His hard gaze held hers; his hand found hers, his fingers twined with hers.
Her pulse leapt at his touch.
He raised her hand, brushed his lips across her fingers.
Held her gaze over them.
Then, lingeringly, touched his lips to her skin again, blatantly savoring.
Dizziness threatened.
His eyes searched hers, then he murmured, deep and low, “Let me think things through. I’ll call on you tomorrow, and we can discuss how best to go on.”
Her skin burned where his lips had brushed. She managed a nod, stepped back. He let her fingers slide from his. Pushing the iron gate, she stepped through, shut it. Looked at him through it. “Until tomorrow, then. Goodbye.”
Her pulse thrumming through her veins, throbbing in her fingertips, she turned and walked up the path.
Chapter
“Is this the place?”
Tristan nodded to Charles St. Austell and reached for the doorknob of Stolemore’s establishment. By the time he’d dropped by one of his smaller clubs, the Guards, the previous evening, he’d already decided to call on Stolemore and be rather more persuasive. Encountering Charles, up from the country on business, also taking refuge at the club, had been too good a stroke of fortune to overlook.
Either of them could be menacing enough to persuade almost anyone to talk; together, there was no doubt Stolemore would tell them all Tristan wished to know.
He’d only had to mention the matter to Charles, and he’d agreed. Indeed, he’d leapt at the chance to help, to once again exercise his peculiar talents.
The door swung inward; Tristan led the way in. This time, Stolemore was behind the desk. He looked up as the bell tinkled, his gaze sharpening as he recognized Tristan.
Tristan strolled forward, his gaze trained on the hapless agent. Stolemore’s eyes widened. His gaze deflected to Charles. The agent paled, then tensed.
Behind him, Tristan heard Charles move; he didn’t look around. His senses informed him Charles had turned the wooden sign on the door to CLOSED, then came the rattle of rings on wood; the light faded as Charles drew the curtains across the front windows.
Stolemore’s expression, eyes filled with apprehension, said he understood their threat very well. He grasped the edge of his desk and eased his chair back.
From the corner of his eye, Tristan watched Charles cross soft-footed to lounge, arms folded, against the edge of the curtained doorway leading deeper into the house. His grin would have done credit to a demon.
The message was clear. To escape the small office Stolemore would have to go through one or other of them. Although the agent was a heavy man, heavier than either Tristan or Charles, there was no doubt in any of their minds that he would never make it.
Tristan smiled, not humorously yet gently enough. “All we want is information.”
Stolemore licked his lips, his gaze flicking from him to Charles. “On what?”
His voice was rough, underlying fear grating.
Tristan paused as if savoring the sound, then softly replied, “I want the name and all the details you have on the party who wished to purchase Number 14 Montrose Place.”
Stolemore swallowed; again he edged back, his gaze shifting between them. “I don’t go talking about my clients. Worth my reputation to give out information like that.”
Again Tristan waited, his eyes never leaving Stolemore’s face. When the silence had stretched taut, along with Stolemore’s nerves, he softly inquired, “And what do you imagine it’s going to cost you not to oblige us?”
Stolemore paled even more; the lingering bruises from the beating administered by the very people he was protecting were clearly visible beneath his pasty skin. He turned to Charles, as if gauging his chances; an instant later, he looked back at Tristan. Puzzlement flowed behind his eyes. “Who are you?”
Tristan replied, his tone even, uninflected, “We’re gentlemen who do not like seeing innocents taken advantage of. Suffice to say the recent activities of your client do not sit well with us.”
“Indeed,” Charles put in, his voice a dark purr, “you could say he’s rattling our cages.”
The last words were laden with menace.
Stolemore glanced at Charles, then quickly looked back at Tristan. “All right. I’ll tell you—but on condition you don’t tell him it was me gave you his name.”
“I can assure you that when we catch up with him, we won’t be wasting time discussing how we found him.” Tristan raised his brows. “Indeed, I can guarantee he’ll have much more pressing claims on his attention.”
Stolemore smothered a nervous snort. He reached for a drawer in the desk.
Tristan and Charles moved, silent, deadly; Stolemore froze, then glanced nervously at them, now positioned so he was directly between them. “It’s just a book,” he croaked. “I swear!”
A heartbeat passed, then Tristan nodded. “Take it out.”
Barely breathing, Stolemore very slowly withdrew a ledger from the drawer.
The tension eased a fraction; the agent placed the book on the desk and opened it. He fumbled, hurriedly shuffling pages, then he ran his finger down one, and stopped.
“Write it down,” Tristan said.
Stolemore obliged.
Tristan had already read the entry, committed it to memory. When Stolemore finished and pushed the slip of paper with the address across the desk, he smiled—charmingly, this time—and picked it up.
“This way”—he held Stolemore’s gaze as he tucked the paper into his inner coat pocket—“if anyone should ask, you can swear with a clear conscience that you told no one his name or address. Now—what did he look like? There was just one man, I take it?”
Stolemore nodded in the direction in which the slip of paper had disappeared. “Just him. Nasty piece of work. Looks gentlemanly enough—black hair, pale skin, brown eyes. Well dressed but not Mayfair quality. I took him for a nob from the country; he behaved arrogantly enough. Youngish, but he’s got a mean streak and a hasty temper.” Stolemore raised a hand to the bruises about one eye. “If I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.”
Tristan inclined his head. “We’ll see what we can do to arrange it.”
Turning, he walked to the door. Charles followed on his heels.
Outside on the pavement, they paused.
Charles grimaced. “Much as I would love to come and cast an eye over our stronghold”—his devilish grin dawned—“and over our delectable neighbor, I have to hie back to Cornwall.”
“My thanks.” Tristan held out his hand.
Charles grasped it. “Anytime.” A hint of self-deprecation tinged his smile. “Truth to tell, I enjoyed it, minor though it was. I feel like I’m literally rusting in the country.”
“The adjustment was never going to be easy, even less so for us than for others.”
“At least you’ve got something to keep you occupied. All I have is sheep and cows and sisters.”
Tristan laughed at Charles’s patent disgust. He clapped him on the shoulder, and they parted, Charles heading back to Mayfair while Tristan headed in the opposite direction.
To Montrose Place. It was not quite ten o’clock. He would check with Gasthorpe, the ex–sergeant major they’d hired as the Bastion Club’s majordomo who was overseeing the final stages of preparing the club for its patrons, then he’d call on Leonora as he’d promised.
As he’d promised, discuss how to go on.
At eleven o’clock, he knocked on the door of Number 14. The butler showed him to the parlor; Leonora rose from the chaise as he entered.
