Eyes on the flames glowing hotly in the hearth, she considered reaching for it.
If she didn’t act now and grab the chance fate had finally consented to allow her, who knew for how long his interest, and therefore his offer, would stand? Military gentlemen were not renowned for their constancy; she had firsthand experience of that.
Her mind slid away, assessing the possibilities, distracted by them. The fire slowly died to red-hot embers.
When the chill in the air finally penetrated her absorption, she realized she’d made her decision. Her mind had been engrossed, had been for some time, with two questions.
How was she to convey that decision to Trentham?
And how could she manage their interaction so that the reins remained in her hands?
Tristan received the letter by the first post the next morning.
After the customary salutations, Leonora had written:
He read the letter three times. His well-honed instincts assured him there was more to it than the superficial meaning of the words, yet her hidden agenda eluded him. Deciding he’d been a covert operative for too long and was now seeing plots where there patently were none, he set the letter aside and put his mind determinedly to business.
His, and hers.
He dealt with hers first, listing the various avenues available for identifying the man masquerading as Montgomery Mountford. After considering the list, he wrote a summons and sent a footman to deliver it, then settled to write a series of letters the recipients would prefer not to receive. Nevertheless, debts were debts, and he was calling them in in a good cause.
An hour later, Havers conducted a nondescript, rather shabby individual into the study. Tristan sat back and waved him to a chair. “Good morning, Colby. Thank you for coming.”
The man was wary, but not servile. He ducked his head and sat in the chair, glancing quickly around as Havers closed the door, then looking back at Tristan. “Mornin’, sir—beggin’ your pardon, it’s m’lord, ain’t it?”
Tristan merely smiled.
Colby’s nervousness increased. “What can I help you with, then?”
Tristan told him. Despite his appearance, Colby was the recognized underworld baron of the patch of London that included Montrose Place. Tristan had made his acquaintance, or rather made sure Colby knew of him, when they’d settled on Number 12 for the club.
On hearing of the strange goings-on in Montrose Place, Colby sucked his teeth and looked severe. Tristan had never believed that the attempted burglaries were the handiwork of the local louts; Colby’s reaction and subsequent assurance confirmed that.
His eyes narrowed, Colby now looked more like the potentially dangerous specimen he was. “I’d like to meet this fine gentleman of yours.”
“He’s mine.” Tristan made the statement blandly.
Colby glanced at him, assessing, then nodded. “I’ll put the word around you’re wanting a word with ’im. If any of the boys hear of ’im, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Tristan inclined his head. “Once I lay hands on him, you won’t see him again.”
Colby nodded, once, bargain accepted. Information in exchange for removal of a competitor. Tristan rang for Havers, who saw Colby out.
Tristan finished the last of his requests for information, then gave them to Havers with strict instructions for delivery. “No livery. Use the heaviest footmen.”
“Indeed, my lord. I apprehend we wish to make a show of strength. Collison would be best in that regard.”
Tristan nodded, fighting a smile as Havers withdrew. The man was a godsend, dealing with the myriad demands of the old dears, yet with equal aplomb accommodating the rougher side of Tristan’s affairs.
Having accomplished all he could regarding Montgomery Mountford, Tristan gave his attention to the day-to- day business of keeping his head above water with the details and demands of the earldom. While the clock ticked and time passed without his making any real headway in the matter of making said earldom secure.
For one of his temperament, that last irked.
He had Havers bring him luncheon on a tray and continued to whittle down the stack of business letters. Scrawling a note to his steward on the last, he sighed and pushed the completed pile aside.
And turned his mind determinedly to marriage.
To his wife-to-be.
Telling that he didn’t think of her as a bride, but as his wife. Their association was not based on social superficialties, but on practical, ungilded day-to-day interactions. He could easily picture her by his side, as his countess dealing with the demands of their future life.
He should, he supposed, have considered a range of candidates. If he asked, his resident gossipmongers would be thrilled to provide him with a list. He’d toyed with the notion, or at least had told himself he was, yet appealing to others for assistance in such a personal and vitally crucial decision was simply not his style.
It was also redundant, a waste of time.
To the right of the blotter lay Leonora’s letter. His gaze locking on it, on the delicate script reminiscent of the writer, he sat and brooded, turning his pen end over end between his fingers.
The clock struck three. He looked up, then threw the pen down, pushed back his chair, stood and headed for the hall.
Havers met him there, helped him into his greatcoat, handed him his cane, then swung the door wide.
Tristan walked out, went quickly down the steps, and headed for Montrose Place.
He found Leonora in the workshop, a large chamber tucked into the basement of Number 14. The walls were solid stone, thick and cold. A row of windows high along one wall looked out at ground level toward the front of the house. They would have admitted reasonable light once, but were now fogged and cracked.
They were, Tristan instantly noted, too small for even a child to crawl through.
Leonora hadn’t heard him walk in; she had her nose buried in some musty tome. He scraped a sole on the flags. She looked up—and smiled in delighted welcome.
He smiled back, let the simple gesture warm him; he strolled in, looking about. “I thought you said this place had been closed up for years?”
There were no cobwebs, and all surfaces—tables, floors, and shelves—were clean.
“I sent in the maids this morning.” She met his gaze as he turned to her. “I’m not particularly partial to spiders.”
He noticed a pile of dusty letters stacked on the bench beside her; his levity faded. “Have you found anything?”
“Nothing specific.” She closed the book; a cloud of dust puffed out from the pages. She gestured to the wooden rack, a cross between bookshelves and pigeonholes covering the wall behind the bench. “He was neat, but not methodical. He seems to have kept everything, stretching back over the years. I’ve been sorting bills and accounts from letters, shopping lists from drafts of learned papers.”
He picked up the old parchment topping the pile. It was a letter inscribed in faded ink. He initially thought the script a woman’s, but the contents were clearly scientific. He glanced at the signature. “Who’s A. J.?”
Leonora leaned closer to check the letter; her breast brushed his arm. “A. J. Carruthers.”
She moved away, lifting the old tome back to the shelf. He squelched a flaring urge to draw her back, to reestablish the sensual contact.
“Carruthers and Cedric corresponded frequently—it seems they were working on some papers before Cedric died.”
