The Lady Chosen

by Stephanie Laurens

  “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.

  He took a step, let his heel fall heavily.

  She heard, turned…then she saw him and her face lit. Not just with expectation, not just with eagerness to hear what he had learned, but with an open welcome as if a part of her had returned.

  He neared and she rose, held out her hands. He took them, raised first one, then the other to his lips, then drew her nearer and bent his head. Took her mouth in a kiss he struggled to keep within bounds, let his senses savor, then reined them in.

  When he lifted his head, she smiled at him; their gazes touched, held for a moment, then she sank onto the chaise.

  He crouched to pat Henrietta.

  Leonora watched him, then said, “Now before you tell me anything else, explain how Mountford got into Number 16 last night. You said there were no forced locks, and Castor told me some tale about you asking after a drainage inspector. What has he to do with anything—or was he Mountford?”

  Tristan glanced at her, then nodded. “Daisy’s description tallies. It seems he posed as an inspector and talked her into letting him inspect the kitchen, scullery, and laundry drains.”

  “And when she wasn’t looking, he took an impression of a key?”

  “That seems most likely. No inspector called here or at Number 12.”

  She frowned. “He’s a very…calculating man.”

  “He’s clever.” After a moment of studying her face, Tristan said, “Added to that, he must be getting desperate. I’d like you to bear that in mind.”

  She met his gaze, then smiled reassuringly. “Of course.”

  The look he cast her as he rose to his feet looked more resigned than reassured.

  “I saw the sign outside Number 16. That was quick.” She let her approval show in her face.

  “Indeed. I’ve handed that aspect over to a gentleman by the name of Deverell. He’s Viscount Paignton.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “Do you have any other…associates helping you?”

  Sinking his hands into his pockets, the fire warm on his back, Tristan looked down into her face, into eyes that reflected an intelligence he knew better than to underestimate. “I have a small army working for me, as you know. Most of them, you’ll never meet, but there is one other who’s actively helping me—another part-owner of Number 12.”

  “As is Deverell?” she asked.

  He nodded. “The other gentleman is Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel.”

  “Lostwithiel?” She frowned. “I heard something about the last two earls dying in tragic circumstances…”

  “They were his brothers. He was the third son and is now the earl.”

  “Ah. And what is he helping you with?”

  He explained about the meeting they’d hoped to have with Martinbury, and their disappointment. She heard him out in silence, watching his face. When he paused after explaining the agreement they’d made with Martinbury’s friend, she said, “You think he’s met with foul play.”

  Not a question. His eyes on hers, he nodded. “Everything that was reported to me from York, everything his friend Carter said of him, painted Martinbury as a conscientious, reliable, honest man—not one to miss an appointment he’d taken care to confirm.” Again he hesitated, wondering how much he should tell her, then pushed aside his reluctance. “I’ve started checking the watchhouses for reported deaths, and Charles is checking the hospitals in case he was brought in alive, but then died.”

  “He could still be alive, perhaps gravely injured, but without friends or connections in London…”

  He considered the timing, then grimaced. “True—I’ll put some others onto checking that. However, given how long it’s been without any word from him, we need to check the dead. Unfortunately, that’s not the sort of search anyone but Charles and I, or one like us, can undertake.” He met her gaze. “Members of the nobility, especially ones with our background, can get answers, demand to see reports and records, that others simply can’t.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” She sat back, considering him. “So you’ll be busy during the days. I spent today with the maids, searching every nook and cranny in Cedric’s workshop. We found various scraps and jottings which are now with Humphrey and Jeremy in the library. They’re still poring over the journals. Humphrey’s increasingly certain there ought to be more. He thinks there are sections—pieces of records—missing. Not torn out but written down somewhere else.”

  “Hmm.” Tristan stroked Henrietta’s head with his boot, then glanced at Leonora. “What about Cedric’s bedchamber? Have you searched there yet?”

  “Tomorrow. The maids will help—there’ll be five of us. If there’s anything there, I assure you we’ll find it.”

  He nodded, mentally running down his list of matters he’d wanted to discuss with her. “Ah, yes.” He refocused on her face, caught her gaze. “I put the customary notice in the Gazette announcing our betrothal. It was in this morning’s edition.”

  A subtle change came over her face; an expression he couldn’t quite place—resigned amusement?—invested her blue eyes.

  “I was wondering when you were going to mention that.”

  Suddenly, he wasn’t sure of the ground beneath his feet. He shrugged, his eyes still on hers. “It was just the usual thing. The expected thing.”

  “Indeed, but you might have thought to warn me—that way, when my aunts descended in a swirl of congratulations a bare ten minutes before the first of a good two dozen callers, all wanting to congratulate me, I wouldn’t have been caught like a deer in a hunter’s sights.”

  He held her gaze; for a moment, silence reigned. Then he winced. “My apologies. With Miss Timmins’s death and all the rest, it escaped my mind.”

  She considered him, then inclined her head. Her lips weren’t quite straight. “Apology accepted. However, you do realize that, now the news is out, we’ll need to make the obligatory appearances?”

  He stared down at her. “What appearances?”

  “The necessary appearances every engaged couple are expected to make. For instance, tonight, everyone will expect us to attend Lady Hartington’s soirée.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the major event tonight, and so they can congratulate us, watch us, analyze and dissect, assure themselves it will be a good match, and so on.”

  “And this is obligatory?”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  She didn’t misunderstand. “Because if we don’t give them that chance, it will fix unwarranted—and quite staggeringly intrusive—attention on us. We won’t have a moment’s peace. They’ll call constantly, and
not just within the accepted hours; if they’re in the neighborhood, they’ll drive down the street and peer out of their carriages. You’ll find a couple of giggling girls on the pavement every time you step out of your house, or your club next door. And you won’t dare appear in the park, or on Bond Street.”

  She fixed him with a direct look. “Is that what you want?”

  He read her eyes, confirmed she was serious. Shuddered. “Good Lord!” He sighed; his lips thinned. “All right. Lady Hartington’s. Should I meet you there, or call for you in my carriage?”

  “It would be most appropriate for you to escort my aunts and me. Mildred and Gertie will be here by eight. If you arrive a little after, you can accompany us there, in Mildred’s carriage.”

  He humphed, but nodded curtly. He didn’t take orders well, but in this sphere…that was one reason he needed her. He cared very little for society, knew both enough and too little of its tortuous ways to feel totally comfortable in its glare. While he had every intention of spending as little time in it as possible, given his title, his position, if a quiet life was his aim, it would never do to thumb his nose openly at the ladies’ sacred rites.

  Such as passing judgment on newly affianced couples.

  He refocused on Leonora’s face. “How long do we have to pander to prurient interest?”

  Her lips twitched. “For at least a week.”

  He scowled, literally growled.

  “Unless some scandal intervenes, or unless…” She held his gaze.

  He thought, then, still at sea, prompted, “Unless what?”

  “Unless we have some serious excuse—like being actively involved in catching a burglar.”

  He left Number 14 half an hour later, resigned to attending the soirée. Given Mountford’s increasingly risky actions, he doubted they’d have long to wait before he made his next move, and stepped into their snare. And then…

  With any luck, he wouldn’t have to attend all that many more of society’s events, at least not as an unmarried man.

  The thought filled him with grim determination.

  He strode along purposefully, mentally planning his morrow and how he’d extend the search for Martinbury. He’d turned into Green Street, was nearly at his front door when he heard himself hailed.

  Halting, turning, he saw Deverell descending from a hackney. He waited while Deverell paid off the jarvey, then joined him.

  “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “Thank you.”

  They waited until they were comfortable in the library, and Havers had withdrawn, before getting down to business.

  “I’ve had a nibble,” Deverell replied in response to Tristan’s raised brow. “And I’d swear it’s the weasel you warned me of—he slunk up just as I was about to leave. He’d been keeping watch for about two hours. I’m using a small office that’s part of a property I own in Sloane Street. It was empty and available, and the right sort of place.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He wanted details of the house at Number 16 for his master. I ran through the usual, the amenities and so on, and the price.” Deverell grinned. “He led me to hope his master would be interested.”

  “And?”

  “I explained how the property came to be for rent, and that, in the circumstances, I had to warn his master that the house may only be available for a few months, as the owner might decide to sell.”

  “And he wasn’t put off?”

  “Not in the least. He assured me his master was only interested in a short let, and didn’t want to know what had happened to the last owner.”

  Tristan smiled, grim, wolfish. “It sounds like our quarry.”

  “Indeed. But I don’t think Mountford’s going to show himself to me. The weasel asked for a copy of the lease agreement and took it away with him. Said his master would want to study it. If Mountford signs it and sends it back with the first month’s rent—well, what house agent would quibble?”

  Tristan nodded; his eyes narrowed. “We’ll let the game play out, but that certainly sounds promising.”

  Deverell drained his glass. “With luck, we’ll have him within a few days.”

  Tristan’s evening started badly and grew progressively worse.

  He arrived in Montrose Place early; he was standing in the hall when Leonora came down the stairs. He turned, saw, froze; the vision she presented in a watered-silk gown of deep blue, her shoulders and throat rising like fine porcelain from the wide neckline, her hair glossy, garnet-shot, piled on her head, ripped his breath away. A gauzy shawl concealed and revealed her arms and shoulders, shifting and sliding over the svelte curves; his palms tingled.

  Then she saw him, met his eyes, and smiled.

  Blood drained from his head; he felt dizzy.

  She crossed the hall toward him, the periwinkle blue hue of her eyes lit by that welcoming expression she seemed to save just for him. She gave him her hands. “Mildred and Gertie should be here any minute.”

  A commotion at the door proved to be her aunts; their advent saved him from having to formulate any intelligent response. Her aunts were full of congratulations and myriad social instructions; he nodded, trying to take them all in, trying to orient himself in this battlefield, all the while conscious of Leonora and that, very soon, she would be all his.

  The prize was definitely worth the battle.

  He escorted them out to the carriage. Lady Hartington’s house wasn’t far. Her ladyship, of course, was beyond thrilled to receive them. She exclaimed, twittered, gushed, and archly asked after their wedding plans; impassive, he stood beside Leonora, and listened while she calmly deflected all her ladyship’s queries without answering any of them. From her ladyship’s expression, Leonora’s responses were perfectly acceptable; it was all a mystery to him.

  Then Gertie stepped in and ended the inquisition. At a nudge from Leonora, he led her away. As usual, he made for a chaise by the wall. Her fingertips sank into his arm. “No. No point. Tonight we’d be better served by taking center stage.”

  With a nod, she directed him to a position almost in the center of the large drawing room. Inwardly frowning, he hesitated, then complied; his instincts were twitching—the spot was so open, they would be easily flanked, even surrounded….

  He had to trust her judgment; in this theater, his own was severely underdeveloped. But even in this, being guided by another did not come easily.

  Predictably, they were quickly surrounded by ladies young and old wanting to press their congratulations and hear their news. Some were sweet, pleasant, innocent of guile, ladies for whom he deployed his charm. Others set his back up; after one such encounter, brought to a close by Mildred cutting in and all but physically towing the old battle-ax away, Leonora glanced up at him, with her elbow surreptitiously jabbed him in the ribs.

  He looked down at her, frowned with his eyes. She smiled serenely back. “Stop looking so grim.”

  He realized his mask had slipped, quickly reinstalled his charming facade. Meanwhile, sotto voce, informed her, “That harridan made me feel murderous, so grim was a mild response.” He met her eyes. “I don’t know how you can stand such as she—they’re so patently insincere, and don’t even try to hide it.”

  Her smile was both understanding and teasing; briefly she leaned more heavily on his arm. “You get used to it. When they become difficult, just let it wash over you, and remember that what they’re after is a reaction—deny them that, and you’ve won the exchange.”

  He could see what she meant, tried to follow that line, but the situation itself abraded his temper. For the last decade, he’d eschewed any situation that focused attention on him; to stand there, in a ton drawing room, the cyno-sure of all eyes and at least half the conversations, ran directly counter to what had become ingrained habit.

  The evening wore on, for him far too slowly; the number of ladies and gentlemen waiting to speak with them did not appreciably decrease. He continued to feel off-balance, exposed. And out of his depth
in dealing with some of the more dangerous specimens.

  Leonora took care of them with a sure touch he had to admire. Just the right amount of haughtiness, the right amount of confidence. Thank God he’d found her.

  Then Ethelreda and Edith came up; they greeted Leonora as if she was already a member of the family, and she responded in kind. Mildred and Gertie touched fingers; he saw a brief question put by Edith, to which Gertie replied with a short word and a snort. Then glances were exchanged between the older ladies, succeeded by conspiratorial smiles.

  Passing before them, Ethelreda tapped his arm. “Bear up, dear boy. We’re here, now.”

  She and Edith moved on, but only as far as Leonora’s side. Over the next fifteen minutes, his other cousins—Millicent, Flora, Constance, and Helen—arrived, too. Like Ethelreda and Edith, they greeted Leonora, exchanged pleasantries with Mildred and Gertie, then joined Ethelreda and Edith in a loose gathering alongside Leonora.

  And things changed.

  The crowd in the drawing room had grown to uncomfortable proportions; there were even more people hovering, waiting to speak with them. It was a crush, and he’d never liked being hemmed in, yet Leonora continued to greet those who pressed forward, introducing him, deftly managing the interactions, but if any lady showed a tendency to spite or coldness, or simply a wish to monopolize, either Mildred and Gertie or one of his cousins would step in and, with a rush of seemingly inconsequential observations, draw such persons away.

  In short order, his view of his old dears was shattered and re-formed; even the retiring Flora displayed remarkable determination in distracting and removing one persistent lady. Gertie, too, left no doubt as to which mast her flag was pinned.

  The reversal of roles kept him off-balance; in this arena, they were the protectors, sure and effective, he the one needing their protection.

  Part of that protection was to prevent him from reacting to those who saw his and Leonora’s engagement as a loss to themselves, who viewed her as having in some way snared him, when the truth was the exact opposite. It hadn’t occurred to him just how real, how strong and powerful, the feminine competition in the marriage mart was, or that Leonora’s apparent success in capturing him would make her the focus of envy.