The Lady Chosen

Chapter Eighteen

For all his relative naïveté, Jeremy was correct in one respect—Tristan clearly considered their union already accepted, established, acknowledged.

The Warsinghams were the first to leave, Gertie with them. When Humphrey and Jeremy prepared to follow them, Tristan trapped her hand on his sleeve and declared that he and she had matters pertaining to their future that they needed to discuss in private. He would see her home in his carriage in half an hour or so.

He stated it so glibly, with such complete assurance, everyone meekly nodded and fell into line. Humphrey and Jeremy departed; his great-aunts and cousins bade them good night and retired.

Leaving him to usher her into the library, alone at last.

He paused to give Havers instructions for the carriage. Leonora went to stand before the fire, a goodly blaze throwing heat into the room. Outside, a chill wind blew and heavy clouds blocked the moon; not a pleasant evening.

Holding out her hands to the flames, she heard the door click softly shut, sensed Tristan draw near.

She turned; his hands slid about her waist as she did. Her palms came to rest on his chest. She locked her eyes on his. “I’m glad you arranged this—there are a number of matters we should talk about.”

He blinked. He didn’t let her go, yet he didn’t draw her closer. Their hips and thighs were lightly, teasingly, brushing; her breasts were just touching his chest. His hands spanned her waist; she was neither in his arms nor out of them, yet wholly within his control. He looked down into her eyes. “What matters are those?”

“Matters such as where we’ll live—how you imagine our life should run.”

He hesitated, then asked, “Do you want to live here, in London, among the ton?”

“Not especially. I’ve never felt any great attraction to the ton. I’m comfortable enough in it, but I don’t crave its dubious excitements.”

His lips twitched. He lowered his head. “Thank heaven for that.”

She laid a finger across his lips before they could capture hers. Felt his hands release her waist, his palms slide over her silk-clad back. From beneath her lashes, she met his eyes, drew a quick breath. “So we’ll live at Mallingham Manor?”

Against her finger, his lips curved distractingly. “If you can bear to live buried in the country.”

“Surrey is hardly the depths of buccolic rusticity.” She lowered her hand.

His lips came nearer, hovered an inch from hers. “I meant the old dears. Can you cope with them?”

He waited; she struggled to think. “Yes.” She understood the old ladies, recognized their ways, foresaw no difficulty dealing with them. “They’re well-disposed—I understand them, and they understand us.”

He made a derisive sound; it feathered over her lips, made them throb. “You may understand them—they frequently leave me at a total loss. There was something a few months ago about the vicarage curtains that completely passed me by.”

She was finding it hard not to laugh; his lips were so close, it seemed terribly dangerous, like letting her guard down with a wolf about to pounce.

“So you truly will be mine?”

She was about to laughingly offer her mouth and herself in proof when something in his tone struck her; she met his eyes—realized he was deadly serious. “I’m already yours. You know it.”

His lips, still distractingly near, twisted; he shifted, easing her closer—his restlessness reached her, washed over her in a wave of tangible, shifting uncertainty. With the fuller touch of their bodies heat flared; he bent his head and set his lips to the corner of hers.

“I’m not your average gentleman.”

The words whispered over her cheek.

“I know.” She turned her head and their lips met.

After a brief exchange, he drew away, sent his lips tracing upward, over her cheekbone to her temple, then down until his breath warmed the hollow beneath her ear.

“I’ve lived dangerously, beyond all laws, for a decade. I’m not as civilized as I ought to be. You know that, don’t you?”

She did, indeed, know that; the knowledge was crawling her nerves, anticipation sliding like heated silk down her veins. More to the immediate point, amazing though it seemed, she realized he was still unsure of her. And that whatever the matter he’d wanted to discuss, it was still on his mind, and she’d yet to hear of it.

Pushing up her hands, she caught and framed his face, and boldy kissed him. Trapped him, caught him, drew him in. Moved into him. Felt his response, felt his hands spread over her back, firm, then mold her to him.

When she finally consented to let him free, he raised his head and looked down at her; his eyes were dark, turbulent.

“Tell me.” Her voice was husky, but commanding. Demanding. “What is it you wanted to say?”

A long moment passed; she was conscious of their breaths, of their pulses throbbing. She thought he wasn’t going to answer, then he drew a short breath. His eyes had never left hers.

“Don’t. Go. Into. Danger.”

He didn’t have to say more, it was there in his eyes. There for her to see. A vulnerability so deeply enmeshed in him, in who he was, that he could never not have it, and still have her.

A dilemma, one he could never resolve, but could only accept. As, in taking her as his wife, he’d chosen to do.

She leaned into him; her hands were still bracketing his face. “I will never willingly place myself in danger. I’ve decided to be yours—I intend to continue in that role, to remain important to you.” She held his gaze. “Believe that.”

His features hardened; he ignored her hands and lowered his head. Took her lips, her mouth in a searing kiss that bordered on the wild.

Drew back to whisper against her lips. “I’ll try to, if you’ll remember this. If you fail, we both will pay the price.”

She traced his lean cheek. Waited until he met her eyes. “I won’t fail. And neither will you.”

Their hearts were thudding; familiar flames licked hungrily over their skins. She searched his eyes. “This”—she shifted sinuously against him, felt his breath hitch—“was meant to be. We didn’t decree it, you or I, it was there, waiting to snare us. Now the challenge is to make all the rest work—it’s not an endeavor we can escape or decline, not if we want this.”

“I definitely want this, and more. I’m not letting you go. Not for any reason. Not ever.”

“So we’re committed, you and I.” She held his darkened gaze. “We’ll make it work.”

Two heartbeats passed, then he bent his head; his hands firmed, lifting her against him.

She dropped her hands to his shoulders, pressed back. “But…”

He paused, met her eyes. “But what?”

“But we’ve run out of time tonight.”

They had. Tristan tightened his arms, kissed her witless, then shackled his demons, clamoring for her, and, grim-faced, set her on her feet.

She looked as chagrined as he felt—a minor consolation.

Later.

Once they had Mountford by the heels, nothing was going to get in their way.

His carriage was waiting; he escorted Leonora out to it, helped her in, and followed. As the carriage rattled off over the now wet cobbles, he returned to something she’d mentioned earlier. “Why does Humphrey think pieces of Cedric’s puzzle are missing? How can he know?”

Leonora settled back beside him. “The journals are details of experiments—what was done and the results, nothing more. What’s missing is the rationale that makes sense of them—the hypotheses, the conclusions. Carruthers’s letters refer to some of Cedric’s experiments, and others which Humphrey and Jeremy reason must be Carruthers’s own, and the sheets of descriptions from Carruthers we found in Cedric’s room—Humphrey thinks at least some of those match some of the experiments referred to in Carruthers’s letters.”

“So Cedric and Carruthers appear to have been exchanging details of experiments?”

“Yes. But as yet Humphrey can’t be certain whether they were working on the same project together, or whether they were simply exchanging news. Most pertinently, he hasn’t found anything to define what their mutual project, assuming there was one, was.”

He juggled the information, debating whether it made Martinbury, Carruthers’s heir, more or less important. The carriage slowed, then halted. He glanced out, then climbed out before Number 14 Montrose Place and handed Leonora down.

Overhead, the clouds were scudding, the dark pall breaking up before the wind. She tucked her hand into his arm; he glanced at her as he swung the gate wide. They walked up the winding path, both distracted by the eccentric world of Cedric’s creation gleaming in the fitful moonlight, the odd-shaped leaves and bushes embroidered with droplets of rain.

Light beamed from the front hall. As they climbed the porch steps the door swung open.

Jeremy looked out, his face tense. He saw them and his features eased. “About time! The blackguard’s already started tunneling.”

In absolute silence, they faced the wall beside the laundry trough in the basement of Number 14 and listened to the stealthy scritch-scritch of someone scraping away mortar.

Tristan motioned Leonora and Jeremy to stillness, then put out a hand, and laid it on the bricks from behind which the noise was emanating.

After a moment, he removed his hand and signaled them to retreat. At the entrance to the laundry, a footman stood waiting. Leonora and Jeremy went silently past him; Tristan paused. “Good work.” His voice was just loud enough to reach the footman. “I doubt they’ll get through tonight, but we’ll organize a watch. Close the door and make sure no one makes any unusual sound in this area.”

The footman nodded. Tristan left him and followed the others into the kitchen at the end of the corridor. From their faces, both Leonora and Jeremy were bursting with questions; he waved them to silence and addressed Castor and the other footmen, all gathered and waiting with the rest of the staff.

In short order he organized a rotating watch for the night, and reassured the housekeeper, cook, and maids that there was no likelihood of the villains breaking in undetected while they slept.

“At the rate they’re going—and they’ll have to go slowly—they can’t risk a hammer and chisel—they’ll take at least a few nights to loosen enough bricks to let a man through.” He glanced around the company gathered about the kitchen table. “Who noticed the scratching?”

A tweeny colored and bobbed. “Me, sir—m’lord. I went in to get the second hot iron and heard it. Thought it was a mouse at first, then I remembered what Mr. Castor had said about odd noises and such, so I came straightaway and told him.”

Tristan smiled. “Good girl.” His gaze rested on the baskets piled high with folded sheets and linens set between the maids and the stove. “Was it washing day today?”

“Aye.” The housekeeper nodded. “We always do our main wash on a Wednesday, then a small wash on Mondays.”

Tristan looked at her for a moment, then said, “I have one last question. Have any of you, at any time in the last several months, going back to November or so, seen or been spoken to by either of these two gentlemen?” He proceeded to give quick word sketches of Mountford and his weasely accomplice.

* * *

“How did you guess?” Leonora asked when they were back in the library.

The two older maids and two of the footmen had been approached independently at various times in November, the maids by Mountford himself, the footmen by his accomplice. The maids had thought they’d found a new admirer, the footmen a new and unexpectedly well-heeled acquaintance always ready to buy the next pint.

Tristan dropped onto the chaise beside Leonora and stretched out his legs. “I always wondered why Mountford tried first to buy the house. How did he know Cedric’s workshop had been locked up and left essentially undisturbed? He couldn’t see in—the windows are so old, so fogged and crazed, it’s impossible to see anything through them.”

“He knew because he’d cozened the maids.” Jeremy sat in his usual place behind his desk. Humphrey was in his chair before the hearth.

“Indeed. And that’s how he’s known other things”—Tristan glanced at Leonora—“like your propensity to walk alone in the garden. At what times you go out. He’s been focused on this household for months, and he’s done a decent job of reconnoitering.”

Leonora frowned. “That begs the question of how he knew there’s something here to be found.” She looked at Humphrey, one of Cedric’s journals open on his lap, a magnifying glass in his hand. “We still don’t know there’s anything valuable here—we’re only surmising because of Mountford’s interest.”

Tristan squeezed her hand. “Trust me. Men like Mountford never are interested unless there’s something to gain.”

And the notice of foreign gentlemen was even less easy to attract. Tristan kept that observation to himself. He looked at Humphrey. “Any advance?”

Humphrey spoke at length; the answer was no.

At the end of his explanation, Tristan stirred. They were all keyed up; sleep would be difficult knowing that in the basement, Mountford was quietly excavating through the wall.

“What do you expect to happen now?” Leonora asked.

He glanced at her. “Nothing tonight. You can rest easy on that score. It’ll take at least three nights of steady working to open a hole big enough for a man without alerting anyone on this side.”

“I’m more worried about someone on this side alerting him.”

He smiled his predator’s smile. “I have men all around—they’ll be there night and day. Now Mountford’s in there, he won’t get away.”

Leonora looked into his eyes; her lips formed a silent O.

Jeremy humphed. He picked up a sheaf of the papers they’d found in Cedric’s room. “We’d better get on with these. Somewhere here, there has to be a clue. Although why our dear departed relative couldn’t use some simple, understandable cross-referencing system I don’t know.”

Humphrey’s snort was eloquent. “He was a scientist, that’s why. Never show any consideration for whoever might have to make sense of their works once they’re gone. Never come across one who has in all my days.”

Tristan stood, stretched. Exchanged a glance with Leonora. “I need to think through our plans. I’ll call tomorrow morning and we’ll make some decisions.” He looked at Humphrey, included Jeremy when he said, “I’ll probably bring some associates with me in the morning—can I ask you to give us a report on what you’ve discovered up to then?”

“Of course.” Humphrey waved. “We’ll see you at breakfast.”

Jeremy barely glanced up.

Leonora saw him to the front door. They stole a quick, unsatisfying kiss before Castor, summoned by some butlerish instinct, appeared to open the door.

Tristan looked down into Leonora’s shadowed eyes. “Sleep well. Believe me, you’re at no risk.”

She met his eyes, then smiled. “I know. I have proof.”

Puzzled, he raised a brow.

Her smile deepened. “You’re leaving me here.”

He searched her face, saw understanding in her eyes. He saluted her, and left.

By the time he reached Green Street, his plan was clear in his mind. It was late; his house was quiet. He went straight to his study, sat at his desk, and reached for his pen.

The next morning, he, Charles, and Deverell met at the Bastion Club shortly after dawn. It was March; dawn wasn’t that early, but they needed sufficient light to see by as they circled Number 16 Montrose Place. They checked every possible escape route, tested the guards Tristan already had in place, and arranged for reinforcements where needed.

At half past seven, they retreated to the club’s meeting room to reassess and report all that each individually had done, had set in train since the previous evening. At eight o’clock, they repaired to Number 14, where Humphrey and Jeremy, weary after working most of the night, and an eager Leonora were waiting.

Along with a substantial breakfast. Leonora had clearly given orders that they were to be fed well.

Seated at one end of the table, Leonora sipped her tea; over the rim of her cup, she regarded the trio of dangerous men who had invaded her home.

It was the first time she’d met St. Austell and Deverell; one glance was enough for her to see the similarities between them and Tristan. Likewise, they both evoked the same wariness she’d initially felt with Tristan; she wouldn’t trust them, not entirely, not as a woman trusts a man, not unless she came to know them much better.

She looked at Tristan, beside her. “You said you would discuss a plan.”

He nodded. “A plan of how best to react to the situation as we currently know it.” He glanced at Humphrey. “Perhaps, if I outline the situation, you would correct me if you have more recent information.”

Humphrey inclined his head.

Tristan looked down at the table, clearly gathering his thoughts. “We know that Mountford is searching for something he believes hidden in this house. He’s been intent, persistent, unswervingly fixed on his goal for months. He seems increasingly desperate, and clearly will not cease until he finds what he’s after. We have a connection between Mountford and a foreigner, which may or may not be pertinent. Mountford is now on the scene, trying to gain access to the basement here. He has one known accomplice, a weasel-faced man.” Tristan paused to sip his coffee. “That’s the opposition as we know it.

“Now, to the something they’re after. Our best guess is that it’s something the late Cedric Carling, the previous owner of this house and a renowned herbalist, discovered, possibly working with another herbalist, A. J. Carruthers, unfortunately now also deceased. Cedric’s journals, and Carruthers’s letters and notes, all we’ve found so far, suggest a collaboration, but the project itself remains unclear.” Tristan looked at Humphrey.

Humphrey glanced at Jeremy. Waved him on.

Jeremy met the others’ eyes. “We have three sources of information—Cedric’s journals, letters to Cedric from Carruthers, and a set of notes from Carruthers, which we believe were enclosures sent with the letters. I’ve been concentrating on the letters and notes. Some of the notes detail individual experiments discussed and referred to in the letters. From what we’ve been able to link together so far, it seems certain Cedric and Carruthers were working together on some specific concoction. They discuss the properties of some fluid they were trying to influence with this concoction.” Jeremy paused, grimaced. “We have nothing where they state what the fluid is, but from various references, I believe it to be blood.”

The effect of that pronouncement on Tristan, St. Austell, and Deverell was marked. Leonora watched them exchange significant glances.

“So,” St. Austell murmured, his gaze locked with Tristan’s, “we have two renowned herbalists working on something to affect blood, and a possible foreign connection.”

Tristan’s expression had hardened. He nodded to Jeremy. “That clarifies the one uncertainty I had regarding our way forward. Clearly, Carruthers’s heir, Jonathon Martinbury, an upright and honest young man who has mysteriously disappeared after reaching London, apparently coming down in response to a letter regarding Carruthers’s and Cedric’s collaboration, is a potentially critical pawn in this game.”

“Indeed.” Deverell looked at Tristan. “I’ll swing my people on to that line, too.”

Leonora glanced from one to the other. “What line?”

“It’s now imperative we locate Martinbury. If he’s dead, that will take some time—probably more time than we have with Mountford working downstairs. But if Martinbury’s alive, there’s a chance we can scour the hospitals and hospices sufficiently well to locate him.”

“Convents.” When Tristan glanced at her, Leonora elaborated. “You didn’t mention them, but there are quite a lot in the city, and most take in the sick and injured as they’re able.”

“She’s right.” St. Austell looked at Deverell.

Who nodded. “I’ll direct my people that way.”

“What people?” Jeremy frowned at the trio. “You talk as if you have troops at your disposal.”

St. Austell raised his brows, amused. Tristan straightened his lips and replied, “In a way, we do. In our previous calling, we had need of…connections at all levels of society. And there are a lot of ex-soldiers we can call on for assistance. We each know people who are used to going out and looking for things for us.”

Leonora frowned Jeremy down when he would have asked more. “So you’ve combined your troops and sent them out to search for Martinbury. What does that leave us to do? What’s your plan?”

Tristan met her eyes, then glanced at Humphrey and Jeremy. “We still don’t know what Mountford’s after—we could simply sit back and wait for him to break in, then see what he goes for. That, however, is the more dangerous course. Letting him into this house, letting him at any stage get his hands on what he’s after, should be our last resort.”

“The alternative?” Jeremy asked.

“Is to go forward following the lines of inquiry we already have. One, seek Martinbury—he may have more specific information from Carruthers. Two, continue to piece together what we can from the three sources we have—the journals, letters, and notes. It’s likely those are at least part of what Mountford is after. If he has access to the pieces we’re missing, that would make sense.

“Three.” Tristan glanced at Leonora. “We’ve assumed that the something—let’s call it a formula—was hidden in Cedric’s workshop. That may still be the case. We’ve only removed all the obvious written materials—if there’s something specificially concealed in the workshop, it may still be there. Lastly, the formula may be completed, written down and hidden elsewhere in this house.” He paused, then continued, “The risk of letting something like that fall into Mountford’s hands is too great to take. We need to search this house.”

Recalling how he’d searched Miss Timmins’s rooms, Leonora nodded. “I agree.” She glanced around the table. “So Humphrey and Jeremy should continue with the journals, letters, and notes in the library. Your people are scouring London for Martinbury. That leaves you three, I take it?”

Tristan smiled at her, one of his charming smiles. “And you. If you could warn your staff and clear the way for us, we three will search. We may need to search from attics to basement, and this is a large house.” His smile took on an edge. “But we’re very good at searching.”

They were.

Leonora watched from the doorway of the workshop as, silent as mice, the three noblemen pried, poked, and prodded into every last nook and cranny, climbed about the heavy shelving, squinting down the backs of cupboards, whisked hidden crevices with canes, and lay on the floor to inspect the undersides of desks and drawers. They missed nothing.

And found nothing but dust.

From there, they worked steadily outward and upward, going through kitchen and pantries, even the now silent laundry, through every room on the lower floor, then they climbed the stairs and, quietly determined, set about applying their unexpected skills to the rooms on the ground floor.

Within two hours, they’d reached the bedchambers; an hour later, they broached the attics.

The luncheon gong was clanging when Leonora, seated on the stairs leading up to the attics—into which she’d flatly refused to venture—felt the reverberations of their descent.

She stood and swung around. Their footfalls, heavy, slow, told her they’d found nothing at all. They came into view, brushing cobwebs from their hair and coats—Shultz would not have approved.

Tristan met her eyes, somewhat grimly concluded, “If any precious formula is secreted in this house, it’s in the library.”

In Cedric’s journals, Carruthers’s letters and notes.

“At least we’re now sure of that much.” Turning, she led them back to the main stairs and down to the dining room.

Jeremy and Humphrey joined them there.

Jeremy shook his head as he sat. “Nothing more, I’m afraid.”

“Except”—Humphrey frowned as he shook out his napkin—“that I’m increasingly certain Cedric did not keep any record of his own as to the rationale and conclusions he drew from his experiments.” He grimaced. “Some scientists are like that—keep it all in their head.”

“Secretive?” Deverall asked, starting on his soup.

Humphrey shook his head. “Not usually. More a case of they don’t want to waste time writing down what they already know.”

They all started eating, then Humphrey, still frowning, continued, “If Cedric didn’t leave any record—and most of the books in the library are ours—there were only a handful of ancient texts in there when we moved in.”

Jeremy nodded. “And I went through all of those. There were no records stuck in them, or written in them.”

Humphrey continued, “If that’s so, then we’re going to have to pray Carruthers left some more detailed account. The letters and notes give one hope—and I’m not saying we won’t ever get the answer if that’s all there is for us to work with—but a properly kept journal with a consecutive listing of experiments…if we had that, we could sort out which recipes for this concoction were the later ones. Especially which was the final version.”

“There are any number of versions, you see.” Jeremy took up the explanation. “But there’s no way to tell from Cedric’s journal which came after which, let alone why. Cedric must have known, and from comments in the letters, Carruthers knew, too, but…so far, we’ve only been able to match a handful of Carruthers’s experimental notes with his letters, which are the only things that are dated.”

Humphrey chewed, nodded morosely. “Enough to make you tear out your hair.”

In the distance, the front doorbell pealed. Castor left them, reappearing a minute later with a folded note on a salver.

He walked to Deverell’s side. “A footman from next door brought this for you, my lord.”

Deverell glanced at Tristan and Charles as he set down his fork and reached for the note. It was a scrap of plain paper, the writing an ill-formed scrawl in pencil. Deverell scanned it, then looked at Tristan and Charles across the table.

They both sat up.

“What?”

Everyone looked at Deverell. A slow smile curved his lips.

“The good sisters of the Little Sisters of Mercy off the Whitechapel Road have been caring for a young man who answers to the name of Jonathon Martinbury.” Deverell glanced at the note; his face hardened. “He was brought to them two weeks ago, the victim of a vicious beating left to die in a gutter.”

Arranging to fetch Martinbury—they all agreed he had to be fetched—was an exercise in logistics. In the end, it was agreed that Leonora and Tristan would go; neither St. Austell nor Deverell wanted to risk being seen leaving or returning to Number 14. Even Leonora and Tristan had to be cautious. They left the house via the front door, with Henrietta on her lead.

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.