Tristan turned to her; his eyes were cold, hard. “Given the lengths to which he’s already gone, I’m prepared to wager he won’t be able to resist.”

They returned to Montrose Place that evening with Henry Timmins’s blessings, and, more importantly, a letter to the family solicitor from Henry instructing said solicitor to act on Tristan’s directions regarding Miss Timmins’s house.

There were lights burning in the rooms on the first floor of the Bastion Club; handing Leonora to the pavement, Tristan saw them, wondered…

Leonora shook out her skirts, then slipped her hand in his arm.

He looked down at her, refrained from mentioning how much he liked the little gesture of feminine acceptance. He was learning that she often did small revealing things instinctively, without noticing; he saw no reason to bring such transparency to her attention.

They headed up the path of Number 14.

“Who will you get to play the part of house agent?” Leonora glanced at him. “You can’t—he knows what you look like.” She ran her gaze over his features. “Even with one of your disguises…there’s no way of being sure he wouldn’t see through it.”

“Indeed.” Tristan glanced across at the Bastion Club as they climbed the porch steps. “I’ll see you in, speak with Humphrey and Jeremy, then I’m going next door.” He met her gaze as the front door opened. “It’s possible some of my associates are in town. If so…”

She arched a brow at him. “Your ex-colleagues?”

He nodded, following her into the hall. “I can’t think of any gentlemen more suited to aid us in this.”

Charles, predictably, was delighted.

“Excellent! I always knew this notion of a club was a brilliant idea.”

It was nearly ten o’clock; having consumed a superb dinner in the elegant dining room downstairs, they—Tristan, Charles, and Deverell—were now seated, sprawled and comfortable, in the library, each cradling a balloon liberally supplied with fine brandy.

“Indeed.” Despite his more reserved manner, Deverell looked equally interested. He eyed Charles. “I think I should be the house agent—you’ve already played one part in this drama.”

Charles looked aggrieved. “But I could always play another.”

“I think Deverell’s right.” Tristan firmly took charge. “He can be the house agent—this is only his second visit to Montrose Place, so chances are Mountford and his cronies won’t have spotted him. Even if they have, there’s no reason he can’t play totally vague and say he’s handling the matter for a friend.” Tristan glanced at Charles. “Meanwhile, there’s something else I think you and I should take care of.”

Charles instantly looked hopeful. “What?”

“I told you of this solicitor’s clerk who inherited from Carruthers.” He’d told them the entire story, all the pertinent facts, over dinner.

“The one who came to London and disappeared into the teeming throng?”

“Indeed. I believe I mentioned he’d originally planned to come to town? While searching for information in York, my operative learned that this Martinbury had earlier arranged to meet with a friend, another clerk from his office, here, in town; before he left unexpectedly, he confirmed the meeting.”

Charles raised his brows high. “When, and where?”

“Noon tomorrow, at the Red Lion in Gracechurch Street.”

Charles nodded. “So we nab him after the meeting—I assume you have descriptions?”

“Yes, but the friend has agreed to introduce me, so all we need do is be there, and then we’ll see what we can learn from Mr. Martinbury.”

“He couldn’t be Mountford, could he?” Deverell asked.

Tristan shook his head. “Martinbury was in York for much of the time Mountford’s been active down here.”

“Hmm.” Deverell sat back, rolled the brandy in his balloon. “If it won’t be Mountford who approaches me—and I agree that’s unlikely—then who do you think will try to rent the house?”

“My guess,” Tristan said, “would be a scrawny, weasel-faced specimen, short to medium height. Leonora—Miss Carling—has seen him twice. He seems certain to be an associate of Mountford’s.”

Charles opened his eyes wide. “Leonora, is it?” Swiveling in his chair, he fixed Tristan with his dark gaze. “So tell us—how sits the wind in that quarter, hmm?”

Impassive, Tristan studied Charles’s devilish face, and wondered what fiendish devilment Charles might concoct if he didn’t tell them…“As it happens, the notice of our engagement will appear in the Gazette tomorrow morning.”

“Oh-ho!”

“I see!”

“Well, that was quick work!” Rising, Charles grabbed the decanter and replenished their glasses. “We have to toast this. Let’s see.” He struck a pose before the fireplace, his glass held high. “Here’s to you and your lady, the delightful Miss Carling. Let’s drink in acknowledgment of your success in determining your own fate—to your victory over the meddlers—and to the inspiration and encouragement this victory will provide to your fellow Bastion Club members!”

“Hear! Hear!”

Charles and Deverell both drank. Tristan saluted them with his glass, then drank, too.

“So when’s the wedding?” Deverell asked.

Tristan studied the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “As soon as we lay Mountford by the heels.”

Charles pursed his lips. “And if that takes longer than expected?”

Tristan raised his eyes, met Charles’s dark gaze. Smiled. “Trust me. It won’t.”

Early the next morning, Tristan visited Number 14 Montrose Place; he left before Leonora or any of the family came downstairs, confident he’d solved the riddle of how Mountford had got into Number 16.

As Jeremy had, at his direction, already had the locks on Number 16 changed, Mountford must have suffered another disappointment. All the better for driving him into their snare. He now had no option other than to rent the house.

Leaving Number 14 by the front gate, Tristan saw a workman busy setting up a sign atop the low front wall of Number 16. The sign announced that the house was for rent and gave details for contacting the agent. Deverell had wasted no time.

He returned to Green Street for breakfast, manfully waited until all six of the resident old dears were present before making his announcement. They were more than delighted.

“She’s just the sort of wife we wished for you,” Millicent told him.

“Indeed,” Ethelreda confirmed. “She’s such a sensible young woman—we were awfully afraid you might land us with some flibbertigibbet. One of those empty-headed gels who giggle all the time. The good Lord only knows how we would have coped then.”

In fervent agreement, he excused himself and took refuge in the study. Ruthlessly blocking out the obvious distraction, he spent an hour dealing with the more urgent matters awaiting his attention, remembering to pen a brief letter to his great-aunts informing them of his impending nuptials. When the clock chimed eleven, he put down his pen, rose, and quietly left the house.

He met Charles at the corner of Grosvenor Square. They hailed a hackney; at ten minutes before noon, they pushed through the door of the Red Lion. It was a popular public house catering to a mixture of trades—merchants, agents, shippers, and clerks of every description. The main room was crowded, yet after one glance, most moved out of Tristan’s and Charles’s way. They went to the bar, were served immediately, then, ale mugs in hand, turned and surveyed the room.

After a moment, Tristan took a sip of his ale. “He’s over there, one table from the corner. The one that keeps looking around like an eager pup.”

“That’s the friend?”

“Fits the description to a tee. The cap’s hard to miss.” A tweed cap was sitting on the table at which the young man in question waited.

Tristan considered, then said, “He won’t recognize us. Why don’t we just take the table next to him, and wait for the right moment to introduce ourselves?”

“Good idea.”

Once again the crowd parted like the Red Sea; they installed themselves at the small table in the corner without attracting more than a quick glance and a polite smile from the young man.

He seemed terribly young to Tristan.

The young man continued to wait. So did they. They discussed various points—difficulties they’d both faced on taking up the reins of large estates. There was more than enough there to provide believable cover had the young man been listening. He wasn’t; like a spaniel, he kept his eyes on the door, ready to leap up and wave when his friend entered.

Gradually, as the minutes ticked by, his eagerness ebbed. He nursed his pint; they nursed theirs. But when the clang from a nearby belltower sounded the half hour, it seemed certain that he for whom they all waited was not going to appear.

They waited some more, in growing concern.

Eventually, Tristan exchanged a glance with Charles, then turned to the young man. “Mr. Carter?”

The young man blinked, focused properly on Tristan for the first time. “Y-yes?”

“We’ve not met.” Tristan reached for a card, handed it to Carter. “But I believe an associate of mine told you we were concerned to meet with Mr. Martinbury over a matter of mutual benefit.”

Carter read the card; his youthful face cleared. “Oh, yes—of course!” Then he looked at Tristan and grimaced. “But as you can see, Jonathon hasn’t come.” He glanced around, as if to make sure Martinbury hadn’t materialized in the last minute. Carter frowned. “I really can’t understand it.” He looked back at Tristan. “Jonathon’s very punctual, and we’re very good friends.”

Worry clouded his face.

“Have you heard from him since he’s been in town?”

Charles asked the question; when Carter blinked at him, Tristan smoothly added, “Another associate.”

Carter shook his head. “No. No one at home—York, that is—has had any word from him. His landlady was surprised; she made me promise to tell him to write when I met him. It’s odd—he’s really a very reliable person, and he is fond of her. She’s like a mother to him.”

Tristan exchanged a glance with Charles. “I think it’s time we searched more actively for Mr. Martinbury.” Turning to Carter, he nodded at his card, which the young man still held in his hand. “If you do hear from Martinbury, any contact at all, I’d be obliged if you would send word immediately to that address. Likewise, if you furnish me with your direction, I’ll make sure you’re informed if we locate your friend.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Carter dragged a tablet from his pocket, found a pencil, and quickly wrote down the address of his lodging house. He handed the sheet to Tristan. He read it, then nodded and put the note in his pocket.

Carter was frowning. “I wonder if he even reached London.”

Tristan rose. “He did.” He drained his tankard, set it on the table. “He left the coach when it reached town, not before. Unfortunately, tracing a single man on the streets of London is not at all easy.”

He said the last with a reassuring smile. With a nod to Carter, he and Charles left.

They paused on the pavement outside.

“Tracing a single man walking the streets of London may not be easy.” Charles glanced at Tristan. “Tracing a dead one is not quite so hard.”

“No, indeed.” Tristan’s expression had hardened. “I’ll take the watchhouses.”

“And I’ll take the hospitals. Meet at the club later tonight?”

Tristan nodded. Then grimaced. “I just remembered…”

Charles glanced at him, then hooted. “Just remembered you’d announced your engagement—of course! No longer a life of ease for you—not until you’re wed.”

“Which only makes me even more determined to find Martinbury with all speed. I’ll send word to Gasthorpe if I find anything.”

“I’ll do the same.” With a nod, Charles headed down the street.

Tristan watched him go, then swore, swung on his heel, and strode off in the opposite direction.






Chapter Seventeen

The day was fleeing, whipped away by grey squalls, as Tristan climbed the steps of Number 14 and asked to see Leonora. Castor directed him to the parlor; dismissing the butler, he opened the parlor door and went in.

Leonora didn’t hear him. She was seated on the chaise, facing the windows, looking out at the garden, at the shrubs bowing before the blustering wind. Beside her, a fire burned brightly in the hearth, crackling and spitting cheerily. Henrietta lay stretched before the flames, luxuriating in their heat.

The scene was comfortable, cozy—warming in a way that had nothing to do with temperature, a subtle comfort to the heart.