The crowd in the drawing room had grown to uncomfortable proportions; there were even more people hovering, waiting to speak with them. It was a crush, and he’d never liked being hemmed in, yet Leonora continued to greet those who pressed forward, introducing him, deftly managing the interactions, but if any lady showed a tendency to spite or coldness, or simply a wish to monopolize, either Mildred and Gertie or one of his cousins would step in and, with a rush of seemingly inconsequential observations, draw such persons away.
In short order, his view of his old dears was shattered and re-formed; even the retiring Flora displayed remarkable determination in distracting and removing one persistent lady. Gertie, too, left no doubt as to which mast her flag was pinned.
The reversal of roles kept him off-balance; in this arena, they were the protectors, sure and effective, he the one needing their protection.
Part of that protection was to prevent him from reacting to those who saw his and Leonora’s engagement as a loss to themselves, who viewed her as having in some way snared him, when the truth was the exact opposite. It hadn’t occurred to him just how real, how strong and powerful, the feminine competition in the marriage mart was, or that Leonora’s apparent success in capturing him would make her the focus of envy.
His eyes were now open.
Lady Hartington had chosen to enliven her soiree with a short spell of dancing. As the musicians set up, Gertie turned to him. “Grab the opportunity while you may.” She poked his arm. “You’ve got another hour or more to endure before we can leave.”
He didn’t wait; he reached for Leonora’s hand, smiled charmingly, and excused them to the two ladies with whom they’d been conversing. Constance and Millicent stepped in, smoothly covering his and Leonora’s retreat.
Leonora sighed and went into his arms with real relief. “How exhausting. I had no idea it would be this bad, not so early in the year.”
Whirling her down the room, he met her gaze. “You mean it could be worse?”
She looked into his eyes, and smiled. “Not everyone’s in town yet.”
She said no more; he studied her face as they twirled, turned, and precessed back up the room. She seemed to have given herself, her senses, over to the waltz; he followed her lead.
And found a degree of comfort. Of soothing reassurance in the feel of her in his arms, in the reality of her under his hands, in the brush of their thighs as they went through the turns, the flowing harmony with which their bodies moved, in tune, attuned. Together.
When the music finally ended, they were at the other end of the room. Without asking, he set her hand on his sleeve and guided her back to where their supporters waited, a small island of relative safety.
She slanted him a glance, a smile on her lips, understanding in her eyes. “How are you faring?”
He glanced at her. “I feel like a general surrounded by a bevy of personal guards well equipped with initiative and experience.” He drew breath, looked ahead to where their group of sweet old ladies were waiting. “The fact they’re female is a trifle unsettling, but I have to admit I’m humbly grateful.”
Achortle, smothered, answered him. “Indeed, you should be.”
“Believe me,” he murmured as they neared the others, “I know my limitations. This is a female theater dominated by female strategies too convoluted for any male to fathom.”
She threw him a laughing glance, one wholly personal, then they resumed their public personas and went forward to deal with the small horde still waiting to congratulate them.
The night, predictably but to his mind regrettably, ended without affording him and Leonora any opportunity to slake the physical need that had burgeoned, fed by close contact, by the promise of the waltz, by his inevitable reaction to the evening’s less civilized moments.
That word still rang in his head, prodded his instincts whenever she was close, most especially whenever others seemed not to comprehend that fact.
Not a civilized response but a primitive one. He knew it, and didn’t care.
The next morning, he left Green Street restless and unfulfilled, and threw himself into the search for Martinbury. They were all increasingly convinced the object of Mountford’s search was something buried in Cedric’s papers; A. J. Carruthers had been Cedric’s closest confidant, Martinbury was by all accounts the heir to whom Carruthers had entrusted his secrets—and Martinbury had unexpectedly disappeared.
Locating Martinbury, or discovering what they could of his fate, seemed the likeliest route to learning Mountford’s aim and dealing with his threat.
The fastest way to end the business so he and Leonora could wed.
But entering watchhouses, gaining men’s trust, accessing records in search of the recently deceased, took time. He’d started with those watchhouses closest to the coaching inn where Martinbury had alighted. As, in a hackney, he rumbled home in the late afternoon, no further forward, he wondered if that wasn’t a false assumption. Martinbury could have been in London for some days before disappearing.
He entered his house to discover Charles waiting in his library to report.
“Nothing,” Charles said the instant he’d shut the door. In one of the armchairs before the hearth, he swiveled to look up at him. “What about you?”
Tristan grimaced. “Same story.” He picked up the decanter from the sideboard, filled a glass, then crossed to top up Charles’s glass before sinking into the other armchair. He frowned at the fire. “Which hospitals have you checked?”
Charles told him—the hospitals and hospices closest to the inn where the mail coaches from York terminated.
Tristan nodded. “We need to move faster and widen our search.” He explained his reasoning.
Charles inclined his head in agreement. “The question is, even with Deverell helping, how do we widen our search and simultaneously go faster?”
Tristan sipped, then lowered his glass. “We take a calculated risk and narrow the field. Leonora mentioned that Martinbury may still be alive, but if he’s injured, with no friends or relatives in town, he may simply be lying in a hospital bed somewhere.”
Charles grimaced. “Poor bugger.”
“Indeed. In reality, that scenario is the only one that’s going to advance our cause quickly. If Martinbury’s dead, then it’s unlikely whoever did the deed will have left any useful papers behind, ones that will point us in the right direction.”
“True.”
Tristan sipped again, then said, “I’m swinging my people on to searching the hospitals for any gentleman matching Martinbury’s description who’s still alive. They don’t need our authority to do that.”
Charles nodded. “I’ll do the same—I’m sure Deverell will, too….”
The sound of a male voice in the hall outside reached them. They both looked at the door.
“Speak of the devil,” Charles said.
The door opened. Deverell walked in.
Tristan rose and poured him a brandy. Deverell took it and sprawled elegantly on the chaise. In contrast to their sober expressions, his green eyes were alight. He saluted them with his glass. “I bring tidings.”
“Positive tidings?” Charles asked.
“The only sort a wise man brings.” Deverell paused to sip his brandy; lowering the glass, he smiled. “Mountford took the bait.”
“He rented the house?”
“The weasel brought the lease back this morning along with the first month’s rent. A Mr. Caterham has signed the lease and intends moving in immediately.” Deverell paused, frowning slightly. “I handed over the keys and offered to show them around the property, but the weasel—he goes by the name of Cummings—declined. He said his master was a recluse and insisted on total privacy.”
Deverell’s frown grew. “I did think of following the weasel back to his hole, but decided the risk of scaring them off was too high.” He glanced at Tristan. “Given Mountford, or whoever he is, seems set on going into the house forthwith, letting him pursue that aim and walk into our trap with all speed seemed the wisest course.”
Both Tristan and Charles were nodding.
“Excellent!” Tristan stared at the fire, his gaze distant. “So we have him, we know where he is. We’ll
