecting to see some degree of apology. Instead, he met her gaze with a steady, assured—confident—expression. She took due note of that last, inclined her head. “Good morning.”

The “my lord” stuck in her throat. She would not soon forget his notion of an appropriate finale to their reconciliation the previous evening. Later, he’d dressed her, then carried her out to the carriage, overridden her by then thoroughly weak protest, and accompanied her to Montrose Place, leaving her in the tiny parlor of Number 12 while he collected Henrietta, then escorting them both to her front door.

Suavely, he took her hand, raised it briefly to his lips, then held her chair for her. “I trust you slept well?”

She glanced at him as he resumed his seat beside her. “Like one dead.”

His lips twitched, but he merely inclined his head.

“We’ve been telling Tristan here that Cedric’s journals do not, at first glance, fall into any of the customary patterns.” Humphrey paused to eat a mouthful of egg.

Jeremy took up the tale. “They’re not organized by subject, which is most usual with such things, and as you’d found”—he dipped his head to Leonora—“the entries are not in any type of chronological order.”

“Hmm.” Humphrey chewed, then swallowed. “There has to be some key, but it’s perfectly possible Cedric kept it in his head.”

Tristan frowned. “Does that mean you won’t be able to make sense of the journals?”

“No,” Jeremy answered. “It just means it’ll take us rather longer.” He glanced at Leonora. “I vaguely recall you mentioned letters?”

She nodded. “There are lots. I’ve only looked at the ones in the past year.”

“You’d better give them to us,” Humphrey said. “All of them. In fact, any scrap of paper of Cedric’s you can find.”

“Scientists,” Jeremy put in, “especially herbalists, are renowned for writing vital information on scraps of whatever comes to hand.”

Leonora grimaced. “I’ll have the maids gather up everything from the workshop. I’ve been meaning to search Cedric’s bedchamber—I’ll do that today.”

Tristan glanced at her. “I’ll help you.”

She turned her head to check his expression to see what he really intended—

“Aaaah! Aieee-ah!”

The hysterical wails came from a distance. They all heard them. The cries continued clearly for an instant, then were muted—by the green baize door, they all realized, when a footman, startled and pale, skidded to a halt in the parlor doorway. “Mr. Castor! You got to come quick!”

Castor, a serving dish in his ancient hands, goggled at him.

Humphrey stared. “What the devil’s the matter, man?”

The footman, completely shaken out of his habitual aplomb, bowed and bobbed to those around the table. “It’s Daisy, sir. M’lord. From next door.” He fixed on Tristan, who was rising to his feet. “She’s just rushed in wailing and carrying on. Seems Miss Timmins has fallen down the stairs and…well, Daisy says as she’s dead, m’lord.”

Tristan tossed his napkin on the table and stepped around his chair.

Leonora rose at his shoulder. “Where is Daisy, Smithers? In the kitchen?”

“Yes, miss. She’s taking on something terrible.”

“I’ll come and see her.” Leonora swept out into the hall, conscious of Tristan following at her heels. She glanced back at him, took in his grim expression, met his eyes. “Will you go next door?”

“In a minute.” His hand touched her back, a curiously comforting gesture. “I want to hear what Daisy has to say first. She’s no fool—if she says Miss Timmins is dead, then she probably is. She won’t be going anywhere.”

Leonora inwardly grimaced and pushed through the door into the corridor leading to the kitchen. Tristan, she reminded herself, was much more accustomed to dealing with death than she was. Not a nice thought, but in the circumstances it held a certain comfort.

“Oh, miss! Oh, miss!” Daisy appealed to her the instant she saw her. “I don’t know what to do. I couldn’t do nothing!” She sniffed, wiped her eyes with the dishcloth Cook pressed into her hand.

“Now, Daisy.” Leonora reached for one of the kitchen chairs; Tristan anticipated her, lifting it and setting it for her to sit facing Daisy. Leonora sat, felt Tristan lean his hands on the chair’s back. “What you must do now, Daisy—what would be most help to Miss Timmins now—is to compose yourself—just take deep breaths, there’s a good girl—and tell us—his-lordship-the-earl and me—what happened.”

Daisy nodded, dutifully gulped in air, then blurted out, “Everything started out normal this morning. I came down from my room by the back stairs, riddled the grate and got the kitchen fire going, then got Miss Timmins’s tray ready. Then I went to take it up to her…” Daisy’s huge eyes clouded with tears. “Swept through the door I did, as usual, and plonked the tray on the hall table to tidy my hair and straighten up before I went up—and there she was.”

Daisy’s voice quavered and broke. Tears gushed, she mopped them furiously. “She was lying there—at the bottom of the stairs—like a little broken bird. I rush over, o’course, and checked, but there was no point. She was gone.”

For a moment, no one said anything; they’d all known Miss Timmins.

“Did you touch her?” Tristan asked, his tone quiet, almost soothing.

Daisy nodded. “Aye—I patted her hand, and her cheek.”

“Her cheek—was it cold? Do you remember?”

Daisy looked up at him, frowning as she thought. Then she nodded. “Aye, you’re right. Her cheek was cold. Didn’t think anything of her hands—they always were cold. But her cheek…yeah, it was cold.” She blinked at Tristan. “Does that mean she’d been dead for a while?”

Tristan straightened. “It means it’s likely she died some hours ago. Sometime in the night.” He hesitated, then asked, “Did she ever wander at night? Do you know?”

Daisy shook her head. She’d stopped crying. “Not that I ever knew. She never mentioned such a thing.”

Tristan nodded, stepped back. “We’ll take care of Miss Timmins.”

His gaze included Leonora. She stood, too, but glanced back at Daisy. “You’d best stay here. Not just for today, but tonight, too.” She saw Neeps, her uncle’s valet, hovering, concerned. “Neeps, you can help Daisy get her things after luncheon.”

The man bowed. “Indeed, miss.”

Tristan waved Leonora before him; she led him out of the kitchen. In the front hall they found Jeremy waiting.

He looked distinctly pale. “Is it true?”

“It must be, I’m afraid.” Leonora went to the hall stand and lifted down her cloak. Tristan had followed her; he took it from her hands.

He held it, and looked down at her. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to wait with your uncle in the library?”

She met his gaze. “No.”

He sighed. “I thought not.” He draped the cloak about her shoulders, then reached around her to open the front door.

“I’m coming, too.” Jeremy followed them out onto the porch, then down the winding path.

They reached the front door of Number 16; Daisy had left it on the latch. Pushing the door wide, they entered.

The scene was exactly as Leonora had imagined it from Daisy’s words. Unlike their house with its wide front hall with the stairs at the rear facing the front door, here, the hall was narrow and the head of the stairs was above the door; the foot of the stairs was at the rear of the hall.

That was where Miss Timmins lay, crumpled like a rag doll. Just as Daisy had said, there seemed little doubt life had left her, but Leonora went forward. Tristan had halted ahead of her, blocking the hall; she put her hands on his back and gently pushed; after an instant’s hesitation, he moved aside and let her through.

Leonora crouched by Miss Timmins. She was wearing a thick cotton nightgown with a lacy wrapper clutched around her shoulders. Her limbs were twisted awkwardly, but decently covered; a pair of pink slippers were on her narrow feet.

Her lids were closed, the fading blue eyes shut away. Leonora brushed back the thin white curls, noted the extreme fragility of the papery skin. Taking one tiny claw-like hand in hers, she looked up at Tristan as he paused beside her. “Can we move her? There seems no reason to leave her like this.”

He studied the body for a moment; she got the impression he was fixing its position in his memory. He glanced up the stairs, all the way to the top. Then he nodded. “I’ll lift her. The front parlor?”

Leonora nodded, released the bony hand, rose and went to open the parlor door. “Oh!”

Jeremy, who’d gone past the body, past the hall table with the breakfast tray and onto the kitchen stairs, came back through the swinging door. “What is it?”

Speechless, Leonora simply stared.

With Miss Timmins in his arms, Tristan came up behind her, looked over her head, then nudged her forward.

She came to with a start, then hurried to straighten the cushions on the chaise. “Put her here.” She glanced around at the wreck of the once fastidiously neat room. Drawers were pulled out, emptied on the rugs. The rugs themselves had been pulled up, slung aside. Some of the ornaments had been smashed in the grate. The pictures on the walls, those still on their hooks, hung crazily. “It must have been thieves. She must have heard them.”

Tristan straightened from laying Miss Timmins gently down. With her limbs extended and her head on a cushion, she looked to be simply fast asleep. He turned to Jeremy, standing in the open doorway, looking around in amazement. “Go to Number 12 and tell Gasthorpe that we need Pringle again. Immediately.”

Jeremy lifted his gaze to his face, then nodded and left.

Leonora, fussing with Miss Timmins’s nightgown, rearranging her wrapper as she knew she would have liked, glanced up at him. “Why Pringle?”

Tristan met her gaze, hesitated, then said, “Because I want to know if she fell, or was pushed.”

“Fell.” Pringle carefully repacked his black bag. “There’s not a mark on her that can’t be accounted for by the fall, and none that looks like bruises from a man’s grip. At her age, there would be bruises.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the tiny body laid out on the chaise. “She was fragile and old, not long for this world in any case, but even so. While a man could easily have grabbed her and flung her down the stairs, he couldn’t have done it without leaving some trace.”

His gaze on Leonora, tidying a vase on a table beside the chaise, Tristan nodded. “That’s some small relief.”

Pringle snapped his bag closed, glanced at him as he straightened. “Possibly. But there’s still the question of why she was out of bed at that hour—somewhere in the small hours, say between one o’clock and three—and what so frightened her, and it was almost certainly fright, enough to make her faint.”

Tristan focused on Pringle. “You think she fainted?”

“I can’t prove it, but if I had to guess what happened…” Pringle waved at the chaos of the room. “She heard sounds from this, and came to see. She stood at the top of the stairs and peered down. And saw a man. Suddenly. Shock, faint, fall. And here we are.”

Tristan, gazing at the chaise and Leonora beyond it, said nothing for a moment, then he nodded, looked at Pringle, and offered his hand. “As you say—here we are. Thank you for coming.”

Pringle shook his hand, a grim smile flirting about his lips. “I thought leaving the army would mean a humdrum practice—with you and your friends about, at least I won’t be bored.”

With an exchange of smiles, they parted. Pringle left, closing the front door behind him.

Tristan walked around the back of the chaise to where Leonora stood, looking down at Miss Timmins. He put an arm around Leonora, lightly hugged.

She permitted it. Leaned into him for a moment. Her hands were tightly clasped. “She looks so peaceful.”

A moment passed, then she straightened and heaved a huge sigh. Brushed down her skirts and looked around. “So—a thief broke in and searched this room. Miss Timmins heard him and got out of bed to investigate. When the thief returned to the hall, she saw him, fainted, and fell…and died.”

When he said nothing, she turned to him. Searched his eyes. Frowned. “What’s wrong with that as deduction? It’s perfectly logical.”

“Indeed.” He took her hand, turned to the door. “I suspect that’s precisely what we’re supposed to think.”

“Supposed to think?”

“You missed a few pertinent facts. One, there’s not a single window lock or door lock forced or unexpectedly left open. Both Jeremy and I checked. Two”—stepping into the hall, ushering her ahead of him, he glanced back into the parlor—“no self-respecting thief would leave a room like that. There’s no point, and especially at night, why risk the noise?”

Leonora frowned. “Is there a three?”

“No other room has been searched, nothing else in the house appears disturbed. Except”—holding the front door, he waved her ahead of him; she went out onto the porch, waited impatiently for him to lock the door and pocket the key.

“Well?” she demanded, linking her arm with his. “Except what?”

They started down the steps. His tone had grown much harder, much colder, much more distant when he replied, “Except for a few, very new, scrapes and cracks in the basement wall.”

Her eyes grew huge. “The wall shared with Number 14?”

He nodded.

Leonora glanced back toward the parlor windows. “So this was Mountford’s work?”

“I believe so. And he doesn’t want us to know.”

“What are we looking for?”

Leonora followed Tristan into the bedchamber Miss Timmins had used. They’d returned to Number 14 and broken the news to Humphrey, then gone to the kitchen to confirm for Daisy that her employer was indeed dead. Tristan had asked after relatives; Daisy hadn’t known of any. None had called in the six years she’d worked in Montrose Place.

Jeremy had taken on the task of making the necessary arrangements; together with Tristan, Leonora had returned to Number 16 to try to identify any relative.

“Letters, a will, notes from a solicitor—anything that might lead to a connection.” He pulled open the small drawer of the table by the bed. “It would be most unusual if she has absolutely no kin.”

“She never mentioned any.”

“Be that as it may.”

They settled to search. She noticed he did things—looked in places—she’d never have thought of. Like the backs and undersides of drawers, the upper surface above a top drawer. Behind paintings.

After a while, she sat on a chair before the escritoire and applied herself to all the notes and letters therein. There was no sign of any recent or promising correspondence. When he glanced at her, she waved him on. “You’re much better at that than I.”

But it was she who found the connection, in an old, very faded and much creased letter lying at the back of the tiniest drawer.

“The Reverend Mr. Henry Timmins, of Shacklegate Lane, Strawberry Hills.” Triumphant, she read the address to Tristan, who had paused in the doorway.

He frowned. “Where’s that?”

“I think it’s out past Twickenham.”

He crossed the room, lifted the letter from her hand, scanned it. Humphed. “Eight years old. Well, we can but try.” He glanced at the window, then pulled out his watch and checked it. “If we take my curricle…”

She rose, smiled, linked her arm in his. Very definitely approved of that “we.” “I’ll have to fetch my pelisse. Let’s go.”

The Reverend Henry Timmins was a relatively young man, with a wife and four daughters and a busy parish.

“Oh, dear!” He abruptly sat down in a chair in the small parlor to which he’d conducted them. Then he realized and started up.

Tristan waved him back, handed Leonora to the chaise, and sat beside her. “So you were acquainted with Miss Timmins?”

“Oh, yes—she was my great-aunt.” Pale, he glanced from one to the other. “We weren’t at all close—indeed, she always seemed most nervous when I called. I did write a few times, but she never replied…” He blushed. “And then I got my preferment…and married…that sounds so unfeeling, yet she wasn’t at all encouraging, you know.”

Tristan squeezed Leonora’s hand, warning her to silence; he inclined his head impassively. “Miss Timmins passed away last night, but not, I fear, easily. She fell down the stairs sometime very early in the morning. While we have no evidence she was directly attacked, we believe that she came upon a thief in her house—her front parlor was ransacked—and because of the shock, fainted and fell.”

Reverend Timmins’s face was a study in horror. “Good gracious me! How dreadful!”

“Indeed. We have reason to believe that the burglar responsible is the same man intent on gaining entry into Number 14.” Tristan glanced at Leonora. “The Carlings live there, and Miss Carling herself has been subject to several attacks, we presume intended to frighten the household into leaving. There have also been a number of attempts to break into Number 14, and also into Number 12, the house of which I am part owner.”

Reverend Timmins blinked. Tristan calmly continued, explaining their reasoning that the burglar they knew as Mountford was attempting to gain access to something hidden in Number 14, and that his forays into Number 12 and last night into Number 16 were by way of seeking entry via the basement walls.

“I see.” Frowning, Henry Timmins nodded. “I’ve lived in terraces like that—you’re quite right. The basement walls are often a series of arches filled in. Quite easy to break through the archways.”

“Indeed.” Tristan paused, then continued, in the same, authoritative tone, “Which is why we’ve been so set on finding you, why we’ve been speaking to you so frankly.” He leaned forward; clasping his hands between his knees, he captured Henry Timmins’s pale blue gaze. “Your great-aunt’s death was deeply regrettable, and if Mountford is responsible, he deserves to be caught and brought to book. In the circumstances, I feel it would be poetic justice to use the situation as it now stands—the situation that has arisen because of Miss Timmins’s demise—to set a trap for him.”

“Trap?”

Leonora didn’t need to hear the word to know that Henry Timmins was caught, hooked. So was she. She edged forward so she could watch Tristan’s face.

“There’s no reason for anyone beyond those who already know to imagine Miss Timmins died other than by natural causes. She’ll be mourned by those who knew her, then…if I may suggest, you, as heir, should put Number 16 Montrose Place up for rent.” With a gesture, Tristan indicated the house about them. “You’re clearly not in any need of a house in town at present. On the other hand, being a prudent man, you will not wish to sell precipitously. Renting the property is the sensible course, and no one will wonder at it.”

Henry was nodding. “True, true.”

“If you’re agreeable, I’ll arrange for a friend to pose as a house agent and handle the rental for you. Of course, we won’t be renting to just anyone.”

“You think Mountford will come forward and rent the house?”

“Not Mountford himself—Miss Carling and I have seen him. He’ll use an intermediary, but it will be he who wants access to the house. Once he has it, and enters…” Tristan sat back; a smile that was no smile curved his lips. “Suffice to say that I have the right connections to ensure he won’t escape.”

Henry Timmins, eyes rather wide, continued to nod.

Leonora was less susceptible. “Do you really believe that after all this, Mountford will dare show his face?”

Tristan turned to her; his eyes were cold, hard. “Given the lengths to which he’s already gone, I’m prepared to wager he won’t be able to resist.”

They returned to Montrose Place that evening with Henry Timmins’s blessings, and, more importantly, a letter to the family solicitor from Henry instructing said solicitor to act on Tristan’s directions regarding Miss Timmins’s house.

There were lights burning in the rooms on the first floor of the Bastion Club; handing Leonora to the pavement, Tristan saw them, wondered…

Leonora shook out her skirts, then slipped her hand in his arm.

He looked down at her, refrained from mentioning how much he liked the little gesture of feminine acceptance. He was learning that she often did small revealing things instinctively, without noticing; he saw no reason to bring such transparency to her attention.

They headed up the path of Number 14.

“Who will you get to play the part of house agent?” Leonora glanced at him. “You can’t—he knows what you look like.” She ran her gaze over his features. “Even with one of your disguises…there’s no way of being sure he wouldn’t see through it.”

“Indeed.” Tristan glanced across at the Bastion Club as they climbed the porch steps. “I’ll see you in, speak with Humphrey and Jeremy, then I’m going next door.” He met her gaze as the front door opened. “It’s possible some of my associates are in town. If so…”

She arched a brow at him. “Your ex-colleagues?”

He nodded, following her into the hall. “I can’t think of any gentlemen more suited to aid us in this.”

Charles, predictably, was delighted.

“Excellent! I always knew this notion of a club was a brilliant idea.”

It was nearly ten o’clock; having consumed a superb dinner in the elegant dining room downstairs, they—Tristan, Charles, and Deverell—were now seated, sprawled and comfortable, in the library, each cradling a balloon liberally supplied with fine brandy.

“Indeed.” Despite his more reserved manner, Deverell looked equally interested. He eyed Charles. “I think I should be the house agent—you’ve already played one part in this drama.”

Charles looked aggrieved. “But I could always play another.”

“I think Deverell’s right.” Tristan firmly took charge. “He can be the house agent—this is only his second visit to Montrose Place, so chances are Mountford and his cronies won’t have spotted him. Even if they have, there’s no reason he can’t play totally vague and say he’s handling the matter for a friend.” Tristan glanced at Charles. “Meanwhile, there’s something else I think you and I should take care of.”

Charles instantly looked hopeful. “What?”

“I told you of this solicitor’s clerk who inherited from Carruthers.” He’d told them the entire story, all the pertinent facts, over dinner.

“The one who came to London and disappeared into the teeming throng?”

“Indeed. I believe I mentioned he’d originally planned to come to town? While searching for information in York, my operative learned that this Martinbury had earlier arranged to meet with a friend, another clerk from his office, here, in town; before he left unexpectedly, he confirmed the meeting.”

Charles raised his brows high. “When, and where?”

“Noon tomorrow, at the Red Lion in Gracechurch Street.”

Charles nodded. “So we nab him after the meeting—I assume you have descriptions?”

“Yes, but the friend has agreed to introduce me, so all we need do is be there, and then we’ll see what we can learn from Mr. Martinbury.”

“He couldn’t be Mountford, could he?” Deverell asked.

Tristan shook his head. “Martinbury was in York for much of the time Mountford’s been active down here.”

“Hmm.” Deverell sat back, rolled the brandy in his balloon. “If it won’t be Mountford who approaches me—and I agree that’s unlikely—then who do you think will try to rent the house?”

“My guess,” Tristan said, “would be a scrawny, weasel-faced specimen, short to medium height. Leonora—Miss Carling—has seen him twice. He seems certain to be an associate of Mountford’s.”

Charles opened his eyes wide. “Leonora, is it?” Swiveling in his chair, he fixed Tristan with his dark gaze. “So tell us—how sits the wind in that quarter, hmm?”

Impassive, Tristan studied Charles’s devilish face, and wondered what fiendish devilment Charles might concoct if he didn’t tell them…“As it happens, the notice of our engagement will appear in the Gazette tomorrow morning.”

“Oh-ho!”

“I see!”

“Well, that was quick work!” Rising, Charles grabbed the decanter and replenished their glasses. “We have to toast this. Let’s see.” He struck a pose before the fireplace, his glass held high. “Here’s to you and your lady, the delightful Miss Carling. Let’s drink in acknowledgment of your success in determining your own fate—to your victory over the meddlers—and to the inspiration and encouragement this victory will provide to your fellow Bastion Club members!”

“Hear! Hear!”

Charles and Deverell both drank. Tristan saluted them with his glass, then drank, too.

“So when’s the wedding?” Deverell asked.

Tristan studied the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “As soon as we lay Mountford by the heels.”

Charles pursed his lips. “And if that takes longer than expected?”

Tristan raised his eyes, met Charles’s dark gaze. Smiled. “Trust me. It won’t.”

Early the next morning, Tristan visited Number 14 Montrose Place; he left before Leonora or any of the family came downstairs, confident he’d solved the riddle of how Mountford had got into Number 16.

As Jeremy had, at his direction, already had the locks on Number 16 changed, Mountford must have suffered another disappointment. All the better for driving him into their snare. He now had no option other than to rent the house.

Leaving Number 14 by the front gate, Tristan saw a workman busy setting up a sign atop the low front wall of Number 16. The sign announced that the house was for rent and gave details for contacting the agent. Deverell had wasted no time.

He returned to Green Street for breakfast, manfully waited until all six of the resident old dears were present before making his announcement. They were more than delighted.

“She’s just the sort of wife we wished for you,” Millicent told him.

“Indeed,” Ethelreda confirmed. “She’s such a sensible young woman—we were awfully afraid you might land us with some flibbertigibbet. One of those empty-headed gels who giggle all the time. The good Lord only knows how we would have coped then.”

In fervent agreement, he excused himself and took refuge in the study. Ruthlessly blocking out the obvious distraction, he spent an hour dealing with the more urgent matters awaiting his attention, remembering to pen a brief letter to his great-aunts informing them of his impending nuptials. When the clock chimed eleven, he put down his pen, rose, and quietly left the house.

He met Charles at the corner of Grosvenor Square. They hailed a hackney; at ten minutes before noon, they pushed through the door of the Red Lion. It was a popular public house catering to a mixture of trades—merchants, agents, shippers, and clerks of every description. The main room was crowded, yet after one glance, most moved out of Tristan’s and Charles’s way. They went to the bar, were served immediately, then, ale mugs in hand, turned and surveyed the room.

After a moment, Tristan took a sip of his ale. “He’s over there, one table from the corner. The one that keeps looking around like an eager pup.”

“That’s the friend?”

“Fits the description to a tee. The cap’s hard to miss.” A tweed cap was sitting on the table at which the young man in question waited.

Tristan considered, then said, “He won’t recognize us. Why don’t we just take the table next to him, and wait for the right moment to introduce ourselves?”

“Good idea.”

Once again the crowd parted like the Red Sea; they installed themselves at the small table in the corner without attracting more than a quick glance and a polite smile from the young man.

He seemed terribly young to Tristan.

The young man continued to wait. So did they. They discussed various points—difficulties they’d both faced on taking up the reins of large estates. There was more than enough there to provide believable cover had the young man been listening. He wasn’t; like a spaniel, he kept his eyes on the door, ready to leap up and wave when his friend entered.

Gradually, as the minutes ticked by, his eagerness ebbed. He nursed his pint; they nursed theirs. But when the clang from a nearby belltower sounded the half hour, it seemed certain that he for whom they all waited was not going to appear.

They waited some more, in growing concern.

Eventually, Tristan exchanged a glance with Charles, then turned to the young man. “Mr. Carter?”

The young man blinked, focused properly on Tristan for the first time. “Y-yes?”

“We’ve not met.” Tristan reached for a card, handed it to Carter. “But I believe an associate of mine told you we were concerned to meet with Mr. Martinbury over a matter of mutual benefit.”

Carter read the card; his youthful face cleared. “Oh, yes—of course!” Then he looked at Tristan and grimaced. “But as you can see, Jonathon hasn’t come.” He glanced around, as if to make sure Martinbury hadn’t materialized in the last minute. Carter frowned. “I really can’t understand it.” He looked back at Tristan. “Jonathon’s very punctual, and we’re very good friends.”

Worry clouded his face.

“Have you heard from him since he’s been in town?”

Charles asked the question; when Carter blinked at him, Tristan smoothly added, “Another associate.”

Carter shook his head. “No. No one at home—York, that is—has had any word from him. His landlady was surprised; she made me promise to tell him to write when I met him. It’s odd—he’s really a very reliable person, and he is fond of her. She’s like a mother to him.”

Tristan exchanged a glance with Charles. “I think it’s time we searched more actively for Mr. Martinbury.” Turning to Carter, he nodded at his card, which the young man still held in his hand. “If you do hear from Martinbury, any contact at all, I’d be obliged if you would send word immediately to that address. Likewise, if you furnish me with your direction, I’ll make sure you’re informed if we locate your friend.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Carter dragged a tablet from his pocket, found a pencil, and quickly wrote down the address of his lodging house. He handed the sheet to Tristan. He read it, then nodded and put the note in his pocket.

Carter was frowning. “I wonder if he even reached London.”

Tristan rose. “He did.” He drained his tankard, set it on the table. “He left the coach when it reached town, not before. Unfortunately, tracing a single man on the streets of London is not at all easy.”

He said the last with a reassuring smile. With a nod to Carter, he and Charles left.

They paused on the pavement outside.

“Tracing a single man walking the streets of London may not be easy.” Charles glanced at Tristan. “Tracing a dead one is not quite so hard.”

“No, indeed.” Tristan’s expression had hardened. “I’ll take the watchhouses.”

“And I’ll take the hospitals. Meet at the club later tonight?”

Tristan nodded. Then grimaced. “I just remembered…”

Charles glanced at him, then hooted. “Just remembered you’d announced your engagement—of course! No longer a life of ease for you—not until you’re wed.”

“Which only makes me even more determined to find Martinbury with all speed. I’ll send word to Gasthorpe if I find anything.”

“I’ll do the same.” With a nod, Charles headed down the street.

Tristan watched him go, then swore, swung on his heel, and strode off in the opposite direction.