The Lady Chosen

Chapter Twenty

“I’m so sorry!” Leonora helped Humphrey out of the closet. “Things…just happened.”

Jeremy followed Humphrey out, kicking aside a mop. He glowered at her. “That was the most hopeless piece of acting I’ve ever witnessed—and that dagger was sharp, for heaven’s sake!”

Leonora looked into his eyes, then quickly hugged him. “Never mind—it worked. That’s the important thing.”

Jeremy humphed and looked at the closed library door. “Just as well. We didn’t want to knock and draw attention to ourselves—didn’t know if it would distract someone at the wrong moment.” He looked at Tristan. “I take it you caught him?”

“Indeed.” Tristan waved to the library door. “Let’s go in—I’m sure St. Austell and Deverell will have explained his position to him by now.”

The scene that met their eyes as they filed into the library suggested that was the case; Mountford—Duke—sat slumped, head and shoulders drooping, in a straight-backed chair in the middle of the library. His hands, hanging limp between his knees, were bound with curtain cord. One booted ankle was lashed to a chair leg.

Charles and Deverell were propped side by side against the front edge of the desk, arms folded, eyeing their prisoner as if imagining what they might do to him next.

Leonora checked, but could see only a graze on one of Duke’s cheekbones; nevertheless, despite the lack of outward damage, he didn’t look at all well.

Deverell looked up as they headed toward their usual places. Leonora helped Humphrey into his chair. Deverell caught Tristan’s eye. “Might be an idea to get Martinbury in to hear this.” He glanced around at the limited seating. “We could carry his chaise in.”

Tristan nodded. “Jeremy?”

The three of them went out, leaving Charles on watch.

A minute later, a deep woof sounded from the front of the house, followed by the click of Henrietta’s claws as she loped toward them.

Surprised, Leonora glanced at Charles.

He didn’t shift his gaze from Mountford. “We thought she might prove helpful in persuading Duke to see the error of his ways.”

Henrietta was already growling when she appeared in the doorway. Her hackles had risen; she fixed glowing amber eyes on Duke. Rigid, frozen, lashed to the chair, he stared, horrified, back.

Henrietta’s growl dropped an octave. Her head lowered. She took two menacing steps forward.

Duke looked ready to faint.

Leonora clicked her fingers. “Here, girl. Come here.”

“Come on, old girl.” Humphrey tapped his thigh.

Henrietta looked again at Mountford, then snuffled and ambled over to Leonora and Humphrey. After greeting them, she circled, then collapsed in a shaggy heap between them. Resting her huge head on her paws, she fixed an implacably hostile gaze on Duke.

Leonora glanced at Charles. He looked well pleased.

Jeremy reappeared and held the library door wide; Tristan and Deverell carried the chaise from the parlor with Jonathon Martinbury reclining on it into the room.

Duke gasped. He stared at Jonathon; the last vestige of color drained from his face. “Good Lord! What happened to you?”

No actor could have given such a performance; he was transparently shocked by his cousin’s state.

Tristan and Deverell set the chaise down; Jonathon met Duke’s eyes steadily. “I gather I met some friends of yours.”

Duke looked ill. His face waxen, he stared, then slowly shook his head. “But how did they know? I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Your friends are determined, and they have very long arms.” Tristan sank onto the chaise beside Leonora.

Jeremy closed the door. Deverell had returned to his position beside Charles. Crossing the room, Jeremy pulled out his chair from behind the desk and sat.

“Right.” Tristan exchanged glances with Charles and Deverell, then looked at Duke. “You’re in a serious and dire position. If you have any wits at all, you’ll answer the questions we put to you quickly, straightforwardly, and honestly. And, most importantly, accurately.” He paused, then went on, “We’re not interested in hearing your excuses—justifications would be wasted breath. But for understanding’s sake, what started you off on this tack?”

Duke’s dark eyes rested on Tristan’s face; from her position beside Tristan, Leonora could read their expression. All Duke’s violent bravado had deserted him; the only emotion now investing his eyes was fear.

He swallowed. “Newmarket. It was last year’s Autumn Carnival. I hadn’t before dealt with the London cent-per-cents, but there was this nag…I was certain…” He grimaced. “Anyway, I got in deep—deeper than I’ve ever been. And those sharks—they have thugs who act as collectors. I went up north, but they followed. And then I got the letter about A. J.’s discovery.”

“So you came to see me,” Jonathon put in.

Duke glanced at him, nodded. “When the collectors caught up with me a few days later, I told them about it—they made me write it all down and took it back to the cent-per-cent. I thought the promise would hold him for a while…” He glanced at Tristan. “That’s when things went from bad to hellish.”

He drew breath; his gaze fixed on Henrietta. “The cent-per-cent sold my vowels on, on the strength of the discovery.”

“To a foreign gentleman?” Tristan asked.

Duke nodded. “At first it seemed all right. He—the foreigner—encouraged me to get hold of the discovery. He told me how there was clearly no need to include the others”—Duke flushed—“Jonathon and the Carlings, as they hadn’t bothered about the discovery for all this time—”

“So you attempted by various means to get into Cedric Carling’s workshop, which by asking the servants you’d learned had been closed up since his death.”

Again Duke nodded.

“You didn’t think to check your aunt’s journals?”

Duke blinked. “No. I mean…well, she was a woman. She could only have been helping Carling. The final formula had to be in Carling’s books.”

Tristan glanced at Jeremy, who returned a wry look. “Very well,” Tristan continued. “So your new foreign backer encouraged you to find this formula.”

“Yes.” Duke shifted on the chair. “At first, it seemed quite a lark. A challenge to see if I could get the thing. He was even willing to underwrite buying the house.” His face clouded. “But things kept going wrong.”

“We can dispense with a list—we know most of it. I take it your foreign friend became more and more insistent?”

Duke shivered. His eyes, when they met Tristan’s, looked haunted. “I offered to find the money, buy back my debt, but he wouldn’t have it. He wanted the formula—he was willing to give me as much money as it took to get it, but it was get the damned thing for him—or die. He meant it!”

Tristan’s smile was cold. “Foreigners of his ilk generally do.” He paused, then asked, “What’s his name?”

What little color had returned to Duke’s face fled. A moment passed, then he moistened his lips. “He told me if I told anyone at all about him, he’d kill me.”

Tristan inclined his head, gently said, “And what do you imagine will happen to you if you don’t tell us about him?”

Duke stared, then glanced at Charles.

Who met his gaze. “Don’t you know the punishment for treason?”

A moment passed, then Deverell quietly added, “That’s assuming, of course, that you make it to the scaffold.” He shrugged. “What with all the ex-soldiers in the prisons these days…”

Eyes huge, Duke dragged in a breath and looked at Tristan. “I didn’t know it was treason!”

“I’m afraid what you’ve been doing definitely qualifies.”

Duke hauled in another breath, then blurted out, “But I don’t know his name.”

Tristan nodded, accepting. “How do you contact him?”

“I don’t! He set it up at the beginning—I have to meet him in St. James’s Park every third day and report what’s happened.”

The next meeting was to occur the following day.

Tristan, Charles, and Deverell grilled Duke for a further half hour, but learned little more. Duke was patently cooperating; recalling how keyed up—how panic-stricken, she now realized—he’d been earlier, Leonora suspected he’d realized that they were his only hope, that if he helped, he might escape a situation that had transformed into a nightmare.

Jonathon’s assessment had been accurate; Duke was a black sheep with few morals, a cowardly and violent bully, untrustworthy and worse, but he wasn’t a killer, and he’d never meant to be a traitor.

His reaction to Tristan’s questions about Miss Timmins was revealing. His face a ghastly hue, Duke falteringly recounted how he’d gone up to check on the ground-floor walls, heard a choking sound in the dimness, and looked up, to see the fragile old woman come tumbling down the stairs to land, dead, at his feet. His horror was unfeigned; it was he who had closed the old lady’s eyes.

Watching him, Leonora grimly concluded justice of a sort had been served; Duke would never forget what he’d seen, what he’d inadvertently caused.

Eventually, Charles and Deverell hauled Duke off to the club, there to be held in the basement under the watchful eyes of Biggs and Gasthorpe, together with the weasel and the four thugs Duke had hired to help with the excavations.

Tristan glanced at Jeremy. “Have you identified the final formula?”

Jeremy grinned. He picked up a sheet of paper. “I’d just copied it out. It was in A.J.’s journals, all neatly noted. Anyone could have found it.” He handed the sheet to Tristan. “It was definitely half Cedric’s work, but without A.J. and her records, it would have been the devil to piece together.”

“Yes, but will it work?” Jonathon asked. He’d remained silent throughout the interrogation, quietly taking things in. Tristan handed the paper to him; he scanned it.

“I’m no herbalist,” Jeremy said. “But if the results as laid out in your aunt’s journals are correct, then yes, their concoction will definitely aid clotting when applied to wounds.”

“And it was lying there in York for the past two years.” Tristan thought of the battlefield at Waterloo, then banished the vision. Turned to Leonora.

She met his eyes, squeezed his hand. “At least we have it now.”

“One thing I don’t understand,” Humphrey put in. “If this foreigner was so set on finding the formula, and he was able to order Jonathon here killed, why didn’t he come after the formula himself?” Humphrey raised his shaggy brows. “Mind you, I’m deuced glad he didn’t. Mountford was bad enough, but at least we survived him.”

“The answer’s one of those diplomatic niceties.” Tristan rose and resettled his coat. “If a foreigner from one of the embassies was implicated in an attack on, even the death of, an unknown young man or even two from the north, the government would frown, but largely ignore it. However, if the same foreigner was implicated in burglarly and violence in a house in a wealthy part of London, the house of distinguished men of letters, the government would assuredly be most displeased and not at all inclined to ignore anything.”

He glanced at them all, his smile coolly cynical. “An attack on property close to the government’s heart would create a diplomatic incident, so Duke was a necessary pawn.”

“So what now?” Leonora asked.

He hesitated, looking down into her eyes, then smiled faintly, just for her. “Now we—Charles, Deverell, and I—need to take this information to the proper quarters, and see what they want done.”

She stared at him. “Your erstwhile employer?”

He nodded. Straightened. “We’ll meet again here for breakfast if you’re agreeable and make whatever plans we need to make.”

“Yes, of course.” Leonora reached out and touched his hand in farewell.

Humphrey nodded magnanimously. “Until tomorrow.”

“Unfortunately, your meeting with your government contact will have to wait until morning.” Jeremy nodded at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s past ten.”

Tristan, heading for the door, turned, smiling, as he reached it. “Actually, no. The State never sleeps.”

The State for them meant Dalziel.

They sent word ahead; nevertheless, the three of them had to cool their heels in the spymaster’s anteroom for twenty minutes before the door opened, and Dalziel waved them in.

As they sank onto the three chairs set facing the desk, they glanced around, then met each other’s eyes. Nothing had changed.

Including Dalziel. He rounded the desk. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed and always dressed austerely. His age was unusually difficult to gauge; when he’d first started working through this office, Tristan had assumed Dalziel to be considerably his senior. Now…he was starting to wonder if there were all that many years between them. He had visibly aged; Dalziel had not.

As cool as ever, Dalziel sat behind the desk, facing them. “Now. Explain, if you please. From the beginning.”

Tristan did, severely editing his account as he went, leaving out much of Leonora’s involvement; Dalziel was known to disapprove of ladies dabbling in the game.

Even so, how much missed that steady dark gaze was a matter for conjecture.

At the end of the tale, Dalziel nodded, then looked at Charles and Deverell. “And how is it you two are involved?”

Charles grinned wolfishly. “We share a mutual interest.”

Dalziel held his gaze for an instant. “Ah, yes. Your club in Montrose Place. Of course.”

He looked down; Tristan was sure it was so they could blink in comfort. The man was a menace. They weren’t even part of his network anymore.

“So”—looking up from the notes he’d scrawled while listening, Dalziel leaned back and steepled his fingers; he fixed them all with his gaze—“we have an unknown European intent—seriously intent—on stealing a potentially valuable formula for aiding wound healing. We don’t know who this gentleman might be, but we have the formula, and we have his local pawn. Is that correct?”

They all nodded.

“Very well. I want to know who this European is, but I don’t want him to know I know. I’m sure you follow me. What I want you to do is this. First, tamper with the formula. Find someone who can make it look believable—we have no idea what training this foreigner might have. Second, convince the pawn to keep his next meeting and hand over the formula—make sure he understands his position, and that his future hangs on his performance. Third, I want you to follow the gentleman back to his lair and identify him for me.”

They all nodded. Then Charles grimaced. “Why are we still doing this—taking orders from you?”

Dalziel looked at him, then softly said, “For the same reason I’m giving those orders with every expectation of being obeyed. Because we are who we are.” He raised one dark brow. “Aren’t we?”

There was nothing else to say; they understood one another all too well.

They rose.

“One thing.” Tristan caught Dalziel’s questioning look. “Duke Martinbury. Once he has the formula, this foreigner is liable to want to tie up loose ends.”

Dalziel nodded. “That would be expected. What do you suggest?”

“We can make sure Martinbury walks away from the meeting, but after that? In addition, he’s due some punishment for his part in this affair. All things considered, impression into the army for three years would fit the bill on both counts. Given he’s from Yorkshire, I thought of the regiment near Harrogate. Its ranks must be a little thin these days.”

“Indeed.” Dalziel made a note. “Muffleton’s colonel there. I’ll tell him to expect Martinbury—Marmaduke, wasn’t it?—as soon as he’s finished being useful here.”

With a nod, Tristan turned; with the others, he left.

“A fake formula?” His gaze on the sheet containing Cedric’s formula, Jeremy grimaced. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Here! Let me see.” Seated at the end of the breakfast table, Leonora held out her hand.

Tristan paused in consuming a mound of ham and eggs to pass the sheet to her.

She sipped her tea and studied it while the rest of them applied themselves to their breakfasts. “Which are the critical ingredients, do you know?”

Humphrey glanced down the table at her. “From what I gathered from the experiments, shepherd’s purse, moneywort, and comfrey were all crucial. As to the other substances, it was more a matter of enhancement of action.”

Leonora nodded, and set down her cup. “Give me a few minutes to consult with Cook and Mrs. Wantage. I’m sure we can concoct something believable.”

She returned fifteen minutes later; they were sitting back, replete, enjoying their coffee. She laid a neatly written formula in front of Tristan and retook her seat.

He picked it up, read it, nodded. “Looks believable to me.” He passed it to Jeremy. Looked at Humphrey. “Can you recopy that for us?”

Leonora stared at him. “What’s wrong with my copy?”

Tristan looked at her. “It wasn’t written by a man.”

“Oh.” Mollified, she poured herself another cup of tea. “So what’s your plan? What do we have to do?”

Tristan caught the inquiring gaze she directed at him over the rim of her cup, inwardly sighed, and explained.

As he’d anticipated, no amount of argument had swayed Leonora from joining him on the hunt.

Charles and Deverell had thought it a great joke, until Humphrey and Jeremy also insisted on playing a part.

Short of tying them up and leaving them in the club under Gasthorpe’s eye—something Tristan actually considered—there was no way to prevent them appearing in St. James’s Park; in the end, the three of them decided to make the best of it.

Leonora proved surprisingly easy to disguise. She was the same height as her maid Harriet, so could borrow her clothes; with the judicious application of some soot and dust, she made a passable flowerseller.

They decked Humphrey out in some of Cedric’s ancient clothes; by disregarding every edict of elegance, he was transformed into a thoroughly disreputable specimen, his thinning white hair artfully straggling, apparently unkempt. Deverell, who’d returned to his house in Mayfair to assume his own disguise, returned, approved, then took Humphrey in charge. They set out in a hackney to take up their positions.

Jeremy was the hardest to easily disguise; his slender length and clear-cut, well-defined features screamed “well-bred.” In the end, Tristan took him with him back to Green Street. They returned half an hour later as two rough-looking navvies; Leonora had to look twice before she recognized her brother.

He grinned. “This is almost worth being locked in the closet.”

Tristan frowned at him. “This is no joke.”

“No. Of course not.” Jeremy tried to look suitably chastened, and failed miserably.

They bade Jonathon, unhappy but resigned to missing out on all the fun, farewell, promising to tell him all when they returned, then went to the club to check on Charles and Duke.

Duke was exceedingly nervous, but Charles had him in hand. They each had defined roles to play; Duke knew his—had had it explained to him in painstaking detail—but even more important, he’d been told very clearly what Charles’s role was. They were all sure that come what may, knowing what Charles would do if he didn’t behave as instructed would be enough to ensure Duke’s continued cooperation.

Charles and Duke would be the last to leave for St. James’s Park. The meeting was scheduled for three o’clock, close by Queen Anne’s Gate. It was just after two when Tristan handed Leonora into a hackney, waved Jeremy in, then followed.

They left the hackney at the nearer end of the park. As they strolled onto the lawns, they separated, Tristan going ahead, striding easily, stopping now and then as if looking for a friend. Leonora followed a few yards behind, an empty trug hung over her arm—a flowerseller heading home at the end of a good day. Behind her, Jeremy slouched along, apparently sulking to himself and paying little attention to anyone.

Eventually Tristan reached the entrance known as Queen Anne’s Gate. He slouched against the bole of a nearby tree and settled somewhat grumpily to wait. As per his instructions, Leonora angled deeper into the park. A wrought-iron bench sat beside the path wending in from Queen Anne’s Gate; she sank onto it, stretched her legs out before her, balancing the empty trug against them, and fixed her gaze on the vista before her, of the treed lawns leading down to the lake.

On the next wrought-iron bench along the path sat an old, white-haired man weighed down by a veritable mountain of mismatched coats and scarves. Humphrey. Closer to the lake, but in line with the gate, Leonora could just see the old plaid cap Deverell had pulled low over his face; he was slumped down against the trunk of a tree, apparently asleep.

Without seeming to notice anyone, Jeremy slouched past; he made his way out of the gate, crossed the road, then stopped to peer into the window of a tailor’s shop.

Leonora swung her legs and her trug slightly, and wondered how long they would have to wait.

It was a fine day, not sunny, but pleasant enough for there to be many others loitering, enjoying the lawns and the lake. Enough, at least, for their little band to be entirely unremarkable.

Duke had been able to describe his foreigner in only the most cursory terms; as Tristan had somewhat acidly commented, the majority of foreign gentlemen of Germanic extraction presently in London would fit his bill. Nevertheless, Leonora kept her eyes wide, scanning the strollers who passed before her, as an idle flowerseller with no more work for the day might do.

She saw a gentleman coming along the path from the direction of the lake. He was fastidiously turned out in a grey suit; he wore a grey hat and carried a cane, held rigidly in one hand. There was something about him that caught her eye, tweaked her memory, something odd about the way he moved…then she recalled Duke’s landlady’s description of his foreign visitor. A poker strapped to his spine.

This had to be their man.

He passed by her, then stepped to the verge, just short of where Tristan lounged, his gaze fixed on the gate, one hand tapping his thigh impatiently. The man pulled out his watch, checked it.

Leonora stared at Tristan; she was sure he hadn’t seen the man. Angling her head as if she’d just noticed him, she paused as if debating with herself, then rose and sauntered, hips swinging in time with her trug, to his side.

He glanced at her, straightened as she came up beside him.

His gaze flicked beyond her, noted the man, then returned to her face.

She smiled, nudged him with her shoulder, angling closer, doing her best to mimic the encounters she’d occasionally witnessed in the park. “Pretend I’m suggesting a little dalliance to enliven the day.”

He grinned at her, slowly, showing his teeth, but his eyes remained cold. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“That’s the man over there, and any minute Duke and Charles will arrive. I’m giving us a perfectly reasonable reason for following the man when he leaves, together.”

His lips remained curved; he slid one arm about her waist and pulled her closer, bending his head to whisper in her ear, “You are not coming with me.”

She smiled into his eyes, patted his chest. “Unless the man goes into the stews, and that hardly seems likely, I am.”

He narrowed his eyes at her; she smiled more brightly, but met his gaze directly. “I’ve been a part of this drama from the beginning. I think I should be a part of its end.”

The words gave Tristan pause. And then fate stepped in and took the decision from him.

The bell towers of London’s churches tolled the hour—three clangs, echoed and repeated in multiple keys—and Duke came striding swiftly along the pavement and turned in at Queen Anne’s Gate.

Charles, in the guise of a tavern brawler, came sauntering along a little way behind, timing his approach.

Duke halted, saw his man, and marched toward him. He looked neither right nor left; Tristan suspected Charles had drilled him until he was so focused on what he had to do, so desperate to get it right, that paying attention to anything else was presently beyond him.

The wind was in the right quarter; it wafted Duke’s words to them.

“Do you have my vowels?”

The demand took the foreigner aback, but he recovered swiftly. “I might have. Have you got the formula?”

“I know where it is, and can get it for you in less than a minute, if you have my vowels to give me in return.”

Through narrowing eyes, the foreign gentleman searched Duke’s pale face, then he shrugged, and reached into his coat pocket.

Tristan tensed, saw Charles lengthen his stride; they both relaxed a fraction when the man drew out a small packet of papers.

He held them up for Duke to see. “Now,” he said, his voice cold and crisply accented, “the formula, if you please.”

Charles, until then apparently about to stroll past, changed direction and with one step joined the pair. “I have it here.”

The foreigner started. Charles grinned, wholly evil. “Don’t mind me—I’m just here to make sure my friend Mr. Martinbury comes to no harm. So”—he nodded at the papers, glanced at Duke—“they all there then?”

Duke reached for the vowels.

The foreigner drew them back. “The formula?”

With a sigh, Charles pulled out the copy of the altered formula Humphrey and Jeremy had prepared and made to look suitably aged. He unfolded it, held it up where the foreigner could see it but not quite read it. “Why don’t I just hold it here, then as soon as Martinbury has checked over his vowels, you can have it.”

The foreigner was clearly unhappy, but had little choice; Charles was intimidating enough in civilized garb—in his present guise, he exuded aggression.

Duke took the vowels, quickly checked, then looked at Charles and nodded. “Yes.” His voice was weak. “They’re all here.”

“Right then.” With a nasty grin, Charles handed the formula to the foreigner.

He seized it, pored over it. “This is the right formula?”

“That’s what you wanted—that’s what you’ve got. Now,” Charles continued, “if you’re done, my friend and I have other business to see to.”

He saluted the foreigner, a parody of a gesture; taking Duke’s arm, he turned. They marched straight out of the gate. Charles hailed a hackney, bundled a now trembling Duke in, and climbed in after him.

Tristan watched the carriage rumble off. The foreigner looked up, watched it go, then carefully, almost reverently, folded the formula and slipped it into his inner coat pocket. That done, he adjusted his grip on his cane, straightened his back, pivoted on his heel, and walked stiffly back toward the lake.

“Come on.” His arm around Leonora, Tristan straightened away from the tree and started off in the man’s wake.

They passed Humphrey; he didn’t look up but Tristan saw that he’d produced a sketch pad and pencil and was rapidly drawing, a somewhat incongruous sight.

The foreigner didn’t look back; he seemed to have swallowed their little charade. They’d hoped he would head straight back to his office rather than into any of the less salubrious areas not far from the park. The direction he was taking looked promising. Most of the foreign embassies were located in the area north of St. James’s Park, in the vicinity of St. James’s Palace.

Tristan released Leonora, then took her hand, glanced down at her. “We’re out for a night of entertainment—we’ve decided to look in at one of the halls around Piccadilly.”

She opened her eyes wide. “I’ve never been to one—I take it I should treat the prospect with enthusiam?”

“Precisely.” He couldn’t help but grin at her delight—nothing to do with any music hall but the result of pure excitement.

They passed Deverell, who’d got to his feet and was brushing himself down preparatory to joining them in following their quarry.

Tristan was an expert at trailing people through cities and crowds; so, too, was Deverell. They’d both worked primarily in the larger French cities; the best methods of the chase were second nature.

Jeremy would collect Humphrey and they’d return to Montrose Place to await developments; Charles would be there ahead of them with Duke. It was Charles’s job to hold the fort until they returned with the last, vital piece of information.

Their quarry crossed the bridge over the lake and continued on toward the environs of St. James’s Palace.

“Follow my lead in all things,” Tristan murmured, his eyes on the man’s back.

Just as he’d expected, the man paused just before the gate leading out of the park and bent down as if to ease a stone from his shoe.

Sliding his arm around Leonora, Tristan tickled her; she giggled, squirmed. Laughing, he settled her familiarly against him, and continued straight past the man without so much as a look.

Breathless, Leonora leaned close as they continued on. “Was he checking?”

“Yes. We’ll stop a little way along and argue about which way to go so he can pass us again.”

They did; Leonora thought they put on a creditable performance of a pair of lower-class lovers debating the merits of music halls.

When the man was once more ahead of them, striding along, Tristan grasped her hand, and they followed, now rather more briskly as if they’d made up their minds.

The area surrounding St. James’s Palace was riddled with tiny lanes and interconnecting alleyways and yards. The man turned into the labyrinth, striding along confidently.

“This won’t work. Let’s leave him to Deverell and go on to Pall Mall. We’ll pick him up there.”

Leonora felt a certain wrench as they left the man’s trail, continuing straight on where he had turned left. A few houses along, she glanced back, and saw Deverell turn off in the man’s wake.

They reached Pall Mall and turned left, ambling very slowly, scanning the openings of the lanes ahead. They didn’t have long to wait before their quarry emerged, striding along even more quickly.

“He’s in a hurry.”

“He’s excited,” she said, and felt certain it was true.

“Perhaps.”

Tristan led her on; they switched with Deverell again in the streets south of Piccadilly, then joined the crowds enjoying an evening stroll along that major thoroughfare.

“This is where we might lose him. Keep your eyes peeled.”

She did, scanning the throng bustling along in the fine evening.

“There’s Deverell.” Tristan stopped, nudged her so she looked in the right direction. Deverell had just stepped into Pall Mall; he was looking about him. “Damn!” Tristan straightened. “We’ve lost him.” He started openly searching the crowds before them. “Where the devil did he go?”

Leonora stepped closer to the buildings, looked along the narrow gap the crowds left. She caught a flash of grey, then it was gone.

“There!” She grabbed Tristan’s arm, pointed ahead. “Two streets up.”

They pushed through, tacked, ran—reached the corner and rounded it, then slowed.

Their quarry—she hadn’t been wrong—was almost at the end of the short street.

They hurried along, then the man turned right and disappeared from view. Tristan signaled to Deverell, who started running along the street after the man. “Down the alley.” Tristan pushed her toward the mouth of a narrow lane.

It cut straight across to the next street running parallel to the one they’d been on. They hurried along it, Tristan gripping her hand, steadying her when she slipped.

They reached the other street and turned up it, strolling once more, catching their breaths. The opening where the street the man had turned down joined the one they were now on lay ahead to their left; they watched it as they walked, waiting for him to reappear.

He didn’t.

They reached the corner and looked down the short street. Deverell stood leaning against a railing at the other end.

Of the man they’d been following there was absolutely no sign.

Deverell pushed away from the railing and walked toward them; it only took a few minutes for him to reach them.

He looked grim. “He’d disappeared by the time I got here.”

Leonora sagged. “So it’s a dead end—we’ve lost him.”

“No,” Tristan said. “Not quite. Wait here.”

He left her with Deverell and crossed the road to where a streetsweeper stood leaning on his broom midway down the short street. Reaching under his scruffy coat, Tristan located a sovereign; he held it between his fingers where the sweeper could see it as he lounged on the rails beside him.

“The gent in grey who went into the house across the way. Know his name?”

The sweep eyed him suspiciously, but the glimmer of gold spoke loudly. “Don’t rightly know his name. Stiff-rumped sort he is. ’Ave ’eard the doorman call him Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.”

Tristan nodded. “That’ll do.” He dropped the coin into the sweep’s palm.

Strolling back to Leonora and Deverell, he made no effort to keep his self-satisfied smile from his lips.

“Well?” Predictably, it was the light of his life who prompted him.

He grinned. “The man in grey is known to the doorman of the house in the middle of the row as ‘Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.’”

Leonora frowned at him, then looked past him at the house in question. Then she narrowed her eyes at him. “And?”

His smile broadened; it felt amazingly good. “The house is Hapsburg House.”

At seven o’clock that evening, Tristan ushered Leonora into the anteroom of Dalziel’s office, secreted in the depths of Whitehall.

“Let’s see how long he keeps us waiting.”

Leonora settled her skirts on the wooden bench Tristan had handed her to. “I would have assumed he’d be punctual.”

Sitting beside her, Tristan smiled wryly. “Nothing to do with punctuality.”

She studied his face. “Ah. One of those strange games men play.”

He said nothing, simply smiled and leaned back.

They only had to wait five minutes.

The door opened; a darkly elegant man appeared. He saw them. A momentary hiatus ensued, then, with a graceful gesture, he invited them in.

Tristan rose, drawing her to her feet beside him, setting her hand on his sleeve. He led her in, halting before the desk and the chairs set before it.

After closing the door, Dalziel joined them. “Miss Carling, I presume.”

“Indeed.” She gave him her hand, met his gaze—as penetrating as Tristan’s—coolly. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Dalziel’s gaze flicked to Tristan’s face; his thin lips were not quite straight when he inclined his head and waved them to the chairs.

Rounding the desk, he sat. “So—who was behind the incidents in Montrose Place?”

“A Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.”

Unimpressed, Dalziel raised his brows.

Tristan smiled his chilly smile. “The Count is known at Hapsburg House.”

“Ah.”

“And—” From his pocket, Tristan withdrew the sketch Humphrey had, to everyone’s surprise, made of the Count. “This should help in identifying him—it’s a remarkable likeness.”

Dalziel took it, studied it, then nodded. “Excellent. And he accepted the false formula?”

“As far as we could tell. He handed over Martinbury’s vowels in exchange.”

“Good. And Martinbury is on his way north?”

“Not yet, but he will be. He appears genuinely appalled by his cousin’s injuries and will escort him back to York once he—Jonathon—is fit enough to travel. Until then, they’ll remain at our club.”

“And St. Austell and Deverell?”

“Both have been neglecting their own affairs. Pressing matters necessitated their return to their own hearths.”

“Indeed?” One laconic brow rose, then Dalziel turned his dark gaze on Leonora. “I’ve made inquiries among government ranks, and there’s considerable interest in your late cousin’s formula, Miss Carling. I’ve been asked to inform your uncle that certain gentlemen would like to call on him at his earliest convenience. It would, of course, be helpful if their visit could take place before the Martinburys leave London.”

She inclined her head. “I’ll convey that message to my uncle. Perhaps your gentlemen could send a messenger tomorrow to set a time?”

Dalziel inclined his head in turn. “I’ll advise them to do so.”

His gaze, fathomless, lingered on her for a moment, then switched to Tristan. “I take it”—the words were even, yet gentler—“that this is farewell, then?”

Tristan held his gaze, then his lips quirked. He rose, and extended his hand. “Indeed. As close to farewell as those in our business ever get.”

An answering smile fleetingly softened Dalziel’s face as rising, too, he gripped Tristan’s hand. Then he released it, and bowed to Leonora. “Your servant, Miss Carling. I won’t pretend I would much rather you did not exist, but fate has clearly overruled me.” His lazy smile robbed the words of any offense. “I sincerely wish you both well.”

“Thank you.” Feeling far more in charity with him than she had expected, Leonora politely nodded.

Then she turned. Tristan took her hand, opened the door, and they left the small office in the bowels of Whitehall.

“Why did you take me to meet him?”

“Dalziel?”

“Yes, Dalziel. He obviously wasn’t expecting me—he clearly saw my presence as some message. What?”

Tristan looked into her face as the carriage slowed for a corner, then righted and rolled on. “I took you because seeing you, meeting you, was the one message he could neither ignore nor misconstrue. He is my past; you—” He lifted her hand, placed a kiss in her palm, then closed his hand about hers. “You,” he said, his voice deep and low, “are my future.”

She considered what little she could read in his shadowed face. “So all that”—with her other hand, she gestured back toward Whitehall—“is at an end—behind you?”

He nodded. Lifted her trapped fingers to his lips. “The end of one life—the beginning of another.”

She looked into his face, into his dark eyes, then slowly smiled. Leaving her hand in his, she leaned closer. “Good.”

His new life—he was impatient to get on with it.

He was a master of strategy and tactics, of exploiting situations for his own ends; by the next morning, he had his latest plan in place.

At ten, he called to take Leonora for a drive, and kidnapped her. He whisked her down to Mallingham Manor, currently devoid of old dears—they were all still in London, busily devoting themselves to his cause.

The same cause to which, after an intimate luncheon, he devoted himself with exemplary zeal.

When the clock on the mantelpiece of the earl’s bedchamber chimed three o’clock, he stretched, luxuriating in the slide of the silk sheets over his skin, and even more in the warmth of Leonora slumped boneless against him.

He glanced down. The tumbled mahogany silk of her hair screened her face. Beneath the sheet, he curved a hand about her hip, possessively caressed.

“Hmm-mm.” The sated sound was that of a woman well loved. After a moment, she mumbled, “You planned this, didn’t you?”

He grinned; a touch of the wolf still remained. “I’ve been plotting for some time to get you into this bed.” His bed, the earl’s bed. Where she belonged.

“As distinct from all those nooks you were so successful in finding in all the hostesses’s houses?” Lifting her head, she pushed back her hair, then rearranged herself against him, propping her arms on his chest so she could look into his face.

“Indeed—they were merely necessary evils, dictated by the vagaries of the battle.”

She looked into his eyes. “I’m not a battle—I told you before.”

“But you are something I had to win.” He let a heartbeat pass, then added, “And I’ve triumphed.”

Lips curving, Leonora searched his eyes and didn’t bother to deny it. “And have you found victory to be sweet?”

He closed his hands over her hips, held her to him. “Sweeter than I’d expected.”

“Indeed?” Ignoring the rush of warmth over her skin, she raised a brow. “Well, now you’ve plotted and planned and got me into your bed, what next?”

“As I aim to keep you here, I suspect we’d better get married.” Lifting one hand, he caught and played with strands of her hair. “I wanted to ask—did you want a big wedding?”

She hadn’t really thought. He was rushing her—calling the shots—yet…she didn’t want to waste any more of their lives either.

Here—lying naked with him in his bed—the physical sensations underscored the real attraction, all that had tempted her into his arms. It wasn’t just the pleasure that wrapped them about, but the comfort, the security, the promise of all their lives combined could be.

She refocused on his eyes. “No. A small ceremony with our families would suit very well.”

“Good.” His lashes flickered down.

She sensed the spurt of relief he tried to hide. “What is it?” She was learning; rarely did he not have some plan afoot.

His eyes flicked up to hers. He shrugged lightly. “I was hoping you’d agree to a small wedding. Much easier and faster to organize.”

“Well, we can discuss the details with your great-aunts and my aunts when we return to town.” She frowned, recollecting. “It’s the De Veres’ ball tonight—we have to attend.”

“No. We don’t.”

His tone was firm—decided; she glanced at him, puzzled. “We don’t?”

“I’ve had enough of the ton’s entertainments to last me for a year. And when they hear our news, I’m sure the hostesses will excuse us—after all, they love that sort of gossip and should be grateful to those of us who supply it.”

She stared at him. “What news? What gossip?”

“Why that we’re so head over heels in love that we refused to countenance any delay and have organized to be married in the chapel here tomorrow, in the presence of our combined families and a few selected friends.”

Silence reigned; she could barely take it in…then she did. “Tell me the details.” With one finger, she prodded his bare chest. “All of them. How is this supposed to work?”

He caught her finger, dutifully recited, “Jeremy and Humphrey will arrive this evening, then…”

She listened, and had to approve. Between them, he, his old dears, and her aunts had covered everything, even a gown for her to wear. He had a special license; the reverend of the village church who acted as chaplain for the estate would be delighted to marry them…

Head over heels in love.

She suddenly realized he’d not only said it, but was living it. Openly, in a manner guaranteed to demonstrate that fact to all the ton.

She refocused on his face, on the hard angles and planes that hadn’t changed, hadn’t softened in the least, that were now, here with her, totally devoid of his charming social mask. He was still talking, telling her of the arrangements for the wedding breakfast. Her eyes misted; freeing her finger, she laid it across his lips.

He stopped talking, met her gaze.

She smiled down at him; her heart overflowed. “I love you. So yes, I’ll marry you tomorrow.”

He searched her eyes, then his arms closed around her. “Thank God for that.”

She chuckled, sank down, laying her head on his shoulder. Felt his arms settle, holding her tight. “This is really all a plot to avoid having to attend any more balls and soirées, isn’t it?”

“And musicales. Don’t forget those.” Tristan bent his head and brushed a kiss to her forehead. Caught her gaze, softly said, “I’d much rather spend my evenings here, with you. Attending to my future.”

Her eyes, the periwinkle blue intense and brilliant, held his for a long moment, then she smiled, shifted, and drew his lips to hers.

He took what she offered, gave all he had in return.

Lust and a virtuous woman.

Fate had chosen his lady for him, and done a bloody good job.