“I’m not your average gentleman.”
The words whispered over her cheek.
“I know.” She turned her head and their lips met.
After a brief exchange, he drew away, sent his lips tracing upward, over her cheekbone to her temple, then down until his breath warmed the hollow beneath her ear.
“I’ve lived dangerously, beyond all laws, for a decade. I’m not as civilized as I ought to be. You know that, don’t you?”
She did, indeed, know that; the knowledge was crawling her nerves, anticipation sliding like heated silk down her veins. More to the immediate point, amazing though it seemed, she realized he was still unsure of her. And that whatever the matter he’d wanted to discuss, it was still on his mind, and she’d yet to hear of it.
Pushing up her hands, she caught and framed his face, and boldy kissed him. Trapped him, caught him, drew him in. Moved into him. Felt his response, felt his hands spread over her back, firm, then mold her to him.
When she finally consented to let him free, he raised his head and looked down at her; his eyes were dark, turbulent.
“Tell me.” Her voice was husky, but commanding. Demanding. “What is it you wanted to say?”
A long moment passed; she was conscious of their breaths, of their pulses throbbing. She thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he drew a short breath. His eyes had never left hers.
“
He didn’t have to say more, it was there in his eyes. There for her to see. A vulnerability so deeply enmeshed in him, in who he was, that he could never not have it, and still have her.
A dilemma, one he could never resolve, but could only accept. As, in taking her as his wife, he’d chosen to do.
She leaned into him; her hands were still bracketing his face. “I will never willingly place myself in danger. I’ve decided to be yours—I intend to continue in that role, to remain important to you.” She held his gaze. “Believe that.”
His features hardened; he ignored her hands and lowered his head. Took her lips, her mouth in a searing kiss that bordered on the wild.
Drew back to whisper against her lips. “I’ll try to, if you’ll remember this. If you fail, we both will pay the price.”
She traced his lean cheek. Waited until he met her eyes. “I won’t fail. And neither will you.”
Their hearts were thudding; familiar flames licked hungrily over their skins. She searched his eyes.
“I definitely want this, and more. I’m not letting you go. Not for any reason. Not ever.”
“So we’re committed, you and I.” She held his darkened gaze. “We’ll make it work.”
Two heartbeats passed, then he bent his head; his hands firmed, lifting her against him.
She dropped her hands to his shoulders, pressed back.
He paused, met her eyes. “But what?”
“But we’ve run out of time tonight.”
They had. Tristan tightened his arms, kissed her witless, then shackled his demons, clamoring for her, and, grim-faced, set her on her feet.
She looked as chagrined as he felt—a minor consolation.
Later.
Once they had Mountford by the heels, nothing was going to get in their way.
His carriage was waiting; he escorted Leonora out to it, helped her in, and followed. As the carriage rattled off over the now wet cobbles, he returned to something she’d mentioned earlier. “Why does Humphrey think pieces of Cedric’s puzzle are missing? How can he know?”
Leonora settled back beside him. “The journals are details of experiments—what was done and the results, nothing more. What’s missing is the rationale that makes sense of them—the hypotheses, the conclusions. Carruthers’s letters refer to some of Cedric’s experiments, and others which Humphrey and Jeremy reason must be Carruthers’s own, and the sheets of descriptions from Carruthers we found in Cedric’s room—Humphrey thinks at least some of those match some of the experiments referred to in Carruthers’s letters.”
“So Cedric and Carruthers appear to have been exchanging details of experiments?”
“Yes. But as yet Humphrey can’t be certain whether they were working on the same project together, or whether they were simply exchanging news. Most pertinently, he hasn’t found anything to define what their mutual project, assuming there was one, was.”
He juggled the information, debating whether it made Martinbury, Carruthers’s heir, more or less important. The carriage slowed, then halted. He glanced out, then climbed out before Number 14 Montrose Place and handed Leonora down.
Overhead, the clouds were scudding, the dark pall breaking up before the wind. She tucked her hand into his arm; he glanced at her as he swung the gate wide. They walked up the winding path, both distracted by the eccentric world of Cedric’s creation gleaming in the fitful moonlight, the odd-shaped leaves and bushes embroidered with droplets of rain.
Light beamed from the front hall. As they climbed the porch steps the door swung open.
Jeremy looked out, his face tense. He saw them and his features eased. “About time! The blackguard’s already started tunneling.”
In absolute silence, they faced the wall beside the laundry trough in the basement of Number 14 and listened to the stealthy
Tristan motioned Leonora and Jeremy to stillness, then put out a hand, and laid it on the bricks from behind which the noise was emanating.
After a moment, he removed his hand and signaled them to retreat. At the entrance to the laundry, a footman stood waiting. Leonora and Jeremy went silently past him; Tristan paused. “Good work.” His voice was just loud enough to reach the footman. “I doubt they’ll get through tonight, but we’ll organize a watch. Close the door and make sure no one makes any unusual sound in this area.”
The footman nodded. Tristan left him and followed the others into the kitchen at the end of the corridor. From their faces, both Leonora and Jeremy were bursting with questions; he waved them to silence and addressed Castor and the other footmen, all gathered and waiting with the rest of the staff.
In short order he organized a rotating watch for the night, and reassured the housekeeper, cook, and maids that there was no likelihood of the villains breaking in undetected while they slept.
“At the rate they’re going—and they’ll have to go slowly—they can’t risk a hammer and chisel—they’ll take at least a few nights to loosen enough bricks to let a man through.” He glanced around the company gathered about the kitchen table. “Who noticed the scratching?”
A tweeny colored and bobbed. “Me, sir—m’lord. I went in to get the second hot iron and heard it. Thought it was a mouse at first, then I remembered what Mr. Castor had said about odd noises and such, so I came straightaway and told him.”
Tristan smiled. “Good girl.” His gaze rested on the baskets piled high with folded sheets and linens set between the maids and the stove. “Was it washing day today?”
“Aye.” The housekeeper nodded. “We always do our main wash on a Wednesday, then a small wash on Mondays.”
Tristan looked at her for a moment, then said, “I have one last question. Have any of you, at any time in the last several months, going back to November or so, seen or been spoken to by either of these two gentlemen?” He proceeded to give quick word sketches of Mountford and his weasely accomplice.
* * *
“How did you guess?” Leonora asked when they were back in the library.
The two older maids and two of the footmen had been approached independently at various times in November, the maids by Mountford himself, the footmen by his accomplice. The maids had thought they’d found a new admirer, the footmen a new and unexpectedly well-heeled acquaintance always ready to buy the next pint.
