The Lady Chosen (17 page)

“Should you require anything, the bellpull is to the left.” Serene and unperturbed, the butler bowed and left her.

Leonora looked around. Trentham’s conservatory was much larger than theirs; indeed, it was monstrous. Recalling his supposed need of information on such rooms, she humphed. His was not just larger, it was better, the temperature much more even, the floor beautifully tiled in blue-and-green mosaics. A small fountain tinkled somewhere—she couldn’t see through the artfully arranged, lush and verdant growth.

A path led on; she strolled down it.

It was four o’clock; outside the glass-paned walls the light was fading fast. Trentham clearly wouldn’t be long, but why he would feel impelled by falling night to return to his house she couldn’t fathom. The butler, however, had been quite definite on the point.

She reached the end of the path and stepped into a clearing ringed by high banks of shrubs and flowering bushes. It contained a circular pond set into the floor; the small fountain at its center was responsible for the tinkling. Beyond the pond, a wide window seat, heavily cushioned, followed the curve of the windowed wall; sitting on it, one could either view the garden outside, or look inward, contemplating the pond and the well-stocked conservatory.

Crossing to the window seat, she sank onto the cushions. They were deep, comfortable—perfect for her needs. She considered, then stood and walked on, along another path following the curved outer wall. Better she meet Trentham standing; he towered over her as it was. She could lead him back to the window seat—

A flash of movement in the garden caught her eye. She stopped, looked; she couldn’t see anything unusual. The shadows had deepened while she’d been ambling; gloom now gathered beneath the trees.

Then, out of one such pocket of darkness, a man emerged. Tall, dark, lean, he wore a tattered coat and stained corduroy breeches, a battered cap pulled low on his head. He glanced furtively around as he strode rapidly for the house.

Leonora sucked in a breath. Wild thoughts of yet another burglar flooded her mind; recollection of the man who twice had attacked her stole her breath. This man was much larger; if he got his hands on her, she wouldn’t be able to break free.

And his long legs were carrying him straight to the conservatory.

Sheer panic held her motionless in the shadow of the massed plants. The door would be locked, she told herself. Trentham’s butler was excellent—

The man reached the door, reached for the handle, turned it.

The door swung inward. He stepped through.

Faint light from the distant hallway reached him as he closed the door, turned, straightened.

“Good God!”

The exclamation exploded from Leonora’s tight chest. She stared, unable to believe her eyes.

Trentham’s head had snapped around at her first squeak.

He stared back at her, then his lips thinned and he frowned—and recognition was complete.

“Sssh!” He motioned her to silence, glanced toward the corridor, then, soft-footed, approached. “At the risk of repeating myself, what the damn hell are you doing here?”

She simply stared at him—at the grime worked into his face, at the dark stubble shading his jaw. A smudge of soot ran upward from one brow and disappeared beneath his hair, now hanging lank and listless under that cap—a
worn tartan monstrosity that looked even worse at close range.

Her gaze drifted down to take in his coat, tattered and none too clean, to his breeches and knitted stockings, and the rough work boots he had on his feet. Reaching them, she paused, then ran her gaze all the way back up to his eyes. Met his irritated gaze.

“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours—what in all Hades are you supposed to be?”

His lips thinned. “What do I look like?”

“Like a navvy from the most dangerous slum in town.” A definite aroma reached her; she sniffed. “Perhaps down by the docks.”

“Very perceptive,” Tristan growled. “Now what brought you here? Have you discovered something?”

She shook her head. “I wanted to see your conservatory. You said you’d show it to me.”

The tension—the apprehension—that had flashed through him on seeing her there leached away. He looked down at himself, and grimaced. “You’ve called at a bad time.”

She frowned, her gaze once more on his disreputable attire. “But what
have
you been doing? Where have you been, dressed like that?”

“As you so perceptively guessed, the docks.” Searching for any clue, any hint, any whisper of one Montgomery Mountford.

“You’re a trifle old to be indulging in larks.” She looked up and caught his gaze. “Do you frequently do such things?”

“No.” Not anymore. He had never expected to don these clothes again, but on doing so that morning, had felt peculiarly justified in his refusal to throw them out. “I’ve been visiting the sort of dens that would-be burglars haunt.”

“Oh. I see.” She looked up at him with now openly eager interest. “Did you learn anything?”

“Not directly, but I’ve passed the word—”

“Oh, is she in here, then, Havers?”

Ethelreda. Tristan swore beneath his breath.

“We’ll just keep her company until dear Tristan arrives.”

“No need for her to mope about all alone.”

“Miss Carling? Are you there?”

He swore again. They were all there—coming this way. “For God’s sake!” he muttered. He went to grab Leonora, then remembered his hands were filthy. He kept his palms away from her. “You’ll have to distract them.”

It was an outright plea; he met her eyes, infused every ounce of beseeching candor of which he was capable into his expression.

She looked at him. “They don’t know you go out masquerading as a lout, do they?”

“No. And they’ll have fits if they see me like this.”

Fits would be the least of it; Ethelreda had a horrible tendency to swoon.

They were casting about along the paths, drawing inexorably nearer.

He held out his hands, begging.
“Please.”

She smiled. Slowly. “All right. I’ll save you.” She turned and started toward the source of feminine twittering, then glanced back over her shoulder. Caught his eye. “But you owe me a favor.”

“Anything.” He sighed with relief. “Just get them out of here. Take them to the drawing room.”

Her smile deepening, Leonora turned and went on. Anything, he’d said. An excellent outcome from an otherwise useless exercise.

Arranging to be seduced, Leonora was perfectly sure, wasn’t supposed to be this difficult. The next day, while sitting in the parlor copying her letter, copy after copy, doggedly working through Cedric’s correspondents, she reevaluated her position and considered all avenues for advance.

The previous afternoon she’d dutifully deflected Trentham’s cousins to the drawing room; he’d joined them fifteen minutes later, clean, spotless, his usual debonair self. Having used her interest in conservatories to explain her visit to the ladies, she’d duly asked him various questions to which he’d denied all knowledge, instead suggesting he have his gardener call on her.

Asking him to conduct her on a tour would have been fruitless; his cousins would have accompanied them.

Regretfully, she’d crossed his conservatory off her mental list of suitable venues for seduction; an appropriate time could be managed, and the window seat provided an excellent location, but their privacy could never be assured.

Trentham had summoned his carriage, helped her into
it, and sent her home. Unfulfilled. Even hungrier than when she’d left.

Even more determined.

Still, the excursion had not been without gain; she now had one trump card in hand. She intended to use it wisely. That meant clearing the time, location, and privacy hurdles simultaneously. She had no idea how rakes managed it. Perhaps they simply waited for opportunity to arise, then pounced.

After waiting patiently all these years, and having finally made up her mind, she wasn’t inclined to sit back and wait any longer. The right opportunity was what was required; if necessary, she’d have to create it.

All well and good, but she couldn’t think how.

She racked her brain throughout the day. And the next. She even considered taking up her Aunt Mildred’s permanent offer to take her about within the ton. Despite her disinterest in society’s balls and parties, she was aware such events provided venues in which gentlemen and ladies could meet privately. However, from snippets Trentham’s cousins had let fall, as well as his own caustic comments, she’d gathered he had little enthusiasm for the social round. No point making such an effort herself if he wasn’t likely to be present to be met, privately or otherwise.

When the clock struck four, she tossed down her pen and stretched her arms over her head. She was almost at the end of her letter-writing exercise, but when it came to venues in which to be seduced, her mind remained stubbornly blank.

“There has to be somewhere!” She pushed up from her chair, irritated and impatient. Frustrated. Her gaze went to the window. The day had been fine, but breezy. Now the wind had eased; evening was closing in, benign if cool.

She headed for the front hall, grabbed her cloak, didn’t
bother with her bonnet; she wouldn’t be out long. She glanced around, expecting Henrietta, then realized the hound was out for her constitutional in the nearby park, led on a lead by one of the footmen.

“Damn!” She wished she’d been in time to join them.

The gardens, both front and back, were protected; she wanted—
needed
—to walk in the open air. She needed to breathe, to let the coolness refresh her, to blow away her frustration and reinvigorate her brain.

She hadn’t walked outside alone for weeks, yet the burglar could hardly be watching all the time.

With a swish of her skirts, she turned, opened the front door, and walked outside.

She left the door on the latch and went down the steps, then followed the path to the gate. Reaching it, she peered out. The light was still good; in both directions the street, always a quiet one, lay empty. Safe enough. Pulling open the gate, she walked through, tugged it closed behind her, then set off walking briskly along the pavement.

Passing Number 12, she glanced in, but saw no sign of movement. She’d heard via Toby that Gasthorpe had now hired a full staff, but most were not yet in residence. Biggs, however, returned there every night, and Gasthorpe himself rarely left the house; there had been no further felonious activity there.

Indeed, since she’d last seen the man at the bottom of their garden, and he’d run off, there’d been no further incidents of any kind. The sense of being watched had receded; although occasionally she still felt under observation, the feeling was more distant, less threatening.

She walked on, pondering that, considering what it might mean in terms of Montgomery Mountford and whatever it was he was so intent on removing from her uncle’s house. While arranging to be seduced was certainly a distraction, she hadn’t forgotten Mr. Mountford.

Whoever he was.

The thought evoked others; she recalled Trentham’s recent searches. Direct and to the point, decisive, active, yet try as she might, she couldn’t imagine any other gentleman masquerading as he had done.

He’d appeared very comfortable in his disguise.

He’d looked even more dangerous than he usually did.

The image teased; she remembered hearing of ladies who indulged in passionate affairs with men of distinctly rougher background than their own. Could she—would she later—be susceptible to such longings?

She honestly had no idea, which only confirmed how much she’d yet to learn, not just of passion, but of herself, too.

With every day that passed, she became more aware of that last.

She reached the end of the street and stopped on the corner. The breeze was stronger there; her cloak billowed. Holding it down, she looked toward the park, but saw no gangling hound returning with footman in tow. She considered waiting, but the breeze was too chilly and strong enough to unravel her hair. Turning, she retraced her steps, feeling considerably restored.

Her gaze on the pavement, she determinedly turned her mind to passion, specifically how to sample it.

The shadows were lengthening; dusk was approaching.

She’d reached the boundary of Number 12 when she heard footsteps striding quickly up behind her.

Panic flared; she whirled, backing against the high stone wall even while her intellect calmly pointed out the unlikelihood of any attack.

One look at the face of the man rushing toward her, and she knew intellect lied.

She opened her mouth and screamed.

Mountford snarled and grabbed her. Hands locking
cruelly about both arms, he dragged her to the middle of the wide pavement and shook her.

“Hey!”

The shout came from the end of the street; Mountford paused. A heavyset man was running their way.

Mountford swore. His fingers bit viciously into her arms as he swung to look the other way.

He swore again, a vulgar expletive, a hint of fear showing. His lips curled in a snarl.

Leonora looked, and saw Trentham closing fast. Some way behind him came another man, but it was the look on Trentham’s face that shocked her—and momentarily transfixed Mountford.

He shook free of that killing look, glanced at her, then hauled her to him—and flung her forcefully back. Into the wall.

She screamed. The sound cut off when her head hit the stone. She was only vaguely aware of sliding slowly down, crumpling in a mass of skirts on the pavement.

Through a white fog, she saw Mountford racing across the street, avoiding the men running in from either end. Trentham didn’t give chase, but came straight for her.

She heard him swear, distantly noted he was swearing at her, not Mountford, then she was wrapped in his strength and hoisted to her feet. He held her against him, supporting her; she was standing, yet he was taking most of her weight.

She blinked; her vision cleared. Leaving her staring into a face in which some primitive emotion akin to fury warred with concern.

To her relief, concern won.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, swallowed. “Just a trifle dazed.” She put up a hand to the back of her head, gingerly felt, then
smiled, albeit tremulously. “Only a small bump. No serious damage.”

His lips thinned, his eyes narrowed on hers, then he glanced in the direction Mountford had fled.

She frowned and tried to ease from his hold. “You should have followed him.”

He didn’t let her go. “The others are after him.”

Others? Two and two…“Have you had people watching the street?”

He glanced at her briefly. “Of course.”

No wonder she hadn’t felt threatened by the continuing observation. “You might have told me.”

“Why? So you could stage some witless act like this?”

She ignored that and stared across the street. Mountford had raced into the garden of the house opposite; the two other men, both heavier and slower, had followed.

No one reappeared.

Trentham’s lips were a grim line. “Is there an alley behind those houses?”

“Yes.”

He bit back a sound; she suspected it was another curse. He looked at her assessingly, then consented to ease the arm he’d locked about her. “I’d credited you with more sense—”

She raised a hand, stopped his words. “I had absolutely no reason to think Mountford would be out here. Come to that, if you had men watching from both ends of the street, why did they let him past them?”

He glanced again in the direction his men had gone. “He must have spotted them. Presumably he reached you in the same way he left, via an alley and someone’s garden.”

His gaze returned to her face, searched it. “How are you feeling?”

“Reasonable.” Better than she’d expected; Mountford’s rough handling had shaken her more than the collision
with the wall. She drew breath, let it out. “Just a bit shaky.”

He nodded curtly. “Shock.”

She focused on him. “What are you doing here?”

Accepting that his men weren’t about to return, Mountford between them, Tristan released her and took her arm. “The furniture for the third floor was delivered yesterday. I’d promised Gasthorpe I’d check and approve it. Today is his day off—he’s gone to Surrey to visit his mother and won’t be back until tomorrow. I’d thought to kill two birds by checking the house as well as the furniture.”

He studied her face, still too pale, then turned her along the pavement. Pacing slowly, he led her along the wall of Number 12 toward Number 14 beyond. “I left it later than I’d intended. Biggs should be inside by now, so all will no doubt be well until Gasthorpe returns.”

She nodded, walking by his side, leaning on his arm. They drew level with the gate of Number 12, and she stopped.

She drew in a deep breath, then met his eyes. “If you don’t mind, perhaps I could come in and help you check the furniture.” She smiled, definitely tremulously, then looked away. Somewhat breathlessly added, “I’d prefer to stay with you for a little while longer, to catch my breath before going in to face the household.”

She ran her uncle’s household; there’d no doubt be people waiting to speak to her as soon as she went in.

He hesitated, but Gasthorpe wasn’t around to disapprove. And on the list of activities likely to lift a woman’s spirits, viewing new furniture probably ranked high. “If you wish.” He steered her through the gate and up the path to the door. While she was viewing, he’d use the time to think of how better to protect her. He couldn’t, unfortunately, expect her to remain a prisoner within doors.

Taking the key from his pocket, he unlocked the front
door. Frowned as he handed her over the threshold. “Where’s your hound?”

“She’s being taken for a walk in the park.” She glanced back at him as he closed the door. “The footmen take her—she’s too strong for me.”

He nodded, noting that once again she’d followed his thought—that if she walked at all, then she should walk with Henrietta. But if the dog was too strong, then beyond the garden that wasn’t a viable option.

She led the way to the stairs; he followed. They’d reached the first steps when a cough drew their attention to the door to the kitchens.

Biggs stood in the opening. He saluted. “On watch here, m’lud.”

Tristan smiled his charming smile. “Thank you, Biggs. Miss Carling and I are just taking stock of the new furniture. We’ll let ourselves out later. Carry on.”

Biggs bobbed to Leonora, snapped off another salute, then turned and descended into the kitchens. The faint aroma of a pie drifted to their nostrils.

Leonora met his gaze, a smile in her eyes, then she turned, grasped the banister, and went on.

He watched, but she didn’t falter. However, when they reached the second-floor landing, she glanced at him and drew in a tight breath.

Frowning anew, he took her arm. “Here.” He urged her into the largest bedroom, the one over the library. “Sit down.” A large armchair sat angled to the window; he led her to it.

She subsided into the chair with a little sigh. Smiled weakly up at him. “I don’t faint.”

He narrowed his eyes at her; she was no longer pale, but there was an odd tenseness about her. “Just sit there and study the furniture you can see. I’ll check the other rooms, then you can give me your verdict.”

Leonora nodded, closed her eyes, and let her head rest against the chair’s back. “I’ll wait here.”

He hesitated, looking down at her, then he turned and left her.

When he was gone, she opened her eyes and studied the room. The large bow window looked over the back garden; during the day it would let in ample light, but now, with night encroaching, the room was gathering shadows. A fireplace stood in the center of the wall opposite her chair; a fire was set but not lit.

A chaise was positioned at an angle to the fireplace; beyond it, in the far corner of the room, stood a massive armoire in dark polished wood.

The same polished wood adorned the even more massive four-poster bed. Staring at the expanse of ruby silk coverlet, she thought of Trentham; presumably his friends were similarly large. Dark red brocade curtains were looped back about the carved posts at the head of the bed. The last light lingered on the curves and twists in the ornately carved headboard, repeated on the turned posts at the bed’s foot. With its thick mattress, the bed was a substantial piece, solid, stable.

The central feature of the room; the focus of her senses.

It was, she decided, the perfect venue for her seduction.