The Lady Chosen (39 page)

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.

“It’s all still a mystery to me. I can’t make head or tail of it—if you can shed any light on the affair I’d be grateful.” Jonathon settled his head against the back of the chaise.

“Start at the beginning,” Tristan advised. They were all gathered around—in chairs, propped against the mantelpiece—all keenly focused. “When did you first hear of anything to do with Cedric Carling?”

Jonathon’s gaze fixed, grew distant. “From A. J.—on her deathbed.”

Tristan, and everyone else, blinked. “
Her
deathbed?”

Jonathon looked around at them. “I thought you knew. A. J. Carruthers was my aunt.”

“
She
was the herbalist? A. J. Carruthers?” Humphrey’s disbelief rang in his tone.

Jonathon, somewhat grim-faced, nodded. “Yes, she was. And that was why she liked living hidden away in north Yorkshire. She had her cottage, grew her herbs and conducted her experiments and no one bothered her. She collaborated and corresponded with a large number of other well-respected herbalists, but they all knew her only as A. J. Carruthers.”

Humphrey frowned. “I see.”

“One thing,” Leonora put in. “Did Cedric Carling, our cousin, know she was a woman?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Jonathon replied. “But knowing A. J., I doubt it.”

“So when did you first hear of Carling or anything to do with this business?”

“I’d heard Carling’s name from A. J. over the years, but only as another herbalist. The first I knew of this business was just a few days before she died. She’d been failing for months—her death was no surprise. But the story she told me then—well, she was starting to drift away, and I wasn’t sure how much to credit.”

Jonathon drew breath. “She told me she and Cedric Carling had gone into partnership over a particular ointment they’d both been convinced would be eminently useful—she was a great one for working on
useful
things. They’d been working on this ointment for over two years, quite doggedly, and from the first they’d made a solemn and binding agreement to share in any profits from the discovery. They’d enacted a legal document—she told me I’d find it in her papers, and I did, later. However, the thing she was most urgent to tell me then was that they’d succeeded in their quest. Their ointment, whatever it was, was effective. They’d reached that point some two months or so before, and then she’d heard no more from Carling. She’d waited, then written to other herbalists she knew in the capital, asking after Carling, and she’d only just heard back that he’d died.”

Jonathon paused to look at their faces, then continued, “She was too old and frail to do anything about it then, and she assumed that with Cedric’s death, it would take his heirs some time to work through his effects and contact her, or her heirs, about the matter. She told me so I’d be prepared, and know what it was about when the time came.”

He dragged in a breath. “She died shortly after, and left me all her journals and papers. I kept them, of course. But what with one thing and another, my work for my articles, and not hearing anything from anyone about the discovery, I more or less forgot about it, until last October.”

“What happened then?” Tristan asked.

“I had all her journals in my rooms, and one day I picked one up, and started to read. And that’s when I realized she might have been right—that what she and Cedric Carling had discovered might, indeed, be very useful.” Jonathon shifted awkwardly. “I’m no herbalist, but it seemed like the ointment they’d created would help to clot blood, especially in wounds.” He glanced at Tristan. “I could imagine that that might have quite definite uses.”

Tristan stared at him, knew Charles and Deverell were doing the same, and they were all reliving the same day, reliving the carnage on the battlefield at Waterloo. “An ointment to clot blood.” Tristan felt his face set. “Very useful indeed.”

“We should have kept Pringle,” Charles said.

“We can ask his advice fast enough,” Tristan answered. “But first let’s hear the rest. There’s a lot we don’t yet know—like who Mountford is.”

“Mountford?” Jonathon looked blank.

Tristan waved. “We’ll get to him—whoever he is—in time. What happened next?”

“Well, I wanted to come down to London and follow things up, but I was right in the middle of my final examinations—I couldn’t leave York. The discovery had sat around doing nothing for two years—I reasoned it could wait until I was finished with my articles and could devote proper time to it. So that’s what I did. I discussed it with my employer, Mr. Mountgate, and also with A. J.’s old solicitor, Mr. Aldford.”

“Mountford,” Deverell put in.

They all looked at him.

He grimaced. “Mountgate plus Aldford equals Mountford.”

“Good heavens!” Leonora looked at Jonathon. “Who else did you tell?”

“No one.” He blinked, then amended, “Well, not initially.”

“What does that mean?” Tristan asked.

“The only other person who was told was Duke—Marmaduke Martinbury. He’s my cousin and A. J.’s other heir—her other nephew. She left me all her journals and papers and herbalist things—Duke never had a moment for her interest in herbs—but her estate was otherwise divided between the two of us. And, of course, the discovery as such was part of her estate. Aldford felt duty-bound to tell Duke, so he wrote to him.”

“Did Duke reply?”

“Not by letter.” Jonathon’s lips thinned. “He came to visit me to ask about the matter.” After a moment, he went on, “Duke is the black sheep of the family, always has been. As far as I know, he has no real fixed abode, but is usually to be found at whatever racecourse is holding a carnival.

“Somehow—probably because he was strapped for cash and so at home at his other aunt’s house in Derby—Aldford’s letter found him. Duke came around wanting to know when he could expect his share of the cash. I felt honor-bound to explain the whole to him—after all, A. J’s share of the discovery was half his.” Jonathon paused, then went on, “Although he was his usual obnoxious self, he didn’t, once he understood what the legacy was, seem all that interested.”

“Describe Duke.”

Jonathon glanced at Tristan, noting his tone. “Leaner than me, a few inches taller. Dark hair—black, actually. Dark eyes, pale skin.”

Leonora stared at Jonathon’s face, did a little mental rearranging, then nodded decisively. “That’s him.”

Tristan glanced at her. “You’re sure?”

She looked at him. “How many lean, tallish, black-haired young men with”—she pointed at Jonathon—“a nose like that do you expect to stumble over in this affair?”

His lips twitched, but thinned immediately. He inclined his head. “So Duke is Mountford. Which explains a few things.”

“Not to me,” Jonathon said.

“All will be made clear in time,” Tristan promised. “But carry on with your tale. What happened next?”

“Nothing immediately. I finished my exams and arranged to come down to London, then I received that letter from Miss Carling, via Mr. Aldford. It seemed clear that Mr. Carling’s heirs knew less than I did, so I brought forward my visit…” Jonathon stopped, puzzled, looked at Tristan. “The sisters said you’d sent people asking after me. How did you know I was in London, let alone hurt?”

Tristan explained, succinctly, from the beginning of the odd happenings in Montrose Place to their realization that A. J. Carruthers’s work with Cedric held the key to the mysterious Mountford’s desperate interest, to how they had tracked and finally found Jonathon himself.

He stared at Tristan, dazed. “Duke?” He frowned. “He is the black sheep, but although he’s nasty, mean-tempered, even something of a brute, it’s a bully’s facade—I’d have said he was something of a coward beneath his bluster. I can imagine he might have done
most
of what you say, but I honestly can’t see him arranging to have me beaten to death.”

Charles smiled that deadly smile he, Tristan, and Deverell all seemed to have in their repertoires. “Duke might not have—but the people he’s very likely now dealing
with would have no scruples in disposing of you if you threatened to butt in.”

“If what you say is true,” Deverell put in, “they’re probably having trouble keeping Duke up to scratch. That would certainly fit.”

“The weasel,” Jonathon said. “Duke has a…well, a valet I suppose. A manservant. Cummings.”

“That’s the name he gave me.” Deverell raised his brows. “About as clever as his master.”

“So,” Charles said, straightening away from the mantelpiece, “what now?”

He looked at Tristan; they all looked at Tristan. Who smiled, not nicely, and rose. “We’ve learned all we need to this point.” Settling his sleeves, he glanced at Charles and Deverell. “I rather think it’s time we invited Duke to join us. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

Charles’s grin was diabolical. “Lead the way.”

“Indeed.” Deverell was already at Tristan’s heels as he turned for the door.

“Wait!” Leonora looked at the black bag, sitting beside the chaise, then raised her gaze to Jonathon’s face. “Please tell me you have all of A. J.’s journals and her letters from Cedric in there.”

Jonathon grinned, a trifle lopsidedly. He nodded. “The purest luck, but yes, I have them.”

Tristan turned back. “That’s one point we haven’t covered. How did they catch you, and why didn’t they take the letters and journals?”

Jonathon looked up at him. “Because it was so cold, there were hardly any passengers on the mail coach—it got in early.” He glanced at Leonora. “I don’t know how they knew I was on it—”

“They’d have had someone watching you in York,” Deverell said. “I take it you didn’t change your schedule immediately after you got Leonora’s letter and rush off?”

“No. It took two days to organize bringing my time
away forward.” Jonathon sank back on the chaise. “When I got off the coach, there was a message waiting for me, telling me to meet a Mr. Simmons at the corner of Green Dragon Yard and Old Montague Street at six o’clock to discuss a matter of mutual interest. It was a nicely worded letter, well written, good quality paper—I thought it was from you, the Carlings, about the discovery. I didn’t really think—you couldn’t have known I was on the mail coach, but at the time it all seemed to fit.

“That corner is a few minutes from the coaching inn. If the mail had got in on schedule, I wouldn’t have had time to organize a room before going to the meeting. Instead, I had an hour to look about, to find a clean room, and leave my bag there, before going to the rendezvous.”

Tristan’s unnerving smile remained. “They assumed you hadn’t brought any papers with you. They would have searched.”

Jonathon nodded. “My coat was ripped apart.”

“So, finding nothing, they put you out of the picture and left you for dead. But they didn’t check what time the coach pulled in—tsk, tsk. Very slapdash.” Charles strolled toward the door. “Are we going?”

“Indeed.” Tristan swung on his heel and headed for the door. “Let’s fetch Mountford.”

Leonora watched the door close behind them.

Humphrey cleared his throat, caught Jonathon’s eye, then pointed to the black bag. “May we?”

Jonathon waved. “By all means.”

Leonora was torn.

Jonathon was obviously drooping, exhaustion and his injuries catching up with him; she urged him to lie back and recoup. At her suggestion, Humphrey and Jeremy took themselves and the black bag off to the library.

Closing the parlor door behind her, she hesitated. Part of her wanted to hurry after her brother and uncle, to help
with and share in the academic excitement of making sense of Cedric and A. J.’s discovery.

More of her was drawn to the real, more physical excitement of the hunt.

She debated for all of ten seconds, then headed for the front door. Opening it, she left it on the latch. Night had fallen, the darkness of evening closing in. On the porch, she hesitated. Wondered if she should take Henrietta. But the hound was still in the kitchens of the Club; she didn’t have time to fetch her. She peered across at Number 16, but its front door was closer to the street; she couldn’t see anything.

Don’t. Go. Into. Danger.

There were three of them ahead of her; what danger could there be?

She hurried down the front steps and ran quickly down the front path.

They were, she assumed, going to pluck Mountford from his hole—she was curious, after all this time, to see what he was really like, what sort of man he was. Jonathon’s description was ambivalent; yes, Mountford—Duke—was a violent bully, but not a murderous one.

He’d been violent enough where she was concerned….

She approached the front door of Number 16 with appropriate caution.

It stood half-open. She strained her ears but heard nothing.

She peered past the door.

Faint moonlight threw her shadow deep into the hall. Caused the man framed in the doorway to the kitchen stairs to pause and turn around.

It was Deverell. He motioned her to silence, and to stay back, then he turned and melted into the shadows.

Leonora hesitated for a second; she’d stay back, just not this far back.

Her slippers silent on the tiles, she glided into the hall and followed in Deverell’s wake.

The stairs leading down to the kitchens and the basement level were just beyond the hall door. From her earlier visit following Tristan around, Leonora knew that the double flight of stairs ended in a long corridor. The doors to the kitchens and scullery gave off it to the left; on the right lay the butler’s pantry, followed by a long cellar.

Mountford was tunneling through from the cellar.

Pausing at the stairhead, she leaned over the banister and peered down; she could make out the three men moving below, large shadows in the gloom. Faint light shone from somewhere ahead of them. As they moved out of her sight, she crept down the stairs.

She paused on the landing. From there she could see the length of the corridor before and below her. There were two doors into the cellar. The nearer stood ajar; the faint light came from beyond it.

Even more faintly, like a
frisson
across her nerves, came a steady,
scritch-scratch.