He looked at her, then held the gate open. “As secure as it can be. There’s no way to stop a determined intruder.” He fell into step beside her as they paced along the pavement. “If he uses force—breaking a window or forcing a door—he’ll get in, but I don’t think our man is likely to be so direct. If we’re right in thinking it’s Number 14 he wants access to, then to get that via Number 16, he’ll have to have a few nights undetected to tunnel through the basement walls. He won’t get that if he’s too obvious about how he gets in.”

“So as long as Daisy is vigilant, all should be well.”

When he didn’t say anything, she looked at him. He sensed her glance, caught her eye. Grimaced. “On our way in, I was wondering how to introduce some man into the household, at least until we’ve laid this burglar by the heels. But she’s frightened of men, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” She was astonished he’d been so perceptive. “You’re one of the few I’ve ever known her to talk to beyond the barest commonplace.”

He nodded, looked down. “She’d be too uncomfortable with a man under her roof, so it’s lucky those locks are so sound. We’ll have to put our faith in them.”

“And do everything we can to catch this burglar soon.”

Her determination rang in her voice.

They’d reached the gate of Number 14. Tristan halted, met her gaze. “I suppose there’s no point insisting you leave the matter of the burglar in my hands?”

Her periwinkle blue eyes hardened. “None.”

He exhaled, looked away down the street. He wasn’t above lying for a good cause. Wasn’t above using distractions, either, despite their inherent danger.

Before she could shift away, he caught her hand. Turned his head and trapped her gaze. Held it while with his fingers he sought, then flicked the opening in her glove wide, then raised her wrist, the inner face now exposed, to his lips.

Felt the quiver that raced through her, watched her head lift, her eyes darken.

He smiled, slowly, intently. Softly decreed, “What’s between you and me remains between you and me, but it hasn’t gone away.”

Her lips set; she tugged, but he didn’t release her, instead, with his thumb, languidly caressed the spot he’d kissed.

She caught her breath, then hissed, “I’m not interested in any dalliance.”

Eyes on hers, he raised a brow. “No more am I.” He was interested in distracting her. They’d both be better off with her concentrating on him rather than on the burglar. “In the interests of our acquaintance”—in the interests of his sanity—“I’m willing to make a deal.”

Suspicion glowed in her eyes. “What deal?”

He chose his words carefully. “If you promise to do no more than keep your eyes and ears open, to do no more than watch and listen and report all to me when next I call, I’ll agree to share with you all I discover.”

Her expression turned haughtily dismissive. “And what if you don’t discover anything?”

His lips remained curved, but he let his mask slide, let his true self show briefly. “Oh, I will.” His voice was soft, faintly menacing; its tone held her.

Again, slowly, deliberately, he raised her wrist to his lips.

Holding her gaze, kissed.

“Do we have a deal?”

She blinked, refocused on his eyes, then her breasts swelled as she drew in a deep breath. And nodded. “Very well.”

He released her wrist; she all but snatched it back.

“But on one condition.”

He raised his brows, now as haughty as she. “What?”

“I’ll watch and listen and do no more if you promise to call and tell me what you’ve discovered as soon as you discover it.”

His gaze locked with hers, he considered, then let his lips ease. He inclined his head. “As soon as practicable, I’ll share any discovery.”

She was mollified, and surprised to be so. He hid a grin and bowed. “Good day, Miss Carling.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then inclined her head. “Good day, my lord.”

Days passed.

Leonora watched and listened, but nothing of any moment occurred. She was content with their bargain; there was in truth little else she could do beyond watch and listen, and the knowledge that if anything did occur, Trentham expected to be involved in dealing with it was unexpectedly heartening. She’d grown used to acting alone, indeed eschewed the help of others who in general were more likely to get in her way, yet Trentham was undeniably able—with him involved, she felt confident of resolving the issue of the burglaries. Staff started to appear at Number 12; Trentham occasionally called in there, as duly reported by Toby, but did not venture to knock on the Carlings’ front door.

The only factor that disturbed her equanimity was her recollections of that kiss in the night. She’d tried to forget it, simply put it from her mind, an aberration on both their parts, yet forgetting the way her pulse leapt whenever he came near was much harder. And she had absolutely no idea how to interpret his comment that what lay between them hadn’t gone away.

Did he mean he intended to pursue it?

But then he’d declared he wasn’t interested in dalliance any more than she was. Despite his past occupation, she was learning to take his words at face value.

Indeed, his tactful dealings with the old soldier Biggs, his discretion in not speaking of her nighttime adventures, and his unprecedented charming of Miss Timmins, going out of his way to reassure and see to the old lady’s safety, had in large part ameliorated her prejudice.

Perhaps Trentham was one of those whose existence proved the rule—a trustworthy military man, one who could be relied on, at least in certain matters.

Despite that, she wasn’t entirely certain she could rely on him to tell her all and anything he discovered. Nevertheless, she would have allowed him a few more days’ grace if it hadn’t been for the watcher.

At first, it was simply a sensation, a prickling of her nerves, an eerie feeling of being observed. Not just in the street, but in the back garden, too; that last unnerved her. The first of the earlier attacks on her had occurred just inside the front gate; she no longer walked in the front garden.

She began taking Henrietta with her wherever she went, and if that wasn’t possible, a footman.

With time, her nerves would doubtless have calmed, steadied.

But then, strolling in the back garden late one afternoon as the abbreviated February twilight closed in, she glimpsed a man standing almost at the rear of the garden, beyond the hedge that bisected the long plot. Framed by the central arch in the hedge, a lean, dark figure swathed in a dark cloak, he stood among the vegetable beds—and watched her.

Leonora froze. He wasn’t the same man who had accosted her in January, the first time by the front gate, the second time in the street. That man had been smaller, slighter; she’d been able to fight back, to break free.

The man who now watched her looked infinitely more menacing. He stood silent, still, yet it was the stillness of a predator waiting for his moment. There was only a stretch of lawn between them. She had to fight the urge to raise a hand to her throat, had to battle an instinct to turn and flee—battle the conviction that if she did he’d be on her.

Henrietta ambled up, saw the man, and growled low in her throat. The rumbling warning continued, subtly escalating. Hackles rising, the hound placed herself between Leonora and the man.

He remained still for an instant longer, then whisked around. His cloak flapped; he disappeared from Leonora’s sight.

Heart thudding uncomfortably, she looked down at Henrietta. The wolfhound remained alert, senses focused. Then a distant thud reached Leonora’s ears; an instant later, Henrietta wuffed and relaxed from her stance, turning to calmly continue their progress back to the parlor doors.

A chill swept Leonora’s spine; eyes wide, scanning the shadows, she hurried back to the house.

The next morning at eleven o’clock—the earliest hour at which it was acceptable to call—she rang the doorbell of the elegant house in Green Street that the urchin sweeping at the corner had told her belonged to the Earl of Trentham.

An imposing but kindly-looking butler opened the door. “Yes, ma’am?”

She drew herself up. “Good morning. I am Miss Carling, from Montrose Place. I wish to speak with Lord Trentham, if you please.”

The butler looked genuinely regretful. “Unfortunately, his lordship is not presently in.”

“Oh.” She’d assumed he would be, that like most fashionable men he was unlikely to set foot beyond his door before noon. After a frozen moment in which nothing—no other avenue of action—occurred to her, she lifted her gaze to the butler’s face. “Is he expected to return soon?”

“I daresay his lordship will be back within the hour, miss.” Her determination must have shown; the butler opened the door wider. “If you would care to wait?”

“Thank you.” Leonora let a hint of approval color the words. The butler had the most sympathetic face. She stepped across the threshold and was instantly struck by the airiness and light in the hall, underscored by the elegant furnishings. As the butler closed the door, she turned to him.

He smiled encouragingly. “If you’ll come this way, miss?”

Insensibly reassured, Leonora inclined her head and followed him down the corridor.

Tristan returned to Green Street at a little after noon, no further forward and increasingly concerned. Climbing his front steps, he fished out his latch key and let himself in; he had still not grown accustomed to waiting for Havers to open the door, relieve him of his cane and coat, all things he was perfectly capable of doing himself.

Setting his cane in the hall stand, tossing his coat across a chair, he headed, soft-footed, for his study. Hoping to slip past the arches of the morning room without being spotted by any of the old dears. An exceedingly faint hope; regardless of their occupations, they always seemed to sense his flitting presence and glance up just in time to smile and waylay him.

Unfortunately, there was no other way to reach the study; his great-uncle who’d remodeled the house had, he’d long ago concluded, been a glutton for punishment.

The morning room was a light-filled chamber built out from the main house. A few steps below the level of the corridor, it was separated from it by three large arches. Two hosted huge flower arrangements in urns, which gave him some cover, but the middle arch was the doorway, open country.

As silent as a thief, he neared the first arch and, just out of sight, paused to listen. A babble of female voices reached him; the group was at the far end of the room, where a bow window allowed morning light to stream over two chaises and various chairs. It took a moment to attune his ear to pick out the individual voices. Ethelreda was there, Millie, Flora, Constance, Helen, and yes, Edith, too. All six of them. Chattering on about knots—French knots?—what were they?—and gross-something and leaf-stitch…

They were discussing embroidery.

He frowned. They all embroidered like martyrs, but it was the one arena in which real competition flourished between them; he’d never heard them discussing their shared interest before, let alone with such gusto.

Then he heard another voice, and his surprise was complete.

“I’m afraid I’ve never been able to get the threads to lie just so.”

Leonora.

“Ah, well, dear, what you need to do—”

He didn’t take in the rest of Ethelreda’s advice; he was too busy speculating on what had brought Leonora there.

The discussion in the morning room continued, Leonora inviting advice, his old dears taking great delight in supplying it.

Vivid in his mind was that piece of embroidery lying discarded in the parlor in Montrose Place. Leonora might have no talent for embroidery, but he’d have sworn she had no real interest in it, either.

Curiosity pricked. The nearest flower arrangement was tall enough to conceal him. Two swift steps and he was behind it. Peering between the lilies and chrysanthemums, he saw Leonora seated in the middle of one of the chaises surrounded on all sides by his collection of old dears.

Winter sunlight poured through the window at her back, a glimmering wash spilling over her, striking garnet glints from her coronet of dark hair yet leaving her face and its delicate features in faint and mysterious shadow. In her dark red walking dress, she looked like a medieval madonna, an embodiment of feminine virtue and passion, of feminine strength and fragility.