Tristan dropped onto the chaise beside Leonora and stretched out his legs. “I always wondered why Mountford tried first to buy the house. How did he know Cedric’s workshop had been locked up and left essentially undisturbed? He couldn’t see in—the windows are so old, so fogged and crazed, it’s impossible to see anything through them.”
“He knew because he’d cozened the maids.” Jeremy sat in his usual place behind his desk. Humphrey was in his chair before the hearth.
“Indeed. And that’s how he’s known other things”—Tristan glanced at Leonora—“like your propensity to walk alone in the garden. At what times you go out. He’s been focused on this household for months, and he’s done a decent job of reconnoitering.”
Leonora frowned. “That begs the question of how he knew there’s something here to be found.” She looked at Humphrey, one of Cedric’s journals open on his lap, a magnifying glass in his hand. “
Tristan squeezed her hand. “Trust me. Men like Mountford never are interested unless there’s something to gain.”
Humphrey spoke at length; the answer was no.
At the end of his explanation, Tristan stirred. They were all keyed up; sleep would be difficult knowing that in the basement, Mountford was quietly excavating through the wall.
“What do you expect to happen now?” Leonora asked.
He glanced at her. “Nothing tonight. You can rest easy on that score. It’ll take at least three nights of steady working to open a hole big enough for a man without alerting anyone on this side.”
“I’m more worried about someone on this side alerting him.”
He smiled his predator’s smile. “I have men all around—they’ll be there night and day. Now Mountford’s in there, he won’t get away.”
Leonora looked into his eyes; her lips formed a silent O.
Jeremy humphed. He picked up a sheaf of the papers they’d found in Cedric’s room. “We’d better get on with these. Somewhere here, there has to be a clue. Although why our dear departed relative couldn’t use some simple, understandable cross-referencing system I don’t know.”
Humphrey’s snort was eloquent. “He was a scientist, that’s why. Never show any consideration for whoever might have to make sense of their works once they’re gone. Never come across one who has in all my days.”
Tristan stood, stretched. Exchanged a glance with Leonora. “I need to think through our plans. I’ll call tomorrow morning and we’ll make some decisions.” He looked at Humphrey, included Jeremy when he said, “I’ll probably bring some associates with me in the morning—can I ask you to give us a report on what you’ve discovered up to then?”
“Of course.” Humphrey waved. “We’ll see you at breakfast.”
Jeremy barely glanced up.
Leonora saw him to the front door. They stole a quick, unsatisfying kiss before Castor, summoned by some butlerish instinct, appeared to open the door.
Tristan looked down into Leonora’s shadowed eyes. “Sleep well. Believe me, you’re at no risk.”
She met his eyes, then smiled. “I know. I have proof.”
Puzzled, he raised a brow.
Her smile deepened. “You’re leaving me here.”
He searched her face, saw understanding in her eyes. He saluted her, and left.
By the time he reached Green Street, his plan was clear in his mind. It was late; his house was quiet. He went straight to his study, sat at his desk, and reached for his pen.
The next morning, he, Charles, and Deverell met at the Bastion Club shortly after dawn. It was March; dawn wasn’t that early, but they needed sufficient light to see by as they circled Number 16 Montrose Place. They checked every possible escape route, tested the guards Tristan already had in place, and arranged for reinforcements where needed.
At half past seven, they retreated to the club’s meeting room to reassess and report all that each individually had done, had set in train since the previous evening. At eight o’clock, they repaired to Number 14, where Humphrey and Jeremy, weary after working most of the night, and an eager Leonora were waiting.
Along with a substantial breakfast. Leonora had clearly given orders that they were to be fed well.
Seated at one end of the table, Leonora sipped her tea; over the rim of her cup, she regarded the trio of dangerous men who had invaded her home.
It was the first time she’d met St. Austell and Deverell; one glance was enough for her to see the similarities between them and Tristan. Likewise, they both evoked the same wariness she’d initially felt with Tristan; she wouldn’t trust them, not entirely, not as a woman trusts a man, not unless she came to know them much better.
She looked at Tristan, beside her. “You said you would discuss a plan.”
He nodded. “A plan of how best to react to the situation as we currently know it.” He glanced at Humphrey. “Perhaps, if I outline the situation, you would correct me if you have more recent information.”
Humphrey inclined his head.
Tristan looked down at the table, clearly gathering his thoughts. “We know that Mountford is searching for something he believes hidden in this house. He’s been intent, persistent, unswervingly fixed on his goal for months. He seems increasingly desperate, and clearly will not cease until he finds what he’s after. We have a connection between Mountford and a foreigner, which may or may not be pertinent. Mountford is now on the scene, trying to gain access to the basement here. He has one known accomplice, a weasel-faced man.” Tristan paused to sip his coffee. “That’s the opposition as we know it.
“Now, to the something they’re after. Our best guess is that it’s something the late Cedric Carling, the previous owner of this house and a renowned herbalist, discovered, possibly working with another herbalist, A. J. Carruthers, unfortunately now also deceased. Cedric’s journals, and Carruthers’s letters and notes, all we’ve found so far, suggest a collaboration, but the project itself remains unclear.” Tristan looked at Humphrey.
Humphrey glanced at Jeremy. Waved him on.
Jeremy met the others’ eyes. “We have three sources of information—Cedric’s journals, letters to Cedric from Carruthers, and a set of notes from Carruthers, which we believe were enclosures sent with the letters. I’ve been concentrating on the letters and notes. Some of the notes detail individual experiments discussed and referred to in the letters. From what we’ve been able to link together so far, it seems certain Cedric and Carruthers were working together on some specific concoction. They discuss the properties of some fluid they were trying to influence with this concoction.” Jeremy paused, grimaced. “We have nothing where they state what the fluid is, but from various references, I believe it to be blood.”
The effect of that pronouncement on Tristan, St. Austell, and Deverell was marked. Leonora watched them exchange significant glances.
“So,” St. Austell murmured, his gaze locked with Tristan’s, “we have two renowned herbalists working on something to affect blood, and a possible foreign connection.”
Tristan’s expression had hardened. He nodded to Jeremy. “That clarifies the one uncertainty I had regarding our way forward. Clearly, Carruthers’s heir, Jonathon Martinbury, an upright and honest young man who has mysteriously disappeared after reaching London, apparently coming down in response to a letter regarding Carruthers’s and Cedric’s collaboration, is a potentially critical pawn in this game.”
“Indeed.” Deverell looked at Tristan. “I’ll swing my people on to that line, too.”
Leonora glanced from one to the other. “What line?”
“It’s now imperative we locate Martinbury. If he’s dead, that will take some time—probably more time than we have with Mountford working downstairs. But if Martinbury’s alive, there’s a chance we can scour the hospitals and hospices sufficiently well to locate him.”
“Convents.” When Tristan glanced at her, Leonora elaborated. “You didn’t mention them, but there are quite a lot in the city, and most take in the sick and injured as they’re able.”
“She’s right.” St. Austell looked at Deverell.
