Pronouncement made, Castor bowed and withdrew, closing the door.
Trentham had paused just before it, his gaze raking the company; as the latch clicked, he smiled. His charming mask very much to the fore, he walked toward the group about the hearth.
Leonora hesitated, suddenly unsure.
Trentham’s gaze lingered on her face, waiting…then he looked at Humphrey.
Who gripped his chair’s arms and, with obvious effort, started to rise. Leonora quickly stepped close to lend a hand.
“I pray you won’t disturb yourself, Sir Humphrey.” With a graceful gesture, Trentham waved Humphrey back. “I’m grateful for your time in seeing me.” He bowed, acknowledging Humphrey’s formal nod. “I was passing and hoped you would forgive the informality as we are in effect neighbors.”
“Indeed, indeed. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I understand you’re making some changes at Number 12 prior to settling in?”
“Purely cosmetic, to make the place more habitable.”
Humphrey waved at Jeremy. “Allow me to present my nephew, Jeremy Carling.”
Jeremy, who had risen, reached across the desk and shook hands. Initially politely, but as his gaze met Trentham’s, his eyes widened; interest flared across his face. “I say! You’re a military man, aren’t you?”
Leonora looked at Trentham, stared. How had she missed it? His stance alone should have alerted her, but combined with that faint tan and his hardened hands…
Self-preservatory instincts flared and had her mentally stepping well back.
“Ex-military.” With Jeremy clearly waiting, wanting to know, Trentham added, “I was a major in the Guards.”
“You’ve sold out?” Jeremy had what Leonora considered an unhealthy interest in the recent campaigns.
“After Waterloo, many of us did.”
“Are your friends ex-Guards, too?
“They are.” Glancing at Humphrey, Trentham went on, “That’s why we bought Number 12. A place to meet that’s more private and quieter than our clubs. We’re not used to the bustle of town life anymore.”
“Aye, well, I can understand that.” Humphrey, never one for tonnish life, nodded feelingly. “You’ve come to the right pocket of London for peace and quiet.”
Swiveling, Humphrey looked up at Leonora, smiled. “Nearly forgot you there, my dear.” He looked back at Trentham. “My niece, Leonora.”
She curtsied.
Trentham’s gaze held hers as he bowed. “Actually, I encountered Miss Carling earlier in the street.”
Their gazes met, directly, briefly. She looked down at Humphrey.
Her uncle was appraising Trentham; he clearly approved of what he saw. He waved to the chaise on the other side of the hearth. “But do sit down.”
Trentham looked at her. Gestured to the chaise. “Miss Carling?”
The chaise sat two. There was no other seat; she would have to sit beside him. She met his gaze. “Perhaps I should order tea?”
His smile took on an edge. “Not on my account, I pray.”
“Or me,” Humphrey said.
Jeremy merely shook his head, moving back to his chair.
Drawing in a breath, her head discouragingly high, she stepped from behind the armchair and crossed to the end of the chaise closer to the fire and Henrietta, sprawled in a shaggy heap before it. Trentham very correctly waited for her to sit, then sat beside her.
He didn’t purposely crowd her; he didn’t have to. Courtesy of the short chaise, his shoulder brushed hers.
Her lungs seized; warmth slowly spread from the point of contact, sliding beneath her skin.
“I understand,” he said, as soon as he’d elegantly disposed his long limbs, “that you’ve had considerable interest from others in purchasing this house.”
Humphrey inclined his head; his gaze shifted to her.
She plastered on an innocent smile, airily waved. “Lord Trentham was on his way to see Stolemore—I mentioned we’d met.”
Humphrey snorted. “Indeed! The knuckleheaded bounder. Couldn’t get it through his skull that we weren’t interested in selling. Luckily, Leonora convinced him.”
That last was said with sublime vagueness; Tristan concluded that Sir Humphrey had no real idea how insistent Stolemore had been, or to what lengths his niece had been forced to go to dissuade the agent.
He glanced again at the books piled on the desk, at the similar mounds heaped about Sir Humphrey’s chair, at the papers and clutter that spoke eloquently of a scholarly life. And scholarly abstraction.
“So!” Jeremy leaned forward, arms folded across an open book. “Were you at Waterloo?”
“Only on the fringes.” The distant fringes. Of the enemy camp. “It was a widespread engagement.”
Eyes alight, Jeremy questioned and probed; Tristan had long ago mastered the knack of satisfying the usual questions without stumbling, of giving the impression he’d been a normal regimental officer when in fact he’d been anything but.
“In the end, the allies deserved to win, and the French deserved to lose. Superior strategy and superior commitment won the day.”
And lost altogether too many lives in the process. He glanced at Leonora; she was staring into the fire, patently distancing herself from the conversation. He was well aware that prudent mamas warned their daughters away from military men. Given her age, she’d doubtless heard all the stories; he shouldn’t have been surprised to find her pokering up, determinedly holding aloof.
Yet…
“I understand”—he returned his attention to Sir Humphrey—“that there’ve been a number of disturbances in the neighborhood.” Both men looked at him, unquestionably intelligent but not connecting with his meaning. He was forced to expand, “Attempted burglaries, I believe?”
“Oh.” Jeremy smiled dismissively. “Those. Just a would-be thief trying his luck, I should think. The first time, the staff were still about. They heard him and caught a glimpse, but needless to say he didn’t stop to give his name.”
“The second time”—Sir Humphrey took up the tale—“Henrietta here raised a fuss. Not even certain there was anyone there, heh, old girl?” He rubbed the somnolent hound’s head with his shoe. “Just got the wind up—could have been anything, but roused us all, I can tell you.”
Tristan shifted his gaze from the placid hound to Leonora’s face, read her tight lips, her closed, noncommittal expression. Her hands were clasped in her lap; she made no move to interject.
She was too well-bred to argue with her uncle and brother before him, a stranger. And she may well have resigned the battle of puncturing their detached and absentminded confidence.
“Whatever the case,” Jeremy cheerfully concluded, “the burglar’s long gone. Quiet as a grave around here at night.”
Tristan met his eyes, and decided to agree with Leonora’s judgment. He would need more than suspicions to convince Sir Humphrey or Jeremy to heed any warning; he consequently said nothing of Stolemore in the remaining minutes of his visit.
It drew to a natural close and he rose. He made his farewells, then looked at Leonora. Both she and Jeremy had risen, too, but it was she he wished to speak with. Alone.
He kept his gaze on her, let the silence stretch; her stubborn resistance was, to him, obvious, but her capitulation came sufficiently fast for both her uncle and brother to remain transparently unaware of the battle conducted literally before their noses.
“I’ll see Lord Trentham out.” The glance that went with the clipped words held an arctic chill.
Neither Sir Humphrey nor Jeremy noticed. As, with an elegant nod, he turned from them, he could see in their eyes that they were already drifting back to whatever world they customarily inhabited.
Who stood at the helm of this household was increasingly clear.
