The day was fleeing, whipped away by grey squalls, as Tristan climbed the steps of Number 14 and asked to see Leonora. Castor directed him to the parlor; dismissing the butler, he opened the parlor door and went in.
Leonora didn’t hear him. She was seated on the chaise, facing the windows, looking out at the garden, at the shrubs bowing before the blustering wind. Beside her, a fire burned brightly in the hearth, crackling and spitting cheerily. Henrietta lay stretched before the flames, luxuriating in their heat.
The scene was comfortable, cozy—warming in a way that had nothing to do with temperature, a subtle comfort to the heart.
He took a step, let his heel fall heavily.
She heard, turned…then she saw him and her face lit. Not just with expectation, not just with eagerness to hear what he had learned, but with an open welcome as if a part of her had returned.
He neared and she rose, held out her hands. He took them, raised first one, then the other to his lips, then drew her nearer and bent his head. Took her mouth in a kiss he struggled to keep within bounds, let his senses savor, then reined them in.
When he lifted his head, she smiled at him; their gazes touched, held for a moment, then she sank onto the chaise.
He crouched to pat Henrietta.
Leonora watched him, then said, “Now before you tell me anything else, explain how Mountford got into Number 16 last night. You said there were no forced locks, and Castor told me some tale about you asking after a drainage inspector. What has he to do with anything—or was he Mountford?”
Tristan glanced at her, then nodded. “Daisy’s description tallies. It seems he posed as an inspector and talked her into letting him inspect the kitchen, scullery, and laundry drains.”
“And when she wasn’t looking, he took an impression of a key?”
“That seems most likely. No inspector called here or at Number 12.”
She frowned. “He’s a very…calculating man.”
“He’s clever.” After a moment of studying her face, Tristan said, “Added to that, he must be getting desperate. I’d like you to bear that in mind.”
She met his gaze, then smiled reassuringly. “Of course.”
The look he cast her as he rose to his feet looked more resigned than reassured.
“I saw the sign outside Number 16. That was quick.” She let her approval show in her face.
“Indeed. I’ve handed that aspect over to a gentleman by the name of Deverell. He’s Viscount Paignton.”
She opened her eyes wide. “Do you have any other…associates helping you?”
Sinking his hands into his pockets, the fire warm on his back, Tristan looked down into her face, into eyes that reflected an intelligence he knew better than to underestimate. “I have a small army working for me, as you know. Most of them, you’ll never meet, but there is one other who’s actively helping me—another part-owner of Number 12.”
“As is Deverell?” she asked.
He nodded. “The other gentleman is Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel.”
“Lostwithiel?” She frowned. “I heard something about the last two earls dying in tragic circumstances…”
“They were his brothers. He was the third son and is now the earl.”
“Ah. And what is he helping you with?”
He explained about the meeting they’d hoped to have with Martinbury, and their disappointment. She heard him out in silence, watching his face. When he paused after explaining the agreement they’d made with Martinbury’s friend, she said, “You think he’s met with foul play.”
Not a question. His eyes on hers, he nodded. “Everything that was reported to me from York, everything his friend Carter said of him, painted Martinbury as a conscientious, reliable, honest man—not one to miss an appointment he’d taken care to confirm.” Again he hesitated, wondering how much he should tell her, then pushed aside his reluctance. “I’ve started checking the watchhouses for reported deaths, and Charles is checking the hospitals in case he was brought in alive, but then died.”
“He could still be alive, perhaps gravely injured, but without friends or connections in London…”
He considered the timing, then grimaced. “True—I’ll put some others onto checking that. However, given how long it’s been without any word from him, we need to check the dead. Unfortunately, that’s not the sort of search anyone but Charles and I, or one like us, can undertake.” He met her gaze. “Members of the nobility, especially ones with our background, can get answers, demand to see reports and records, that others simply can’t.”
“So I’ve noticed.” She sat back, considering him. “So you’ll be busy during the days. I spent today with the maids, searching every nook and cranny in Cedric’s workshop. We found various scraps and jottings which are now with Humphrey and Jeremy in the library. They’re still poring over the journals. Humphrey’s increasingly certain there ought to be more. He thinks there are sections—pieces of records—missing. Not torn out but written down somewhere else.”
“Hmm.” Tristan stroked Henrietta’s head with his boot, then glanced at Leonora. “What about Cedric’s bedchamber? Have you searched there yet?”
“Tomorrow. The maids will help—there’ll be five of us. If there’s anything there, I assure you we’ll find it.”
He nodded, mentally running down his list of matters he’d wanted to discuss with her. “Ah, yes.” He refocused on her face, caught her gaze. “I put the customary notice in the
A subtle change came over her face; an expression he couldn’t quite place—resigned amusement?—invested her blue eyes.
“I was wondering when you were going to mention that.”
Suddenly, he wasn’t sure of the ground beneath his feet. He shrugged, his eyes still on hers. “It was just the usual thing. The expected thing.”
“Indeed, but you might have thought to warn me—that way, when my aunts descended in a swirl of congratulations a bare ten minutes before the first of a good two dozen callers, all wanting to congratulate me, I wouldn’t have been caught like a deer in a hunter’s sights.”
He held her gaze; for a moment, silence reigned. Then he winced. “My apologies. With Miss Timmins’s death and all the rest, it escaped my mind.”
She considered him, then inclined her head. Her lips weren’t quite straight. “Apology accepted. However, you do realize that, now the news is out, we’ll need to make the obligatory appearances?”
He stared down at her. “What appearances?”
“The necessary appearances every engaged couple are expected to make. For instance, tonight, everyone will expect us to attend Lady Hartington’s soiree.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the major event tonight, and so they can congratulate us, watch us, analyze and dissect, assure themselves it will be a good match, and so on.”
“And this is obligatory?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
She didn’t misunderstand. “Because if we don’t give them that chance, it will fix unwarranted—and quite staggeringly intrusive—attention on us. We won’t have a moment’s peace. They’ll call constantly, and not just within the accepted hours; if they’re in the neighborhood, they’ll drive down the street and peer out of their carriages. You’ll find a couple of giggling girls on the pavement every time you step out of your house, or your club next door. And you won’t dare appear in the park, or on Bond Street.”
She fixed him with a direct look. “Is that what you want?”
He read her eyes, confirmed she was serious. Shuddered. “Good Lord!” He sighed; his lips thinned. “All right. Lady Hartington’s. Should I meet you there, or call for you in my carriage?”
“It would be most appropriate for you to escort my aunts and me. Mildred and Gertie will be here by eight. If you arrive a little after, you can accompany us there, in Mildred’s carriage.”
He humphed, but nodded curtly. He didn’t take orders well, but in this sphere…that was one reason he needed her. He cared very little for society, knew both enough and too little of its tortuous ways to feel totally comfortable in its glare. While he had every intention of spending as little time in it as possible, given his title, his
