The Lady Chosen

by Stephanie Laurens

  He paused as if considering, then inclined his head. “Very well. I’ll call for you at eleven.”

  She stared at him; he couldn’t read her eyes but knew she was surprised.

  He smiled. Charmingly.

  Her expression turned suspicious.

  His smile deepened into a genuine gesture, cynical and amused. Capturing her hand, he raised it to his lips. “Until tomorrow.”

  She met his eyes. Her brows rose haughtily. “Shouldn’t you take some notes on the conservatory?”

  He held her gaze, turned her hand, and placed a lingering kiss in her palm. “I lied. I already have one.” Releasing her hand, he stepped back. “Remind me to show it to you sometime.”

  With a nod and a final challenging glance, he left her.

  She was still suspicious when he arrived to take her up in his curricle the next morning.

  He met her gaze, then handed her up; she stuck her nose in the air and pretended not to notice. He climbed up, took the reins, and set his greys pacing.

  She looked well, striking in a deep blue pelisse buttoned over a walking gown of sky-blue. Her bonnet framed her face, her fine features touched with delicate color as if some artist had taken his brush to the finest porcelain. As he guided his skittish pair through the crowded streets, he found it hard to understand why she’d never married.

  All the tonnish males in London couldn’t be that blind. Had she hidden herself away for some reason? Or had her managing disposition, her trenchant self-reliance, her propensity to take the lead, proved too much of a challenge?

  He was perfectly aware of her less-than-admirable traits, yet for some unfathomable reason, that part of him that she and only she had tempted forth insisted on seeing them as, not even anything so mild as a challenge—more a declaration of war. As if she was an opponent blatantly defying him. All nonsense, he knew, yet the conviction ran deep.

  It had, in part, dictated his latest tack. He had agreed to her request to accompany him to Somerset House; he would have suggested it if she hadn’t—there would be no danger there.

  While with him, she was safe; if out of his sight, left to her own devices, she would undoubtedly try to come at the problem—her problem as she’d so trenchantly declared—from some other angle. Ordering her to cease investigating on her own, forcing her to do so, was beyond his present powers. Keeping her with him as much as possible was unquestionably the safest course.

  Tacking down the Strand, he mentally winced. His rational arguments sounded so logical. The compulsion behind them—the compulsion he used such arguments to excuse—was novel and distinctly unsettling. Disconcerting. The sudden realization that the well-being of a lady of mature years and independent mind was now critical to his equanimity was just a tad shocking.

  They arrived at Somerset House; leaving the curricle in the care of his tiger, they entered the building, footsteps echoing on the cold stone. An assistant peered at them from behind a counter; Tristan made his request and they were directed down a corridor to a cavernous hall. Regimented rows of wooden cabinets filled the space; each cabinet possessed multiple drawers.

  Another assistant, advised of their search, pointed to a particular set of cabinets. The letters “MOU” were inscribed in gold on the polished wooden fronts. “I would suggest you start there.”

  Leonora walked briskly to the cabinets; he followed rather more slowly, thinking of what the drawers must contain, estimating how many certificates might be found in each drawer…

  His conjecture was borne out when Leonora pulled open the first drawer. “Good Lord!” She stared at the mass of paper crammed into the space. “This could take days!”

  He pulled open the drawer beside her. “Just as well you invited yourself along.”

  She made a sound suspiciously like a suppressed snort and started checking the names. It wasn’t as bad as they’d feared; in short order they located the first Mountford, but the number of people born in England with that surname was depressingly large. They persevered, and ultimately discovered that yes, indeed, there was a Montgomery Mountford.

  “But”—Leonora stared at the birth certificate—“this means he’s seventy-three!”

  She frowned, then pushed the certificate back, looked at the next, and the next. And the next.

  “Six of them,” she muttered, her exasperated tone confirming what he’d expected. “And not one of them could possibly be him. The first five are too old, and this one is thirteen.”

  He put a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Check carefully on either side in case a certificate’s been misfiled. I’ll check with the assistant.”

  Leaving her frowning, flicking through the certificates, he walked to the supervisor’s desk. A quiet word and the supervisor sent one of his assistants scurrying. Three minutes later a dapper individual in the sober garb of a government functionary arrived.

  Tristan explained what he was looking for.

  Mr. Crosby bowed. “Indeed, my lord. However, I do not believe that name is one of those protected. If you’ll allow me to verify?”

  Tristan waved, and Crosby walked down the room.

  Dispirited, Leonora shut the drawers. She returned to his side, and they waited until Crosby reappeared.

  He bowed to Leonora, then looked at Tristan. “It is as you suspected, my lord. Unless there’s a certificate missing—which I very much doubt—then there is no Montgomery Mountford of the age you’re searching for.”

  Tristan thanked him and steered Leonora outside. They paused on the steps and she turned to him.

  Met his gaze. “Why would someone use an assumed name?”

  “Because,” he pulled on his driving gloves, felt his jaw set, “he’s up to no good.” Retaking her elbow, he urged her down the steps. “Come—let’s go for a drive.”

  * * *

  He took her into Surrey, to Mallingham Manor, now his home. He did so impulsively, he supposed to distract her, something he felt was increasingly necessary. A felon using an assumed name boded no good at all.

  From the Strand, he headed across the river, immediately alerting her to the change in direction. But when he explained he needed to attend to business at his estate so he could return to town free to pursue the question of Montgomery Mountford, phantom burglar, she accepted the arrangement readily.

  The road was direct and in excellent condition; the greys were fresh and eager to stretch their legs. He turned the curricle in between the elegant wrought-iron gates in good time for luncheon. Setting the pair pacing up the drive, he noted Leonora’s attention was fixed on the huge house ahead, standing amid manicured lawns and formal parterres. The gravel drive swept up to a circular forecourt before the imposing front doors.

  He followed her gaze; he suspected he saw the house as she did, for he’d yet to grow used to the idea that this was now his, his home. A manor house had stood on the spot for centuries, but his great-uncle had renovated and refurbished with zeal. What now faced them was a Palladian mansion built of creamy sandstone with pediments over every long window and mock battlements above the long line of the facade.

  The greys swept into the forecourt. Leonora exhaled. “It’s beautiful. So elegant.”

  He nodded, allowing himself to acknowledge it, permitting himself to admit that his great-uncle had got something right.

  A stable lad came running as he stepped to the ground. Leaving the curricle and pair to his tiger’s care, he helped Leonora down, then led her up the steps.

  Clitheroe, his great-uncle’s butler, now his, opened the doors before they reached them, beaming in his usual genial way. “Welcome home, my lord.” Clitheroe included Leonora in his smile.

  “Clitheroe, this is Miss Carling. We’ll be here for luncheon, then I’ll tend to business before we return to town.”

  “Indeed, my lord. Shall I inform the ladies?”

  Shrugging out of his greatcoat, Tristan suppressed a grimace. “No. I’ll take Miss Carling to meet them. I assume they’re in the morning room?�
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  “Yes, my lord.”

  He lifted Leonora’s pelisse from her shoulders and gave it to Clitheroe. Placing her hand on his sleeve, with his other hand he gestured down the hall. “I believe I mentioned that I had various females—family and connections—resident here?”

  She glanced at him. “You did. Are they cousins like the others?”

  “Some, but the two most notable are my great-aunts Hermione and Hortense. At this time of day, the group are invariably to be found in the morning room.” He met her eyes. “Gossiping.”

  He paused and threw open a door. As if to prove his point, the flurry of feminine chatter within immediately ceased.

  As he conducted her into the long room filled with light courtesy of a succession of windows along one wall, all looking out over a pastoral scene of gentle lawns leading down to a distant lake, Leonora found herself subjected to wide-eyed, unblinking stares. His ladies—she counted eight—were positively agog.

  They were not, however, disapproving.

  That was instantly apparent as Trentham, with his usual polished grace, introduced her to his eldest great-aunt, Lady Hermione Wemyss. Lady Hermione beamed and bade her a sincere welcome; Leonora curtsied and responded.

  And so it went around the circle of lined faces, all exhibiting various degrees of joy. Just as the six old ladies in his London house had been sincerely thrilled to meet her, so, too, were these women. Her first thought, that perhaps, for whatever reason, they did not venture into society and so were starved for visitors, and therefore would have been delighted with whoever had come to call, died a quick death; as she sank onto the chair Trentham placed for her, Lady Hortense launched into an account of their latest round of visits and the excitement surrounding the local church fete.

  “Always something happening around here, you know,” Hortense confided. “Not dull at all.”

  The others nodded and eagerly chimed in, telling her of the local sights and the amenities of the estate and village before inviting her to tell them something of herself.

  Completely assured in such company, she responded easily, telling them of Humphrey and Jeremy and their endeavors, and Cedric’s gardens—all the sorts of things older ladies liked to know.

  Trentham had remained standing by her chair, one hand on its back; now he stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’ll rejoin you for luncheon.”

  They all beamed and nodded; Leonora glanced up and met his gaze. He inclined his head, then his attention was claimed by Lady Hermione; he bent to listen to her. Leonora couldn’t hear what was said. With a nod, Trentham straightened, then walked from the room; she watched his elegant back disappear through the door.

  “My dear Miss Carling, do tell us—”

  Leonora turned back to Hortense.

  She might have felt deserted, but that proved impossible in the present company. The old ladies quite plainly set themselves to entertain her; she couldn’t help but respond. Indeed, she found herself intrigued by the myriad snippets they let fall of Trentham and his predecessor, his great-uncle Mortimer. She put together enough to understand the route by which Trentham had inherited, heard from Hermione of her brother’s sour disposition and disaffection with Trentham’s side of the family.

  “Always insisted they were wastrels.” Hermione snorted. “Nonsense, of course. He was just jealous they could jaunter all over while he had to stay at home and mind the family acres.”

  Hortense nodded sagely. “And Tristan’s behavior these past months has proved how wrong Mortimer was.” She caught Leonora’s eye. “Very sound man, Tristan. Not one to shirk his duties, whatever they might be.”

  This pronouncement was greeted with wise nods all around. Leonora suspected it had some significance beyond the obvious, but before she could think of any way to inquire tactfully, a colorful description of the vicar and the rectory household distracted her.

  Some part of her liked, even reveled in the simple gossip of country life. When the butler arrived to announce that luncheon awaited them, she rose with an inward start, realizing how much she’d enjoyed the unexpected interlude.

  Although the ladies had been pleasant and gentle companions, it was the subject matter that had held her, the talk of Trentham and the general round of country events.

  She had, she realized, missed it.

  Trentham was waiting in the dining room; he pulled out a chair and seated her by his side.

  The meal was excellent; the conversation never flagged, yet neither was it strained. Despite its unusual composition, the household seemed relaxed and content.

  At the end of the meal, Tristan caught Leonora’s eye, then pushed back his chair and glanced around the table. “If you’ll excuse us, there are a few last matters I need to attend to, and then we must return to town.”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  “Of course—so nice to meet you, Miss Carling.”

  “Do get Trentham to bring you down again, my dear.”

  He rose, taking Leonora’s hand, helping her to her feet. Conscious of impatience, he waited while she exchanged farewells with his tribe of old dears, then led her out of the room and into his private wing.

  By mutual agreement, the resident ladies did not intrude into his private domain; conducting Leonora through the archway and into the long corridor in some irrational way soothed him.

  He’d left her with the group knowing they’d keep her amused, reasoning he’d be able to concentrate on his business affairs and deal with them more expeditiously if spared her physical presence. He hadn’t reckoned with his irrational compulsion—the one that needed to know not just where she was, but how she was faring.

  Throwing open a door, he ushered her into his study. “If you’ll take a seat for a few minutes, I have a few matters to deal with, then we can be on our way.”

  She inclined her head and walked to the armchair angled before the hearth. He watched her settle comfortably, eyes on the blaze. His gaze rested on her for a moment, then he turned and crossed to his desk.

  With her in the room—safe, content, and quiet—he found it easier to concentrate; he quickly approved various expenditures, then settled to check a number of reports. Even when she rose and walked to the window to stand looking out on the vista of lawns and trees, he barely glanced up, just enough to register what she was doing, then returned to his work.

  Fifteen minutes later, he’d cleared his desk sufficiently to be able to remain in London for the next several weeks, and single-mindedly devote his attention to her phantom burglar. And, subsequently, if matters continued to head in that direction, to her.

  Pushing back his chair, he looked up—and found her leaning against the window frame, watching him.

  Her periwinkle blue gaze was steady. “You don’t appear the least like one of society’s lions.”

  He held her gaze, equally direct. “I’m not.”

  “I thought all earls—especially unmarried ones—were by definition.”

  He lifted a brow as he rose. “This earl never expected the title.” He crossed toward her. “I never imagined having it.”

  She raised a brow back, eyes quizzing as he reached her. “And the unmarried?”

  He looked down at her, after a moment said, “As you’ve just noted, that adjective only gains status when attached to the title.”

  She studied his face, then looked away.

  He followed her gaze out of the window to the peaceful scene beyond. He glanced down at her. “We have time for a stroll before starting back.”

  She glanced at him, then looked back at the gently rolling landscape. “I was just thinking how much I’ve missed country pleasures. I would like a stroll.”

  He led her into an adjoining parlor and out through French doors onto a secluded terrace. Steps led down to the lawn, still green despite winter’s harshness. They started to amble; his gaze on her, he asked, “Would you like your pelisse?”

  She looked at him, smiled, shook her head. “It’s not that cold i
n the sunshine, weak though it is.”

  The bulk of the house protected them from the breeze. He glanced back at it, then faced forward. And found her watching him.

  “It must have been a shock to discover you’d inherited all that”—her wave indicated more than the roof and walls—“given you hadn’t expected it.”

  “It was.”

  “You seem to have managed quite well. The ladies seem thoroughly content.”

  A smile touched his lips. “Oh, they are.” His bringing her here had ensured that.

  He looked ahead to the lake. She followed his gaze. They walked to the shore, then idled along the bank. Leonora spotted a family of ducks. She stopped, shading her eyes with her hand to better see them.

  Pausing a few steps away, he studied her, let his gaze dwell on the picture she made standing by his lake in the dappled sunshine, and felt a content he hadn’t before experienced warm him. It seemed senseless to pretend that the impulse to bring her here hadn’t been driven by a primitive instinct to have her safe behind walls that were his.

  Seeing her here, being with her here, was like discovering another piece of a still scattered jigsaw.

  She fitted.

  How well left him uneasy.

  He was normally impatient of inaction, yet was content to walk by her side, doing essentially nothing. As if being with her made it permissible for him to simply be, as if she was sufficient reason for his existence, at least in that moment. No other woman had had that effect on him. The realization only escalated his need to nullify the threat to her.

  As if sensing his suddenly hardening mood, she glanced at him, wide eyes searching his face. He slipped on his mask and smiled easily.

  She frowned.

  Before she could ask, he took her arm. “Let’s go this way.”

  The rose garden even in hibernation distracted her. He led her on into the extensive formal shrubbery, slowly circling back toward the house. A small marble temple, austerely classical, stood at the center of the shrubbery.

  Leonora had forgotten just how pleasant walking in a large, well-designed and well-tended garden could be. In London, Cedric’s fantastical creation lacked the soothing vistas, the magnificent sweeps that could only be achieved in the country, and the parks were too limited in view and too crowded. Certainly not soothing. Here, walking with Trentham, peace slid like a drug through her veins, as if a well that had been almost dry was refilling.