The Lady Chosen

Chapter Seventeen

The day was fleeing, whipped away by grey squalls, as Tristan climbed the steps of Number 14 and asked to see Leonora. Castor directed him to the parlor; dismissing the butler, he opened the parlor door and went in.

Leonora didn’t hear him. She was seated on the chaise, facing the windows, looking out at the garden, at the shrubs bowing before the blustering wind. Beside her, a fire burned brightly in the hearth, crackling and spitting cheerily. Henrietta lay stretched before the flames, luxuriating in their heat.

The scene was comfortable, cozy—warming in a way that had nothing to do with temperature, a subtle comfort to the heart.

He took a step, let his heel fall heavily.

She heard, turned…then she saw him and her face lit. Not just with expectation, not just with eagerness to hear what he had learned, but with an open welcome as if a part of her had returned.

He neared and she rose, held out her hands. He took them, raised first one, then the other to his lips, then drew her nearer and bent his head. Took her mouth in a kiss he struggled to keep within bounds, let his senses savor, then reined them in.

When he lifted his head, she smiled at him; their gazes touched, held for a moment, then she sank onto the chaise.

He crouched to pat Henrietta.

Leonora watched him, then said, “Now before you tell me anything else, explain how Mountford got into Number 16 last night. You said there were no forced locks, and Castor told me some tale about you asking after a drainage inspector. What has he to do with anything—or was he Mountford?”

Tristan glanced at her, then nodded. “Daisy’s description tallies. It seems he posed as an inspector and talked her into letting him inspect the kitchen, scullery, and laundry drains.”

“And when she wasn’t looking, he took an impression of a key?”

“That seems most likely. No inspector called here or at Number 12.”

She frowned. “He’s a very…calculating man.”

“He’s clever.” After a moment of studying her face, Tristan said, “Added to that, he must be getting desperate. I’d like you to bear that in mind.”

She met his gaze, then smiled reassuringly. “Of course.”

The look he cast her as he rose to his feet looked more resigned than reassured.

“I saw the sign outside Number 16. That was quick.” She let her approval show in her face.

“Indeed. I’ve handed that aspect over to a gentleman by the name of Deverell. He’s Viscount Paignton.”

She opened her eyes wide. “Do you have any other…associates helping you?”

Sinking his hands into his pockets, the fire warm on his back, Tristan looked down into her face, into eyes that reflected an intelligence he knew better than to underestimate. “I have a small army working for me, as you know. Most of them, you’ll never meet, but there is one other who’s actively helping me—another part-owner of Number 12.”

“As is Deverell?” she asked.

He nodded. “The other gentleman is Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel.”

“Lostwithiel?” She frowned. “I heard something about the last two earls dying in tragic circumstances…”

“They were his brothers. He was the third son and is now the earl.”

“Ah. And what is he helping you with?”

He explained about the meeting they’d hoped to have with Martinbury, and their disappointment. She heard him out in silence, watching his face. When he paused after explaining the agreement they’d made with Martinbury’s friend, she said, “You think he’s met with foul play.”

Not a question. His eyes on hers, he nodded. “Everything that was reported to me from York, everything his friend Carter said of him, painted Martinbury as a conscientious, reliable, honest man—not one to miss an appointment he’d taken care to confirm.” Again he hesitated, wondering how much he should tell her, then pushed aside his reluctance. “I’ve started checking the watchhouses for reported deaths, and Charles is checking the hospitals in case he was brought in alive, but then died.”

“He could still be alive, perhaps gravely injured, but without friends or connections in London…”

He considered the timing, then grimaced. “True—I’ll put some others onto checking that. However, given how long it’s been without any word from him, we need to check the dead. Unfortunately, that’s not the sort of search anyone but Charles and I, or one like us, can undertake.” He met her gaze. “Members of the nobility, especially ones with our background, can get answers, demand to see reports and records, that others simply can’t.”

“So I’ve noticed.” She sat back, considering him. “So you’ll be busy during the days. I spent today with the maids, searching every nook and cranny in Cedric’s workshop. We found various scraps and jottings which are now with Humphrey and Jeremy in the library. They’re still poring over the journals. Humphrey’s increasingly certain there ought to be more. He thinks there are sections—pieces of records—missing. Not torn out but written down somewhere else.”

“Hmm.” Tristan stroked Henrietta’s head with his boot, then glanced at Leonora. “What about Cedric’s bedchamber? Have you searched there yet?”

“Tomorrow. The maids will help—there’ll be five of us. If there’s anything there, I assure you we’ll find it.”

He nodded, mentally running down his list of matters he’d wanted to discuss with her. “Ah, yes.” He refocused on her face, caught her gaze. “I put the customary notice in the Gazette announcing our betrothal. It was in this morning’s edition.”

A subtle change came over her face; an expression he couldn’t quite place—resigned amusement?—invested her blue eyes.

“I was wondering when you were going to mention that.”

Suddenly, he wasn’t sure of the ground beneath his feet. He shrugged, his eyes still on hers. “It was just the usual thing. The expected thing.”

“Indeed, but you might have thought to warn me—that way, when my aunts descended in a swirl of congratulations a bare ten minutes before the first of a good two dozen callers, all wanting to congratulate me, I wouldn’t have been caught like a deer in a hunter’s sights.”

He held her gaze; for a moment, silence reigned. Then he winced. “My apologies. With Miss Timmins’s death and all the rest, it escaped my mind.”

She considered him, then inclined her head. Her lips weren’t quite straight. “Apology accepted. However, you do realize that, now the news is out, we’ll need to make the obligatory appearances?”

He stared down at her. “What appearances?”

“The necessary appearances every engaged couple are expected to make. For instance, tonight, everyone will expect us to attend Lady Hartington’s soirée.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the major event tonight, and so they can congratulate us, watch us, analyze and dissect, assure themselves it will be a good match, and so on.”

“And this is obligatory?”

She nodded.

“Why?”

She didn’t misunderstand. “Because if we don’t give them that chance, it will fix unwarranted—and quite staggeringly intrusive—attention on us. We won’t have a moment’s peace. They’ll call constantly, and not just within the accepted hours; if they’re in the neighborhood, they’ll drive down the street and peer out of their carriages. You’ll find a couple of giggling girls on the pavement every time you step out of your house, or your club next door. And you won’t dare appear in the park, or on Bond Street.”

She fixed him with a direct look. “Is that what you want?”

He read her eyes, confirmed she was serious. Shuddered. “Good Lord!” He sighed; his lips thinned. “All right. Lady Hartington’s. Should I meet you there, or call for you in my carriage?”

“It would be most appropriate for you to escort my aunts and me. Mildred and Gertie will be here by eight. If you arrive a little after, you can accompany us there, in Mildred’s carriage.”

He humphed, but nodded curtly. He didn’t take orders well, but in this sphere…that was one reason he needed her. He cared very little for society, knew both enough and too little of its tortuous ways to feel totally comfortable in its glare. While he had every intention of spending as little time in it as possible, given his title, his position, if a quiet life was his aim, it would never do to thumb his nose openly at the ladies’ sacred rites.

Such as passing judgment on newly affianced couples.

He refocused on Leonora’s face. “How long do we have to pander to prurient interest?”

Her lips twitched. “For at least a week.”

He scowled, literally growled.

“Unless some scandal intervenes, or unless…” She held his gaze.

He thought, then, still at sea, prompted, “Unless what?”

“Unless we have some serious excuse—like being actively involved in catching a burglar.”

He left Number 14 half an hour later, resigned to attending the soirée. Given Mountford’s increasingly risky actions, he doubted they’d have long to wait before he made his next move, and stepped into their snare. And then…

With any luck, he wouldn’t have to attend all that many more of society’s events, at least not as an unmarried man.

The thought filled him with grim determination.

He strode along purposefully, mentally planning his morrow and how he’d extend the search for Martinbury. He’d turned into Green Street, was nearly at his front door when he heard himself hailed.

Halting, turning, he saw Deverell descending from a hackney. He waited while Deverell paid off the jarvey, then joined him.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“Thank you.”

They waited until they were comfortable in the library, and Havers had withdrawn, before getting down to business.

“I’ve had a nibble,” Deverell replied in response to Tristan’s raised brow. “And I’d swear it’s the weasel you warned me of—he slunk up just as I was about to leave. He’d been keeping watch for about two hours. I’m using a small office that’s part of a property I own in Sloane Street. It was empty and available, and the right sort of place.”

“What did he say?”

“He wanted details of the house at Number 16 for his master. I ran through the usual, the amenities and so on, and the price.” Deverell grinned. “He led me to hope his master would be interested.”

“And?”

“I explained how the property came to be for rent, and that, in the circumstances, I had to warn his master that the house may only be available for a few months, as the owner might decide to sell.”

“And he wasn’t put off?”

“Not in the least. He assured me his master was only interested in a short let, and didn’t want to know what had happened to the last owner.”

Tristan smiled, grim, wolfish. “It sounds like our quarry.”

“Indeed. But I don’t think Mountford’s going to show himself to me. The weasel asked for a copy of the lease agreement and took it away with him. Said his master would want to study it. If Mountford signs it and sends it back with the first month’s rent—well, what house agent would quibble?”

Tristan nodded; his eyes narrowed. “We’ll let the game play out, but that certainly sounds promising.”

Deverell drained his glass. “With luck, we’ll have him within a few days.”

Tristan’s evening started badly and grew progressively worse.

He arrived in Montrose Place early; he was standing in the hall when Leonora came down the stairs. He turned, saw, froze; the vision she presented in a watered-silk gown of deep blue, her shoulders and throat rising like fine porcelain from the wide neckline, her hair glossy, garnet-shot, piled on her head, ripped his breath away. A gauzy shawl concealed and revealed her arms and shoulders, shifting and sliding over the svelte curves; his palms tingled.

Then she saw him, met his eyes, and smiled.

Blood drained from his head; he felt dizzy.

She crossed the hall toward him, the periwinkle blue hue of her eyes lit by that welcoming expression she seemed to save just for him. She gave him her hands. “Mildred and Gertie should be here any minute.”

A commotion at the door proved to be her aunts; their advent saved him from having to formulate any intelligent response. Her aunts were full of congratulations and myriad social instructions; he nodded, trying to take them all in, trying to orient himself in this battlefield, all the while conscious of Leonora and that, very soon, she would be all his.

The prize was definitely worth the battle.

He escorted them out to the carriage. Lady Hartington’s house wasn’t far. Her ladyship, of course, was beyond thrilled to receive them. She exclaimed, twittered, gushed, and archly asked after their wedding plans; impassive, he stood beside Leonora, and listened while she calmly deflected all her ladyship’s queries without answering any of them. From her ladyship’s expression, Leonora’s responses were perfectly acceptable; it was all a mystery to him.

Then Gertie stepped in and ended the inquisition. At a nudge from Leonora, he led her away. As usual, he made for a chaise by the wall. Her fingertips sank into his arm. “No. No point. Tonight we’d be better served by taking center stage.”

With a nod, she directed him to a position almost in the center of the large drawing room. Inwardly frowning, he hesitated, then complied; his instincts were twitching—the spot was so open, they would be easily flanked, even surrounded….

He had to trust her judgment; in this theater, his own was severely underdeveloped. But even in this, being guided by another did not come easily.

Predictably, they were quickly surrounded by ladies young and old wanting to press their congratulations and hear their news. Some were sweet, pleasant, innocent of guile, ladies for whom he deployed his charm. Others set his back up; after one such encounter, brought to a close by Mildred cutting in and all but physically towing the old battle-ax away, Leonora glanced up at him, with her elbow surreptitiously jabbed him in the ribs.

He looked down at her, frowned with his eyes. She smiled serenely back. “Stop looking so grim.”

He realized his mask had slipped, quickly reinstalled his charming facade. Meanwhile, sotto voce, informed her, “That harridan made me feel murderous, so grim was a mild response.” He met her eyes. “I don’t know how you can stand such as she—they’re so patently insincere, and don’t even try to hide it.”

Her smile was both understanding and teasing; briefly she leaned more heavily on his arm. “You get used to it. When they become difficult, just let it wash over you, and remember that what they’re after is a reaction—deny them that, and you’ve won the exchange.”

He could see what she meant, tried to follow that line, but the situation itself abraded his temper. For the last decade, he’d eschewed any situation that focused attention on him; to stand there, in a ton drawing room, the cyno-sure of all eyes and at least half the conversations, ran directly counter to what had become ingrained habit.

The evening wore on, for him far too slowly; the number of ladies and gentlemen waiting to speak with them did not appreciably decrease. He continued to feel off-balance, exposed. And out of his depth in dealing with some of the more dangerous specimens.

Leonora took care of them with a sure touch he had to admire. Just the right amount of haughtiness, the right amount of confidence. Thank God he’d found her.

Then Ethelreda and Edith came up; they greeted Leonora as if she was already a member of the family, and she responded in kind. Mildred and Gertie touched fingers; he saw a brief question put by Edith, to which Gertie replied with a short word and a snort. Then glances were exchanged between the older ladies, succeeded by conspiratorial smiles.

Passing before them, Ethelreda tapped his arm. “Bear up, dear boy. We’re here, now.”

She and Edith moved on, but only as far as Leonora’s side. Over the next fifteen minutes, his other cousins—Millicent, Flora, Constance, and Helen—arrived, too. Like Ethelreda and Edith, they greeted Leonora, exchanged pleasantries with Mildred and Gertie, then joined Ethelreda and Edith in a loose gathering alongside Leonora.

And things changed.

The crowd in the drawing room had grown to uncomfortable proportions; there were even more people hovering, waiting to speak with them. It was a crush, and he’d never liked being hemmed in, yet Leonora continued to greet those who pressed forward, introducing him, deftly managing the interactions, but if any lady showed a tendency to spite or coldness, or simply a wish to monopolize, either Mildred and Gertie or one of his cousins would step in and, with a rush of seemingly inconsequential observations, draw such persons away.

In short order, his view of his old dears was shattered and re-formed; even the retiring Flora displayed remarkable determination in distracting and removing one persistent lady. Gertie, too, left no doubt as to which mast her flag was pinned.

The reversal of roles kept him off-balance; in this arena, they were the protectors, sure and effective, he the one needing their protection.

Part of that protection was to prevent him from reacting to those who saw his and Leonora’s engagement as a loss to themselves, who viewed her as having in some way snared him, when the truth was the exact opposite. It hadn’t occurred to him just how real, how strong and powerful, the feminine competition in the marriage mart was, or that Leonora’s apparent success in capturing him would make her the focus of envy.

His eyes were now open.

Lady Hartington had chosen to enliven her soirée with a short spell of dancing. As the musicians set up, Gertie turned to him. “Grab the opportunity while you may.” She poked his arm. “You’ve got another hour or more to endure before we can leave.”

He didn’t wait; he reached for Leonora’s hand, smiled charmingly, and excused them to the two ladies with whom they’d been conversing. Constance and Millicent stepped in, smoothly covering his and Leonora’s retreat.

Leonora sighed and went into his arms with real relief. “How exhausting. I had no idea it would be this bad, not so early in the year.”

Whirling her down the room, he met her gaze. “You mean it could be worse?”

She looked into his eyes, and smiled. “Not everyone’s in town yet.”

She said no more; he studied her face as they twirled, turned, and precessed back up the room. She seemed to have given herself, her senses, over to the waltz; he followed her lead.

And found a degree of comfort. Of soothing reassurance in the feel of her in his arms, in the reality of her under his hands, in the brush of their thighs as they went through the turns, the flowing harmony with which their bodies moved, in tune, attuned. Together.

When the music finally ended, they were at the other end of the room. Without asking, he set her hand on his sleeve and guided her back to where their supporters waited, a small island of relative safety.

She slanted him a glance, a smile on her lips, understanding in her eyes. “How are you faring?”

He glanced at her. “I feel like a general surrounded by a bevy of personal guards well equipped with initiative and experience.” He drew breath, looked ahead to where their group of sweet old ladies were waiting. “The fact they’re female is a trifle unsettling, but I have to admit I’m humbly grateful.”

Achortle, smothered, answered him. “Indeed, you should be.”

“Believe me,” he murmured as they neared the others, “I know my limitations. This is a female theater dominated by female strategies too convoluted for any male to fathom.”

She threw him a laughing glance, one wholly personal, then they resumed their public personas and went forward to deal with the small horde still waiting to congratulate them.

The night, predictably but to his mind regrettably, ended without affording him and Leonora any opportunity to slake the physical need that had burgeoned, fed by close contact, by the promise of the waltz, by his inevitable reaction to the evening’s less civilized moments.

Mine.

That word still rang in his head, prodded his instincts whenever she was close, most especially whenever others seemed not to comprehend that fact.

Not a civilized response but a primitive one. He knew it, and didn’t care.

The next morning, he left Green Street restless and unfulfilled, and threw himself into the search for Martinbury. They were all increasingly convinced the object of Mountford’s search was something buried in Cedric’s papers; A. J. Carruthers had been Cedric’s closest confidant, Martinbury was by all accounts the heir to whom Carruthers had entrusted his secrets—and Martinbury had unexpectedly disappeared.

Locating Martinbury, or discovering what they could of his fate, seemed the likeliest route to learning Mountford’s aim and dealing with his threat.

The fastest way to end the business so he and Leonora could wed.

But entering watchhouses, gaining men’s trust, accessing records in search of the recently deceased, took time. He’d started with those watchhouses closest to the coaching inn where Martinbury had alighted. As, in a hackney, he rumbled home in the late afternoon, no further forward, he wondered if that wasn’t a false assumption. Martinbury could have been in London for some days before disappearing.

He entered his house to discover Charles waiting in his library to report.

“Nothing,” Charles said the instant he’d shut the door. In one of the armchairs before the hearth, he swiveled to look up at him. “What about you?”

Tristan grimaced. “Same story.” He picked up the decanter from the sideboard, filled a glass, then crossed to top up Charles’s glass before sinking into the other armchair. He frowned at the fire. “Which hospitals have you checked?”

Charles told him—the hospitals and hospices closest to the inn where the mail coaches from York terminated.

Tristan nodded. “We need to move faster and widen our search.” He explained his reasoning.

Charles inclined his head in agreement. “The question is, even with Deverell helping, how do we widen our search and simultaneously go faster?”

Tristan sipped, then lowered his glass. “We take a calculated risk and narrow the field. Leonora mentioned that Martinbury may still be alive, but if he’s injured, with no friends or relatives in town, he may simply be lying in a hospital bed somewhere.”

Charles grimaced. “Poor bugger.”

“Indeed. In reality, that scenario is the only one that’s going to advance our cause quickly. If Martinbury’s dead, then it’s unlikely whoever did the deed will have left any useful papers behind, ones that will point us in the right direction.”

“True.”

Tristan sipped again, then said, “I’m swinging my people on to searching the hospitals for any gentleman matching Martinbury’s description who’s still alive. They don’t need our authority to do that.”

Charles nodded. “I’ll do the same—I’m sure Deverell will, too….”

The sound of a male voice in the hall outside reached them. They both looked at the door.

“Speak of the devil,” Charles said.

The door opened. Deverell walked in.

Tristan rose and poured him a brandy. Deverell took it and sprawled elegantly on the chaise. In contrast to their sober expressions, his green eyes were alight. He saluted them with his glass. “I bring tidings.”

“Positive tidings?” Charles asked.

“The only sort a wise man brings.” Deverell paused to sip his brandy; lowering the glass, he smiled. “Mountford took the bait.”

“He rented the house?”

“The weasel brought the lease back this morning along with the first month’s rent. A Mr. Caterham has signed the lease and intends moving in immediately.” Deverell paused, frowning slightly. “I handed over the keys and offered to show them around the property, but the weasel—he goes by the name of Cummings—declined. He said his master was a recluse and insisted on total privacy.”

Deverell’s frown grew. “I did think of following the weasel back to his hole, but decided the risk of scaring them off was too high.” He glanced at Tristan. “Given Mountford, or whoever he is, seems set on going into the house forthwith, letting him pursue that aim and walk into our trap with all speed seemed the wisest course.”

Both Tristan and Charles were nodding.

“Excellent!” Tristan stared at the fire, his gaze distant. “So we have him, we know where he is. We’ll continue trying to solve the riddle of what he’s after, but even if we don’t succeed, we’ll be waiting for his next move. Waiting for him to reveal all himself.”

“To success!” Charles said.

The others echoed the words, then they drained their glasses.

After seeing Charles and Deverell out, Tristan headed for his study. Passing the arches of the morning room, he heard the usual babel of elderly feminine voices and glanced in.

He halted in midstride. He could barely believe his eyes.

His great-aunts had arrived, along with—he counted heads—his other six resident pensioners from Mallingham Manor. All fourteen of his dependent old dears were now gathered under his Green Street roof, scattered about the morning room, heads together…plotting.

Uneasiness filled him.

Hortense glanced up and saw him. “There you are, m’boy! Wonderful news about you and Miss Carling.” She thumped the arm of her chair. “Just as we’d all hoped.”

He went down the steps. Hermione flapped her hand at him. “Indeed, my dear. We are excellently pleased!”

Bowing over her hand, he accepted those and the others’ murmured expressions of delight with a mild, “Thank you.”

“Now!” Hermione turned to look up at him. “I hope you won’t think we’ve taken too much on ourselves, but we’ve organized a family dinner for tonight. Ethelreda has spoken with Miss Carling’s family—Lady Warsingham and her husband, the elder Miss Carling, and Sir Humphrey and Jeremy Carling—and they are all in agreement, as is Miss Carling, of course. Given there are so many of us, and some of us are getting on in years, and as the proper course would be for us to meet Miss Carling and her family formally at such a dinner, we hoped you, too, would agree to holding it tonight.”

Hortense snorted. “Aside from all else, we’re too fagged from driving up this afternoon to weather an outing to some other entertainment.”

“And, dear,” Millicent put in, “we should remember that Miss Carling and Sir Humphrey and young Mr. Carling had a funeral to attend this morning. A neighbor, I understand?”

“Indeed.” A vision danced through Tristan’s mind, of a comfortable if large dinner party, rather less formal than might be imagined—he knew his great-aunts and their companions quite well…He looked around, met their bright, transparently hopeful gazes. “Do I take it you’re suggesting this dinner would be in lieu of any appearance in the ton tonight?”

Hortense pulled a face. “Well, if you really wish to attend some ball or other—”

“No, no.” The relief that flooded him was very real; he smiled, struggling to keep his delight within bounds. “I see no reason at all your dinner can’t go ahead, precisely as you’ve planned it. Indeed”—his mask slipped; he let his gratitude shine through—“I’ll be grateful for any excuse to avoid the ton tonight.” He bowed to his aunts, with a glance extended the gesture to the others, deploying his charm to maximum effect. “Thank you.”

The words were heartfelt.

They all smiled, bobbed, delighted to have been of use.

“Didn’t think you’d be all that enamored of the gadding throng,” Hortense opined. She grinned up at him. “If it comes to it, neither are we.”

He could have kissed them. Knowing how flustered that would make most of them, he contented himself with dressing with extra care, then being in the drawing room to greet them as they entered, bowing over their hands, commenting on their gowns and coiffures, on their jewels—deploying for them that irresistible charm he knew well how to use but rarely did without some goal in mind.

Tonight, his goal was simply to repay them for their kindness, their thoughtfulness.

He’d never been so thankful to hear of a family dinner in his life.

While they waited in the drawing room for their guests to arrive, he thought of how incongruous their gathering would appear—he standing before the mantelpiece, the sole male surrounded by fourteen elderly females. But they were his family; he did, in truth, feel more comfortable surrounded by them and their amiable chatter than he did in the more glittering, more exciting, but also more malicious world of the ton. They and he shared something—an intangible connection of place and people spread over time.

And into this, Leonora would now come—and she would fit.

Havers entered to announce Lord and Lady Warsingham and Miss Carling—Gertie. On their heels, Sir Humphrey, Leonora, and Jeremy arrived.

Any thought that he would have to act as a formal host evaporated in minutes. Sir Humphrey was engaged by Ethelreda and Constance, Jeremy by a group of the others, while Lord and Lady Warsingham were treated to the Wemyss charm as dispensed by Hermione and Hortense. Gertie and Millicent, who had met the previous evening, had their heads together.

After exchanging a few words with the other old dears, Leonora joined him. She gave him her hand, her special smile—the one she reserved just for him—curving her lips. “I have to say I was extremely glad of your great-aunts’ suggestion. After attending Miss Timmins’s funeral this morning, attending Lady Willoughby’s ball tonight and dealing with the—as you described it—prurient interest, would have severely tried my temper.” She glanced up, met his eyes. “And yours.”

He inclined his head. “Even though I didn’t attend the funeral. How was it?”

“Quiet, but sincere. I think Miss Timmins would have been pleased. Henry Timmins shared the service with the local vicar, and Mrs. Timmins was there, too—a nice woman.”

After an instant, she turned to him and lowered her voice. “We found some papers in Cedric’s room, hidden in the bottom of his woodbasket. They weren’t letters, but sheets of entries similar to those in the journals but most importantly, they weren’t in Cedric’s hand—they were written by Carruthers. Humphrey and Jeremy are concentrating on those now. Humphrey says they’re descriptions of experiments, similar to those in Cedric’s journal, but there’s still no way to make any sense of them, to know if they mean anything at all. It seems all we’ve discovered so far contains only part of whatever they were working on.”

“Which suggests even more strongly that there is some discovery, one Cedric and Carruthers thought it worthwhile to deal with carefully.”

“Indeed.” Leonora searched his face. “In case you’re wondering, the staff at Number 14 are very much on alert, and Castor will send to Gasthorpe should anything untoward occur.”

“Good.”

“Have you learned anything?”

He felt his jaw start to set; he pulled his charming mask back into place. “Nothing about Martinbury, but we’re trying a new tack that might get us further faster. However, the big news is that Mountford—or whoever he is—has taken the bait. He, acting via the weasel, rented Number 16 late this afternoon.”

Her eyes widened; she kept them fixed on his. “So things are starting to happen.”

“Indeed.”

He turned, smiling, as Constance joined them. Leonora stood by his side and chatted with the ladies as they came up. They told her of the church fete, and of the little routine day-to-day changes, the alterations the seasons brought to the manor. They told her of this and that, remembered snippets of Tristan’s early life, of his father and grandfather.

She occasionally glanced at him, saw him extend that ready charm—also saw beneath it. Having met Lady Hermione and Lady Hortense, she could see from where he’d got it; she wondered what his father had been like.

Yet in this sphere Tristan’s manners were more genuine; the real man showed through, not just with his strengths but with his weaknesses, too. He was comfortable, relaxing; she suspected that previously, he might well have gone for years without lowering his guard. Even now, the drawbridge chains were rusty.

She moved around the room, chatting here, chatting there, always conscious of Tristan, that he watched her as she watched him. Then Havers announced dinner, and they all went in, she on Tristan’s arm.

He sat her beside him at one end of the table; Lady Hermione was at the other end. She made a neat speech expressing her pleasure at the prospect of shortly yielding her chair to Leonora, and led a toast to the affianced couple, then the first course was served. The gentle hum of conversation rose and engulfed the table.

The evening passed pleasantly, truly enjoyably. The ladies repaired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port; it wasn’t long before they rejoined them.

Her uncle Winston, Lord Warsingham, Mildred’s husband, stopped by her side. “An excellent choice, my dear.” His eyes twinkled; he’d been concerned by her lack of interest in marriage, but had never sought to interfere. “Might have taken you an unconscionable time to make up your mind, but the result’s the thing, heh?”

She smiled, inclined her head. Tristan joined them, and she directed the conversation to the latest play.

And continued, at some level she wasn’t sure she understood, to watch Tristan. She didn’t always keep her eyes on him, yet she was wholly aware—an emotional watching if such a thing could be, a focusing of the senses.

She’d noticed, again and again, his momentary hesitations when, discussing something with her, he would check, pause, consider, then go on. She’d started to identify the patterns that told her what he was thinking, when and in what vein he was thinking of her. The decisions he was making.

The fact he’d made no move to exclude her from their active investigations heartened her. He could have been much more difficult; indeed, she’d expected it. Instead, he was feeling his way, accommodating her as he could; that bolstered her hope that in the future—the future they’d both committed themselves to—they would rub along well together.

That they would be able to accommodate each other’s natures and needs.

His, both nature and needs, were more complex than most; she’d realized that sometime ago—it was part of the attraction he held for her, that he was different from others, that he needed and wanted on a somewhat different scale, on a different plane.

Given his dangerous past, he was less disposed to excluding women, infinitely more disposed to using them. She’d sensed that from the first, that he was less inclined than his less adventurous brethren to coddle females; she now knew him well enough to guess that in pursuit of his duty he would have been coldly ruthless. It was that side of his nature that had allowed her to become as involved as she was in their investigations with only relatively minor resistance.

However, with her, that more pragmatic side had come into direct conflict with something much deeper. With more primitive impulses, all-but-primal instincts, the imperative to keep her forever shielded, tucked away from all harm.

Again and again, that conflict darkened his eyes. His jaw would set, he would glance at her briefly, hesitate, then leave matters as they were.

Adjustment. Him to her, her to him.

They were meshing together, step by step learning the ways in which their lives would interlock. Yet that fundamental clash remained; she suspected it always would.

She would have to bear with it, adjust to it. Accept but not react to his repressed but still present instincts and suspicions. She didn’t believe he’d put the latter into words, not even to himself, yet they remained, beneath all his strengths, the weaknesses she’d brought forth. She’d told him, admitted why she didn’t easily accept help, could not easily trust him or anyone with things that mattered to her.

Logically, consciously, he believed in her decision to trust him, to accept him into the innermost sphere of her life. At a deeper, instinctive level, he kept watching for signs she would forget.

For any sign she was excluding him.

She’d hurt him once in precisely that way. She wouldn’t do so again, but only time would teach him that.

His gift to her had been, from the first, to accept her as she was. Her gift in return would be to accept all he was and give him the time to lose his suspicions.

To learn to trust her as she did him.

Jeremy joined them; her uncle seized the moment to talk estates with Tristan.

“Well, sis.” Jeremy glanced around at the company. “I can see you here, with all these ladies, organizing them, keeping the whole household ticking smoothly along.” He grinned at her, then sobered. “Their gain. We’ll miss you.”

She smiled, put her hand on his arm, squeezed. “I haven’t left you yet.”

Jeremy lifted his gaze to Tristan, beyond her. Half smiled as he looked back at her. “I think you’ll find you have.”