A fleeting madness gripped her—a strong urge to reach her hand to his nape and draw him, and those fascinating lips, back to her.
She blinked again.
He set her back on her feet, steadying her.
“I should go.”
Her wits snapped back into place, back into the real world. “How have you decided to proceed?”
He looked at her; she could have sworn a frown crossed behind his eyes. His lips thinned. She waited, her gaze steady.
Eventually, he replied, “I called on Stolemore this morning.” He grasped her hand, wound her arm in his, and steered them back along the path.
“And?”
“He consented to tell me the name of the purchaser so intent on buying this house. One Montgomery Mountford. Do you know him?”
She looked ahead, mentally running through all her and her family’s acquaintances. “No. He’s not one of Humphrey’s or Jeremy’s colleagues, either—I help with their correspondence, and that name hasn’t arisen.”
When he said nothing more, she glanced at him. “Did you get an address?”
He nodded. “I’ll go there and see what I can learn.”
They’d reached the archway. She halted. “Where is it?”
He met her gaze; again she got the impression he was irritated. “Bloomsbury.”
“Bloomsbury?” She stared. “That’s where we used to live.”
He frowned. “Before here?”
“Yes. I told you we moved here two years ago, when Humphrey inherited this house. For the four years before that, we lived in Bloomsbury. In Keppell Street.” She caught his sleeve. “Perhaps it’s someone from there, who for some reason…” She gestured. “Who knows why, but there must be a connection.”
“Perhaps.”
“Come on!” She set off for the parlor doors. “I’ll come with you. There’s plenty of time before lunch.”
Tristan swallowed a curse and set off after her. “There’s no need—”
“Of course there is!” She flicked him an impatient glance. “How will you know if this Mr. Mountford is in some odd way connected with our past?”
There was no good answer to that. He’d kissed her with the connected aims of further arousing her sensual curiosity and thus distracting her enough to allow him to pursue the burglar on his own, and had apparently failed on both counts. Swallowing his irritation, he followed her up the steps.
And through the French doors.
Exasperated, he halted. He wasn’t used to following another’s lead, let alone tripping on a lady’s heels. “Miss Carling!”
She halted before the door. Head rising, spine stiffening, she faced him. Her eyes met his. “Yes?”
He struggled to mask his glare. Intransigence glowed in her fine eyes, invested her stance. He debated for an instant, then, like all experienced commanders when faced with the unexpected, adjusted his tactics.
“Very well.” Disgusted, he waved her on. Giving way on a relatively minor point might well strengthen his hand later.
She sent him a beaming smile, then opened the door and led the way into the hall.
Lips compressed, he followed. It was only Bloomsbury, after all.
Indeed, being Bloomsbury, her presence on his arm proved a bonus. He’d forgotten that in the middle-class neighborhood into which Mountford’s address took them, a couple attracted less attention than a single, well dressed gentleman.
The house in Taviton Street was tall and narrow. It proved to be a lodging house. The landlady opened the door; neat and severe in dull black, she narrowed her eyes when he asked for Mountford.
“He’s gone. Left last week.”
After the foiled attempt at Number 12. Tristan affected mild surprise. “Did he say where he was going?”
“No. Just handed me my shillings on the way out.” She sniffed. “I wouldn’t have got them if I hadn’t been right here.”
Leonora edged in front of him. “We’re trying to find a man who might know something of an incident in Belgravia. We’re not even sure Mr. Mountford’s the right man. Was he tall?”
The landlady considered her, then thawed. “Aye. Medium-tall.” Her eyes flicked to Tristan. “Not as tall as your husband here, but tallish.”
A faint blush tinged Leonora’s fine skin; she hurried on. “Lightly built rather than heavy?”
The landlady nodded. “Black-haired, a bit too pale to be healthy. Brown eyes but a cold fish, if you ask me. Youngish in looks but in his middle twenties, I’d say. Thought a lot of himself, he did, and kept to himself, too.”
Leonora glanced up, over her shoulder. “That sounds like the man we’re searching for.”
Tristan met her gaze, then looked at the landlady. “Did he have any visitors?”
“No, and that was strange. Usually, young gentlemen like that, I have to have a strong word about visitors, if you take my meaning.”
Leonora smiled weakly. He drew her back. “Thank you for your help, ma’am.”
“Aye, well, I hope you catch up with him and he can help you.”
They stepped back off the tiny front porch; the landlady started to close the door, then stopped.
“Wait a minute—I just remembered.” She nodded at Tristan. “He did have a visitor, once, but he didn’t come in. Stood on the pavement just like you’re doing and waited until Mr. Mountford came out to join him.”
“What did this visitor look like? Did you get a name?”
“He didn’t give one, but I remember thinking as I went up to fetch Mr. Mountford that I wouldn’t need one. I just told him the gentleman was foreign, and sure enough, he knew who it was.”
“Foreign?”
“Aye. He had an accent you couldn’t miss. One of those that sounds like they’re growling at you.”
Tristan stilled. “What did he look like?”
She frowned, shrugged. “Just like any spic-and-span gentleman. Very neat he was—I do remember that.”
“How did he stand?”
The landlady’s face eased. “Now that’s something I can tell you—he stood like he had a poker strapped to him. He was that stiff, I thought as how he’d break if he bowed.”
Tristan smiled charmingly. “Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”
The landlady turned a soft shade of pink. She bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, sir.” After an instant, she shifted her gaze to Leonora. “I wish you good luck, ma’am.”
Leonora inclined her head graciously and allowed Trentham to steer her away. She half wished she’d asked the landlady what she was wishing her good luck with—finding Mountford, or keeping Trentham to his supposed wedding vows?
The man was a menace with that lethal smile.
She glanced up at him, then tucked the thought away along with the rest the day had brought. Better not to dwell on them while he was beside her.
He was pacing along, his expression impassive.
“What do you make of Mountford’s visitor?”
Tristan glanced at her. “Make?”
Her eyes narrowed, her lips thinned; the look she bent on him told him she was more than seven. “What nationality do you think he is? You clearly have some idea.”
The woman was annoyingly acute. Still, there was no harm in telling her. “German, Austrian, or Prussian. That peculiarly stiff stance plus the diction suggests one of the three.”
She frowned, but said no more. He hailed a hackney and helped her in. They were bowling back to Belgravia when she asked, “Do you think the foreign gentleman could be behind the burglaries?” When he didn’t immediately answer, she went on, “What possible thing could attract a German, Austrian, or Prussian to Number 14 Montrose Place?”
“That,” he admitted, his voice low, “is something I’d dearly like to know.”
