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.
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.
Leonora opened the door and led Trentham into the front hall. Henrietta lifted her head, but for once didn’t follow; she settled down again before the fire. The desertion struck Leonora as unusual, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it; she had a dictatorial earl to dismiss.
Cloaked in chilly calm, she swept to the front door and halted; Castor slipped past and stood ready to open the door. Head high, she met Trentham’s hazel eyes. “Thank you for calling. I bid you a good day, my lord.”
He smiled, something other than charm in his expression, and held out his hand.
She hesitated; he waited…until good manners forced her to surrender her fingers into his clasp.
His untrustworthy smile deepened as his hand closed strongly about hers. “If you could spare me a few minutes of your time?”
Under his heavy lids, his gaze was hard and clear. He had no intention of releasing her until she acceded to his wishes. She tried to slip her fingers free; his grip tightened fractionally, enough to assure her she could not. Would not. Until he permitted it.
Her temper erupted. She let her disbelief—how dare he?—show in her eyes.
The ends of his lips quirked. “I have news you’ll find interesting.”
She debated for two seconds, then, on the principle that one shouldn’t cut off one’s nose to spite one’s face, she turned to Castor. “I’ll walk Lord Trentham to the gate. Leave the door on the latch.”
Castor bowed and swung the door wide. She allowed Trentham to lead her out. He paused on the porch. The door shut behind them; he glanced back as he released her, then met her gaze and waved at the garden.
“Your gardens are amazing—who planted them, and why?”
Assuming that, for some reason, he wished to ensure they were not overheard, she went down the steps by his side. “Cedric Carling, a distant cousin. He was a renowned herbalist.”
“Your uncle and brother—what’s their primary interest?”
She explained as they strolled down the winding path to the gate.
Brows rising, he glanced at her. “You spring from a family of authorities on eccentric subjects.” His hazel eyes quizzed her. “What’s your specialty?”
Head rising, she halted. Met his gaze directly. “I believe you had some news you thought might interest me?”
Her tone was pure ice. He smiled. For once with neither charm nor guile. The gesture, strangely comforting, warmed her. Thawed her…
She fought off the effect, kept her eyes on his—watched as all levity faded and seriousness took hold.
“I met with Stolemore. He’d been given a thorough thrashing, very recently. From what he let fall, I believe his punishment stemmed from his failure to secure your uncle’s house for his mysterious buyer.”
The news rocked her, more than she cared to admit. “Did he give any indication who…?”
Trentham shook his head. “None.” His eyes searched hers; his lips tightened. After a moment, he murmured, “I wanted to warn you.”
She studied his face, forced herself to ask, “Of what?”
His features once more resembled chiseled granite. “Unlike your uncle and brother, I don’t believe your burglar has retired from the field.”
* * *
He’d done all he could; he hadn’t meant to do even that much. He didn’t, in fact, have the right. Given the situation within the Carling ménage, he’d be well advised not to get involved.
The next morning, seated at the head of the table in the breakfast room of Trentham House, Tristan idly scanned the news sheets, kept one ear on the twitterings of the three of the six female residents who’d decided to join him for tea and toast, and otherwise kept his head down.
He should, he was well aware, be reconnoitering the social field à propos of identifying a suitable wife, yet he couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for the task. Of course, all his old dears were watching him like hawks, waiting for any sign that he would welcome assistance.
They’d surprised him by being remarkably sensitive in not pushing their help upon him thus far; he sincerely hoped they’d hold to that line.
“Do pass the marmalade, Millie. Did you hear that Lady Warrington has had her ruby necklace copied?”
“Copied? Great heavens—are you sure?”
“I had it from Cynthia Cunningham. She swore it was true.”
Their scandalized accents faded as his mind returned to the events of the day before.
He hadn’t intended to return to Montrose Place after seeing Stolemore. He’d left the shop in Motcomb Street deep in thought; when next he’d looked up, he’d been in Montrose Place, outside Number 14. He’d surrendered to instinct and gone in.
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