At the note in his voice, one of menace that chilled the spine, Stolemore looked up, lips parting. His eye now wide, he rushed into speech. “I can’t tell you anything—bound by confidentiality, I am. And it don’t affect you gentlemen, not at all. I swear.”
Tristan read what he could from the agent’s face, difficult given the swelling and bruising. “I see.” Whoever had punished Stolemore had been an amateur; he or indeed any of his ex-colleagues could have inflicted much greater damage yet left far less evidence.
But there was no point, given Stolemore’s present condition, in going further down that road. He would simply lose consciousness again.
Reaching into his pocket, Tristan withdrew the banker’s draft. “I’ve brought the final payment as agreed.” Stolemore’s eyes fastened on the slip of paper as he drew it back and forth between his fingers. “You have the title deed, I take it?”
Stolemore grunted. “In a safe place.” Slowly, he pushed up from the table. “If you’ll stay here for a minute, I’ll fetch it.”
Tristan nodded. He watched Stolemore hobble to the door. “No need to rush.”
A small part of his mind tracked the lumbering agent as he moved through the house, identified the location of his “safe place” as under the third stair. For the most part, however, he stayed leaning against the counter, quietly adding two and two.
And not liking the number he came up with.
When Stolemore limped back, a title deed tied with ribbon in one hand, Tristan straightened. He held out a commanding hand; Stolemore gave him the deed. Unraveling the ribbon, he unrolled the deed, swiftly checked it, then rerolled it and slipped it into his pocket.
Stolemore, wheezing, had slumped back into the chair.
Tristan met his eyes. Raised the draft, held between two fingers. “One question, and then I’ll leave you.”
Stolemore, his gaze all but blank, waited.
“If I was to guess that whoever did this to you was the same person or persons who late last year hired you to negotiate the purchase of Number 14 Montrose Place, would I be wrong?”
The agent didn’t need to answer; the truth was there in his bloated face as he followed the carefully spaced words. Only when he had to decide how to reply did he stop to think.
He blinked, painfully, then met Tristan’s gaze. His own remained dull. “I’m bound by confidentiality.”
Tristan let a half minute slide by, then inclined his head. He flicked his fingers; the bank draft sailed down to the table, sliding toward Stolemore. He put out a large hand and trapped it.
Tristan pushed away from the counter. “I’ll leave you to your business.”
Half an hour after returning to the house, Leonora escaped the demands of the household and took refuge in the conservatory. The glass-walled and -roofed room was her own special place within the large house, her retreat.
Her heels clicked on the tiled floor as she walked to the wrought-iron table and chairs set in the bow window. Henrietta’s claws clicked in soft counterpoint as she followed.
Presently heated against the cold outside, the room was filled with rioting plants—ferns, exotic creepers, and strange-smelling herbs. Combining with the scents, the faint yet pervasive smell of earth and growing things soothed and reassured.
Sinking into one of the cushioned chairs, Leonora looked out over the winter garden. She should report meeting Trentham to her uncle and Jeremy; if he called later and mentioned it, it would appear odd if she hadn’t. Both Humphrey and Jeremy would expect some description of Trentham, yet assembling a word picture of the man she’d met on the pavement less than an hour ago was not straightforward. Dark-haired, tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, dressed elegantly, and patently of the first stare—the superficial characteristics were simple to define.
Less certain was the impression she’d gained of a man outwardly charming and inwardly quite different.
That impression had owed more to his features, to the sharpness in his heavy-lidded eyes, not always concealed by his long lashes, the almost grimly determined set of mouth and chin before they’d softened, the harsh lines of his face before they’d eased, adopting a cloak of beguiling charm. It was an impression underscored by other physical attributes—like the fact he’d not even flinched when she’d run full tilt into him. She was taller than the average; most men would at least have taken a step back.
Not Trentham.
There were other anomalies, too. His behavior on meeting a lady he’d never set eyes on before, and could not have known anything of, had been too dictatorial, too definite. He’d actually had the temerity to interrogate her, and he’d done it, even knowing she’d noticed, without a blink.
She was accustomed to running the house, indeed, to running all their lives; she’d performed in that role for the past twelve years. She was decisive, confident, assured, in no way intimidated by the male of the species, yet Trentham…what was it about him that had made her, not exactly wary but watchful, careful?
The remembered sensations their physical contact had evoked, not once but multiple times, rose in her mind; she frowned and buried them. Doubtless some disordered reaction on her part; she hadn’t expected to collide with him—it was most likely some strange symptom of shock.
Moments passed; she sat staring through the windows, unseeing, then shifted, frowned, and focused her mind on defining where she and her problem now were.
Regardless of Trentham’s disconcerting presence, she’d extracted all she’d needed from their meeting. She’d learned the answer to what had been her most pressing question—neither Trentham nor his friends were behind the offers to buy this house. She accepted his word unequivocally; there was that about him that left no room for doubt. Likewise, he and his friends were not responsible for the attempts to break in, nor the more disturbing, infinitely more unnerving attempts to scare her witless.
Which left her facing the question of who was.
The latch clicked; she turned as Castor walked in.
“The Earl of Trentham has called, miss. He’s asked to speak with you.”
A rush of thoughts tumbled through her mind; a flurry of unfamiliar feelings flitted in her stomach. Inwardly frowning, she quelled them and rose; Henrietta rose, too, and shook herself. “Thank you, Castor. Are my uncle and brother in the library?”
“Indeed, miss.” Castor held the door for her, then followed. “I left his lordship in the morning room.”
Head high, she glided into the front hall, then stopped. She eyed the closed door of the morning room.
And felt something inside her tighten.
She paused. At her age, she hardly needed to be missish over being alone for a short time in the morning room with a gentleman. She could go in, greet Trentham, learn why he’d asked to speak with her, all in private, yet she couldn’t think of anything he might have to tell her that would require privacy.
Caution whispered. The skin above her elbows pricked.
“I’ll go and prepare Sir Humphrey and Mr. Jeremy.” She glanced at Castor. “Give me a moment, then show Lord Trentham into the library.”
“Indeed, miss.” Castor bowed.
Some lions were better left untempted; she had a strong suspicion Trentham was one. With a swish of her skirts, she headed for the safety of the library. Henrietta padded behind.
Chapter
Two
Extending along one side of the house, the large library possessed windows facing both the front and back gardens. If either her brother or her uncle had been aware of the outside world, they might have noticed the large visitor walking up the front path.
Leonora assumed they’d both been oblivious.
The sight that met her eyes as she opened the door, entered, then quietly shut it, confirmed her supposition.
Her uncle, Sir Humphrey Carling, was seated in an armchair angled before the hearth, a heavy tome open on his knees, an especially strong quizzing glass distorting one pale blue eye as he squinted at the faded hierogl
yphics inscribed on the pages. He had once been an imposing figure, but age had stooped his shoulders, thinned his once leonine head of hair, and drained his physical strength. The years, however, had made no discernible impact on his mental faculties; he was still revered in scientific and antiquarian circles as one of the two foremost authorities in translating obscure languages.
His white head, hair thin, straggling, and worn rather long despite Leonora’s best efforts, was bowed to his book, his mind clearly in…Leonora believed the present tome hailed from Mesopotamia.
Her brother, Jeremy, her junior by two years and the second of the two foremost authorities in translating obscure languages, sat at the desk nearby. The surface of the desk was awash with books, some open, others stacked. Every maid in the house knew she touched anything on that desk at her peril; despite the chaos, Jeremy always instantly knew.
He’d been twelve when, together with Leonora, he’d come to live with Humphrey after the deaths of their parents. They’d lived in Kent then; although Humphrey’s wife had already passed on, the wider family had felt that the countryside was a more suitable environment for two still growing and grieving children, especially as everyone accepted that Humphrey was their favorite relative.
It was no great wonder that Jeremy, bookish from birth, had been infected with Humphrey’s passion to decipher the words of men and civilizations long dead. At twenty-four, he was already well on the way to carving out a niche for himself in that increasingly competitive sphere; his standing had only grown when, six years ago, the household had moved to Bloomsbury so Leonora could be introduced to society under her aunt Mildred, Lady Warsingham’s aegis.
Yet Jeremy was still her little brother; her lips curved as she took in his wide but slight shoulders, the mop of brown hair that regardless of any brushing was perennially tousled—she was sure he ran his fingers through it, yet he swore he didn’t, and she’d never caught him at it.
Henrietta headed across the floor for the spot before the hearth. Leonora walked forward, unsurprised when neither man looked up. A maid had once dropped a silver epergne on the tiles outside the library door, and neither had noticed.
“Uncle, Jeremy—we have a visitor.”
Both looked up, blinked in identical, blankly distant fashion.
“The Earl of Trentham has called.” She continued toward her uncle’s chair, patiently waiting for their brains to wander back to the real world. “He’s one of our new neighbors at Number 12.” Both sets of eyes followed her, both still blank. “I told you the house was bought by a group of gentlemen. Trentham is one of them. I gather he’s been overseeing the renovations.”
“Ah—I see.” Humphrey closed his book, set it aside with his quizzing glass. “Good of him to call.”
Positioning herself behind her uncle’s chair, Leonora didn’t miss the rather more puzzled look in Jeremy’s brown eyes. Plain brown, not hazel. Comforting, not razor-sharp.
Like the eyes of the gentleman who walked into the room in Castor’s wake.
“The Earl of Trentham.”
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.”
Encountered? She leapt in before Humphrey or Jeremy could wonder. “Lord Trentham was leaving as I went out. He was good enough to introduce himself.”
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.