continue trying to solve the riddle of what he’s after, but even if we don’t succeed, we’ll be waiting for his next move. Waiting for him to reveal all himself.”
“To success!” Charles said.
The others echoed the words, then they drained their glasses.
After seeing Charles and Deverell out, Tristan headed for his study. Passing the arches of the morning room, he heard the usual babel of elderly feminine voices and glanced in.
He halted in midstride. He could barely believe his eyes.
His great-aunts had arrived, along with—he counted heads—his other six resident pensioners from Mallingham Manor. All fourteen of his dependent old dears were now gathered under his Green Street roof, scattered about the morning room, heads together…plotting.
Uneasiness filled him.
Hortense glanced up and saw him. “There you are, m’boy!
He went down the steps. Hermione flapped her hand at him. “Indeed, my dear. We are
Bowing over her hand, he accepted those and the others’ murmured expressions of delight with a mild, “Thank you.”
“Now!” Hermione turned to look up at him. “I hope you won’t think we’ve taken too much on ourselves, but we’ve organized a family dinner for tonight. Ethelreda has spoken with Miss Carling’s family—Lady Warsingham and her husband, the elder Miss Carling, and Sir Humphrey and Jeremy Carling—and they are all in agreement, as is Miss Carling, of course. Given there are so many of us, and some of us are getting on in years, and as the proper course would be for us to meet Miss Carling and her family formally at such a dinner, we hoped you, too, would agree to holding it tonight.”
Hortense snorted. “Aside from all else, we’re too fagged from driving up this afternoon to weather an outing to some other entertainment.”
“And, dear,” Millicent put in, “we should remember that Miss Carling and Sir Humphrey and young Mr. Carling had a funeral to attend this morning. A neighbor, I understand?”
“Indeed.” A vision danced through Tristan’s mind, of a comfortable if large dinner party, rather less formal than might be imagined—he knew his great-aunts and their companions quite well…He looked around, met their bright, transparently hopeful gazes. “Do I take it you’re suggesting this dinner would be in lieu of any appearance in the ton tonight?”
Hortense pulled a face. “Well, if you really wish to attend some ball or other—”
“No, no.” The relief that flooded him was very real; he smiled, struggling to keep his delight within bounds. “I see no reason at all your dinner can’t go ahead, precisely as you’ve planned it. Indeed”—his mask slipped; he let his gratitude shine through—“I’ll be grateful for any excuse to avoid the ton tonight.” He bowed to his aunts, with a glance extended the gesture to the others, deploying his charm to maximum effect. “Thank you.”
The words were heartfelt.
They all smiled, bobbed, delighted to have been of use.
“Didn’t think you’d be all that enamored of the gadding throng,” Hortense opined. She grinned up at him. “If it comes to it, neither are we.”
He could have kissed them. Knowing how flustered that would make most of them, he contented himself with dressing with extra care, then being in the drawing room to greet them as they entered, bowing over their hands, commenting on their gowns and coiffures, on their jewels—deploying for them that irresistible charm he knew well how to use but rarely did without some goal in mind.
Tonight, his goal was simply to repay them for their kindness, their thoughtfulness.
He’d never been so thankful to hear of a family dinner in his life.
While they waited in the drawing room for their guests to arrive, he thought of how incongruous their gathering would appear—he standing before the mantelpiece, the sole male surrounded by fourteen elderly females. But they were his family; he did, in truth, feel more comfortable surrounded by them and their amiable chatter than he did in the more glittering, more exciting, but also more malicious world of the ton. They and he shared something—an intangible connection of place and people spread over time.
And into this, Leonora would now come—and she would fit.
Havers entered to announce Lord and Lady Warsingham and Miss Carling—Gertie. On their heels, Sir Humphrey, Leonora, and Jeremy arrived.
Any thought that he would have to act as a formal host evaporated in minutes. Sir Humphrey was engaged by Ethelreda and Constance, Jeremy by a group of the others, while Lord and Lady Warsingham were treated to the Wemyss charm as dispensed by Hermione and Hortense. Gertie and Millicent, who had met the previous evening, had their heads together.
After exchanging a few words with the other old dears, Leonora joined him. She gave him her hand, her special smile—the one she reserved just for him—curving her lips. “I have to say I was extremely glad of your great-aunts’ suggestion. After attending Miss Timmins’s funeral this morning, attending Lady Willoughby’s ball tonight and dealing with the—as you described it—prurient interest, would have severely tried my temper.” She glanced up, met his eyes. “And yours.”
He inclined his head. “Even though I didn’t attend the funeral. How was it?”
“Quiet, but sincere. I think Miss Timmins would have been pleased. Henry Timmins shared the service with the local vicar, and Mrs. Timmins was there, too—a nice woman.”
After an instant, she turned to him and lowered her voice. “We found some papers in Cedric’s room, hidden in the bottom of his woodbasket. They weren’t letters, but sheets of entries similar to those in the journals but most importantly, they weren’t in Cedric’s hand—they were written by Carruthers. Humphrey and Jeremy are concentrating on those now. Humphrey says they’re descriptions of experiments, similar to those in Cedric’s journal, but there’s still no way to make any sense of them, to know if they mean anything at all. It seems all we’ve discovered so far contains only part of whatever they were working on.”
“Which suggests even more strongly that there is some discovery, one Cedric and Carruthers thought it worthwhile to deal with carefully.”
“Indeed.” Leonora searched his face. “In case you’re wondering, the staff at Number 14 are very much on alert, and Castor will send to Gasthorpe should anything untoward occur.”
“Good.”
“Have you learned anything?”
He felt his jaw start to set; he pulled his charming mask back into place. “Nothing about Martinbury, but we’re trying a new tack that might get us further faster. However, the big news is that Mountford—or whoever he is—has taken the bait. He, acting via the weasel, rented Number 16 late this afternoon.”
Her eyes widened; she kept them fixed on his. “So things are starting to happen.”
“Indeed.”
He turned, smiling, as Constance joined them. Leonora stood by his side and chatted with the ladies as they came up. They told her of the church fete, and of the little routine day-to-day changes, the alterations the seasons brought to the manor. They told her of this and that, remembered snippets of Tristan’s early life, of his father and grandfather.
She occasionally glanced at him, saw him extend that ready charm—also saw beneath it. Having met Lady Hermione and Lady Hortense, she could see from where he’d got it; she wondered what his father had been like.
Yet in this sphere Tristan’s manners were more genuine; the real man showed through, not just with his strengths but with his weaknesses, too. He was comfortable, relaxing; she suspected that previously, he might well have gone for years without lowering his guard. Even now, the drawbridge chains were rusty.
She moved around the room, chatting here, chatting there, always conscious of Tristan, that he watched her as she watched him. Then Havers announced dinner, and they all went in, she on Tristan’s arm.
He sat her beside him at one end of the table; Lady Hermione was at the other end. She made a neat speech expressing her pleasure at the prospect of shortly yielding her chair to Leonora, and led a toast to the affianced couple, then the first course was served. The gentle hum of conversation rose and engulfed the table.
The evening passed pleasantly, truly enjoyably. The ladies repaired to the drawing room, leaving the
