His conjecture was borne out when Leonora pulled open the first drawer. “Good Lord!” She stared at the mass of paper crammed into the space. “This could take days!”
He pulled open the drawer beside her. “Just as well you invited yourself along.”
She made a sound suspiciously like a suppressed snort and started checking the names. It wasn’t as bad as they’d feared; in short order they located the first Mountford, but the number of people born in England with that surname was depressingly large. They persevered, and ultimately discovered that yes, indeed, there was a Montgomery Mountford.
“But”—Leonora stared at the birth certificate—“this means he’s seventy-three!”
She frowned, then pushed the certificate back, looked at the next, and the next. And the next.
“Six of them,” she muttered, her exasperated tone confirming what he’d expected. “And not one of them could possibly be him. The first five are too old, and this one is thirteen.”
He put a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Check carefully on either side in case a certificate’s been misfiled. I’ll check with the assistant.”
Leaving her frowning, flicking through the certificates, he walked to the supervisor’s desk. A quiet word and the supervisor sent one of his assistants scurrying. Three minutes later a dapper individual in the sober garb of a government functionary arrived.
Tristan explained what he was looking for.
Mr. Crosby bowed. “Indeed, my lord. However, I do not believe that name is one of those protected. If you’ll allow me to verify?”
Tristan waved, and Crosby walked down the room.
Dispirited, Leonora shut the drawers. She returned to his side, and they waited until Crosby reappeared.
He bowed to Leonora, then looked at Tristan. “It is as you suspected, my lord. Unless there’s a certificate missing—which I very much doubt—then there is no Montgomery Mountford of the age you’re searching for.”
Tristan thanked him and steered Leonora outside. They paused on the steps and she turned to him.
Met his gaze. “Why would someone use an assumed name?”
“Because,” he pulled on his driving gloves, felt his jaw set, “he’s up to no good.” Retaking her elbow, he urged her down the steps. “Come—let’s go for a drive.”
* * *
He took her into Surrey, to Mallingham Manor, now his home. He did so impulsively, he supposed to distract her, something he felt was increasingly necessary. A felon using an assumed name boded no good at all.
From the Strand, he headed across the river, immediately alerting her to the change in direction. But when he explained he needed to attend to business at his estate so he could return to town free to pursue the question of Montgomery Mountford, phantom burglar, she accepted the arrangement readily.
The road was direct and in excellent condition; the greys were fresh and eager to stretch their legs. He turned the curricle in between the elegant wrought-iron gates in good time for luncheon. Setting the pair pacing up the drive, he noted Leonora’s attention was fixed on the huge house ahead, standing amid manicured lawns and formal parterres. The gravel drive swept up to a circular forecourt before the imposing front doors.
He followed her gaze; he suspected he saw the house as she did, for he’d yet to grow used to the idea that this was now his, his home. A manor house had stood on the spot for centuries, but his great-uncle had renovated and refurbished with zeal. What now faced them was a Palladian mansion built of creamy sandstone with pediments over every long window and mock battlements above the long line of the facade.
The greys swept into the forecourt. Leonora exhaled. “It’s beautiful. So elegant.”
He nodded, allowing himself to acknowledge it, permitting himself to admit that his great-uncle had got something right.
A stable lad came running as he stepped to the ground. Leaving the curricle and pair to his tiger’s care, he helped Leonora down, then led her up the steps.
Clitheroe, his great-uncle’s butler, now his, opened the doors before they reached them, beaming in his usual genial way. “Welcome home, my lord.” Clitheroe included Leonora in his smile.
“Clitheroe, this is Miss Carling. We’ll be here for luncheon, then I’ll tend to business before we return to town.”
“Indeed, my lord. Shall I inform the ladies?”
Shrugging out of his greatcoat, Tristan suppressed a grimace. “No. I’ll take Miss Carling to meet them. I assume they’re in the morning room?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He lifted Leonora’s pelisse from her shoulders and gave it to Clitheroe. Placing her hand on his sleeve, with his other hand he gestured down the hall. “I believe I mentioned that I had various females—family and connections—resident here?”
She glanced at him. “You did. Are they cousins like the others?”
“Some, but the two most notable are my great-aunts Hermione and Hortense. At this time of day, the group are invariably to be found in the morning room.” He met her eyes. “Gossiping.”
He paused and threw open a door. As if to prove his point, the flurry of feminine chatter within immediately ceased.
As he conducted her into the long room filled with light courtesy of a succession of windows along one wall, all looking out over a pastoral scene of gentle lawns leading down to a distant lake, Leonora found herself subjected to wide-eyed, unblinking stares. His ladies—she counted eight—were positively agog.
They were not, however, disapproving.
That was instantly apparent as Trentham, with his usual polished grace, introduced her to his eldest great- aunt, Lady Hermione Wemyss. Lady Hermione beamed and bade her a sincere welcome; Leonora curtsied and responded.
And so it went around the circle of lined faces, all exhibiting various degrees of joy. Just as the six old ladies in his London house had been sincerely thrilled to meet her, so, too, were these women. Her first thought, that perhaps, for whatever reason, they did not venture into society and so were starved for visitors, and therefore would have been delighted with whoever had come to call, died a quick death; as she sank onto the chair Trentham placed for her, Lady Hortense launched into an account of their latest round of visits and the excitement surrounding the local church fete.
“Always something happening around here, you know,” Hortense confided. “Not dull at all.”
The others nodded and eagerly chimed in, telling her of the local sights and the amenities of the estate and village before inviting her to tell them something of herself.
Completely assured in such company, she responded easily, telling them of Humphrey and Jeremy and their endeavors, and Cedric’s gardens—all the sorts of things older ladies liked to know.
Trentham had remained standing by her chair, one hand on its back; now he stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’ll rejoin you for luncheon.”
They all beamed and nodded; Leonora glanced up and met his gaze. He inclined his head, then his attention was claimed by Lady Hermione; he bent to listen to her. Leonora couldn’t hear what was said. With a nod, Trentham straightened, then walked from the room; she watched his elegant back disappear through the door.
“My dear Miss Carling, do tell us—”
Leonora turned back to Hortense.
She might have felt deserted, but that proved impossible in the present company. The old ladies quite plainly set themselves to entertain her; she couldn’t help but respond. Indeed, she found herself intrigued by the myriad snippets they let fall of Trentham and his predecessor, his great-uncle Mortimer. She put together enough to understand the route by which Trentham had inherited, heard from Hermione of her brother’s sour disposition and disaffection with Trentham’s side of the family.
“Always insisted they were wastrels.” Hermione snorted. “Nonsense, of course. He was just jealous they could jaunter all over while he had to stay at home and mind the family acres.”
Hortense nodded sagely. “And Tristan’s behavior these past months has proved how wrong Mortimer was.” She caught Leonora’s eye. “Very sound man, Tristan. Not one to shirk his duties, whatever they might be.”
This pronouncement was greeted with wise nods all around. Leonora suspected it had some significance beyond the obvious, but before she could think of any way to inquire tactfully, a colorful description of the vicar and the rectory household distracted her.
