Once on the street, the line of trees along the boundary of Number 12 screened them from anyone watching from Number 16. They turned in at the gate of the club and, much to Henrietta’s disgruntlement, left her in the kitchens there.

Tristan hurried Leonora down the back path of the club, then out into the alleyway behind. From there it was easy to reach the next street, where they hired a hackney and headed with all speed for the Whitechapel Road.

In the infirmary at the convent, they found Jonathon Martinbury. He looked to be a stalwart young man, squarish of both build and countenance, with brown hair visible through the breaks in the bandages wrapping his head. Much of him seemed bandaged; one arm rested in a sling. His face was badly bruised and cut, with a massive contusion above one eye.

He was lucid, if weak. When Leonora explained their presence by saying they’d been searching for him in relation to Cedric Carling’s work with A. J. Carruthers, his eyes lit.

“Thank God!” Briefly, he closed his eyes, then opened them. His voice was rough, still hoarse. “I got your letter. I came down to town early, intending to call on you—” He broke off, his face clouding. “Everything since has been a nightmare.”

Tristan talked to the sisters. Although concerned, they agreed that Martinbury was well enough to be moved, given he was now with friends.

Between them, Tristan and the convent’s gardener supported Jonathon out to the waiting hackney. Leonora and the sisters fussed. Climbing into the carriage severely tried the young man’s composure; he was tight-lipped and pale when they had him finally settled on the seat, wrapped in a blanket and cushioned by old pillows. Tristan had given Jonathon his greatcoat; Jonathon’s coat had been ripped beyond redemption.

Together with Leonora, Tristan repeated Jonathon’s thanks to the sisters and promised a much-needed donation as soon as he could arrange it. Leonora gave him an approving look. He handed her up into the carriage, and was about to follow when a motherly sister came hurrying up.

“Wait! Wait!” Lugging a large leather bag, she huffed out of the convent gate.

Tristan stepped forward and took the bag from her. She beamed in at Jonathon. “A pity after all you’ve been through to lose that one little piece of good luck!”

As Tristan hoisted the bag onto the carriage floor, Jonathon leaned down, reaching to touch it as if to reassure himself. “Indeed,” he gasped, nodding as well as he could. “Many thanks, Sister.”

The sisters waved and called blessings; Leonora waved back. Tristan climbed up and closed the door, settling beside Leonora as the carriage rumbled off.

He looked at the large leather traveling bag sitting on the floor between the seats. He glanced at Jonathon. “What’s in it?”

Jonathon laid his head back against the squabs. “I think it’s what the people who did this to me were after.”

Both Leonora and Tristan looked at the bag.

Jonathon drew a painful breath. “You see—”

“No.” Tristan held up a hand. “Wait. This journey’s going to be bad enough. Just rest. Once we’ve got you settled and comfortable again, then you can tell us all your story.”

“All?” Through half-closed lids Jonathon regarded him. “How many of you are there?”

“Quite a few. Better if you have to tell your tale only once.”

A fever of impatience gripped Leonora, centered on Jonathon’s black leather bag. A perfectly ordinary traveling bag, but she could imagine what it might contain; she was almost beside herself with frustrated curiosity by the time the carriage finally rolled to a halt in the alleyway alongside the back gate of Number 14 Montrose Place.

Tristan had first halted the carriage in a street closer to the park; he’d left them there, saying he needed to get things in place.

He’d returned more than half an hour later. Jonathon had been sleeping; he was still groggy when they stopped for the last time, and Deverell opened the carriage door.

“Go.” Tristan gave her a little push.

She gave Deverell her hand and he helped her down; behind him, the garden gate stood open, with Charles St. Austell beyond—he beckoned her through.

Their largest footman, Clyde, was standing behind Charles with what Leonora realized was a makeshift stretcher in his hands.

Charles saw her looking. “We’re going to carry him in. Too slow and painful otherwise.”

She glanced at him. “Slow?”

With his head, he indicated the house next door. “We’re trying to minimize the chance of Mountford seeing anything.”

They’d assumed Mountford or more likely his accomplice would be watching the comings and goings at Number 14.

“I thought we’d have taken him to Number 12.” Leonora glanced toward their club.

“Too difficult to disguise getting all of us over there to hear his story.” Gently, Charles eased her aside as Tristan and Deverell helped Jonathon through the gate. “Here we are.”

Between the four of them, they got Jonathon settled in the stretcher, constructed from folded sheets and two long broom poles. Deverell went ahead, leading the way. Clyde and Charles followed, carrying the stretcher. Carrying Jonathon’s bag in one hand, Tristan brought up the rear, Leonora before him.

“What about the hackney?” Leonora whispered.

“Taken care of. I’ve paid him to rest there for another ten minutes before rumbling off, just in case the sound as he passes behind next door alerts them.”

He’d thought of everything—even cutting a new, narrow arch in the hedge dividing the well-screened kitchen garden from the more open lawn. Instead of going up the central path and on through the central archway and then having to cross a wide expanse of lawn, they headed up a narrow side path following the boundary wall with Number 12, then through the newly hacked breach in the hedge, emerging hard by the garden wall, largely concealed in its shadow.

They only had a short distance to cover until the jut of the kitchen wing hid them from Number 16. Then they were free to climb the steps to the terrace and go in through the parlor doors.

When Tristan closed the French doors behind her, she caught his eye. “Very neat.”

“All part of the service.” His gaze went past her. She turned to see Jonathon being helped out of the stretcher and onto a daybed, already made up.

Pringle was hovering. Tristan caught his eye. “We’ll leave you to your patient. We’ll be in the library—join us when you’re finished.”

Pringle nodded, and turned to Jonathon.

They all filed out. Clyde took the stretcher and headed for the kitchens; the rest of them trooped into the library.

Leonora’s eagerness to see what Jonathon had in his bag was nothing to Humphrey’s and Jeremy’s. If Tristan and the others had not been there, she doubted she would have been able to prevent them having the bag fetched and “just checking” what it contained.

The comfortable old library had rarely seemed so full, and even more rarely so alive. It wasn’t just Tristan, Charles, and Deverell, all pacing, waiting, hard-faced and intent; their repressed energy seemed to infect Jeremy and even Humphrey. This, she thought, sitting feigning patience on the chaise and with Henrietta, sprawled at her feet, watching them all, must be what the atmosphere in a tent full of knights had felt like just before the call to battle.

Finally, the door opened and Pringle entered. Tristan splashed brandy into a glass and handed it to him; Pringle took it with a nod, sipped, then sighed appreciatively. “He’s well enough, certainly well enough to talk. Indeed, he’s eager to do so, and I’d suggest you hear him out with all speed.”

“His injuries?” Tristan asked.

“I’d say those who attacked him were coldly intent on killing him.”

“Professionals?” Deverall asked.

Pringle hesitated. “If I had to guess, I’d say they were professionals, but more used to knives or pistols, yet in this case they were trying to make the attack look like the work of local thugs. However, they failed to take Mr. Martinbury’s rather heavy bones into account; he’s very bruised and battered, but the sisters have done well, and with time he’ll be as good as new. Mind you, if some kind soul hadn’t taken him to the convent, I wouldn’t have given much for his chances.”

Tristan nodded. “Thank you once again.”

“Think nothing of it.” Pringle handed back his empty glass. “Every time I hear from Gasthorpe, I at least know it’ll be something more interesting than boils or carbuncles.”

With nods all around, he left them.

They all exchanged glances; the excitement leapt a notch.

Leonora rose. Glasses were quickly drained and set down. She shook out her skirts, then swept to the door, and led them all back to the parlor.






Chapter Nineteen

“It’s all still a mystery to me. I can’t make head or tail of it—if you can shed any light on the affair I’d be grateful.” Jonathon settled his head against the back of the chaise.

“Start at the beginning,” Tristan advised. They were all gathered around—in chairs, propped against the mantelpiece—all keenly focused. “When did you first hear of anything to do with Cedric Carling?”

Jonathon’s gaze fixed, grew distant. “From A. J.—on her deathbed.”

Tristan, and everyone else, blinked. “Her deathbed?”

Jonathon looked around at them. “I thought you knew. A. J. Carruthers was my aunt.”

“She was the herbalist? A. J. Carruthers?” Humphrey’s disbelief rang in his tone.

Jonathon, somewhat grim-faced, nodded. “Yes, she was. And that was why she liked living hidden away in north Yorkshire. She had her cottage, grew her herbs and conducted her experiments and no one bothered her. She collaborated and corresponded with a large number of other well-respected herbalists, but they all knew her only as A. J. Carruthers.”

Humphrey frowned. “I see.”

“One thing,” Leonora put in. “Did Cedric Carling, our cousin, know she was a woman?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Jonathon replied. “But knowing A. J., I doubt it.”

“So when did you first hear of Carling or anything to do with this business?”

“I’d heard Carling’s name from A. J. over the years, but only as another herbalist. The first I knew of this business was just a few days before she died. She’d been failing for months—her death was no surprise. But the story she told me then—well, she was starting to drift away, and I wasn’t sure how much to credit.”

Jonathon drew breath. “She told me she and Cedric Carling had gone into partnership over a particular ointment they’d both been convinced would be eminently useful—she was a great one for working on useful things. They’d been working on this ointment for over two years, quite doggedly, and from the first they’d made a solemn and binding agreement to share in any profits from the discovery. They’d enacted a legal document—she told me I’d find it in her papers, and I did, later. However, the thing she was most urgent to tell me then was that they’d succeeded in their quest. Their ointment, whatever it was, was effective. They’d reached that point some two months or so before, and then she’d heard no more from Carling. She’d waited, then written to other herbalists she knew in the capital, asking after Carling, and she’d only just heard back that he’d died.”

Jonathon paused to look at their faces, then continued, “She was too old and frail to do anything about it then, and she assumed that with Cedric’s death, it would take his heirs some time to work through his effects and contact her, or her heirs, about the matter. She told me so I’d be prepared, and know what it was about when the time came.”

He dragged in a breath. “She died shortly after, and left me all her journals and papers. I kept them, of course. But what with one thing and another, my work for my articles, and not hearing anything from anyone about the discovery, I more or less forgot about it, until last October.”

“What happened then?” Tristan asked.

“I had all her journals in my rooms, and one day I picked one up, and started to read. And that’s when I realized she might have been right—that what she and Cedric Carling had discovered might, indeed, be very useful.” Jonathon shifted awkwardly. “I’m no herbalist, but it seemed like the ointment they’d created would help to clot blood, especially in wounds.” He glanced at Tristan. “I could imagine that that might have quite definite uses.”