The Lady Chosen

  She helped Gertie settle in an armchair, inwardly frowning at how accustomed to his attentions she’d grown. Straightening, she nodded to her aunts. “I’m going to mingle.”

  Mildred was already speaking with an acquaintance; Gertie nodded, then turned to join the circle.

  Leonora glided into the already considerable crowd. Attracting a gentleman, joining a group of acquaintances would be easy enough, yet she had no desire to do either. She was…not precisely concerned, but certainly wondering over Tristan’s nonappearance. Last night, after he’d so deliberately uttered the words “only you,” she’d sensed a change in him, a sudden wariness, a watchfulness she’d been unable to interpret.

  He hadn’t cut himself off from her, hadn’t precisely withdrawn, but she’d sensed a self-protective recoil on his part, as if he’d gone too far, said more than was safe…or, perhaps, true.

  The possibility nagged; she was already having trouble enough trying to fathom his motives—coping with the fact that his motives had, entirely beyond her wishes or her will, become important to her—that the idea he might not be open with her, honest with her…that way lay a morass of uncertainty in which she had no intention of becoming mired.

  It was precisely the sort of situation that most strongly supported her inflexible stance against marriage.

  She continued drifting aimlessly, stopping here and there to exchange greetings, then, entirely unexpectedly, directly ahead of her in the crowd, she saw a pair of shoulders she recognized instantly.

  They were clad in scarlet, as they had been years ago. As if sensing her regard, the gentleman glanced around and saw her. And smiled.

  Delighted, he turned and held out his hands. “Leonora! How lovely to see you.”

  She returned his smile and gave him her hands. “Mark. I see you haven’t sold out.”

  “No, no. A career soldier, that’s me.” Brown-haired, fair-skinned, he turned to include the lady standing by his side. “Allow me to present my wife, Heather.”

  Leonora’s smile slipped a fraction, but Heather Whorton smiled sweetly and shook hands. If she recalled that Leonora was the lady her husband had been engaged to before he’d offered for her hand, she gave no sign. Relaxing, somewhat to her surprise Leonora found herself regaled with an account of the Whortons’ life over the past seven or so years, from the birth of their first child to the arrival of their fourth, to the rigors of following the drum or alternatively the long separations imposed on military families.

  Both Mark and Heather contributed; it was impossible to miss how dependent on Mark his wife was. She hung on his arm, but even more, seemed totally immersed in him and their children—indeed, she seemed to have no identity beyond that.

  That was not the norm in Leonora’s circle.

  As she listened and smiled politely, commenting as appropriate, the truth of how badly she and Mark would have suited sank in. From his responses to Heather, it was patently clear that he rejoiced in her need of him—a need Leonora would never have had, would never have allowed herself to develop.

  She’d long ago realized she hadn’t loved Mark; at the time of their engagement she’d been a young and distinctly naive seventeen—she’d thought she wanted what all other young ladies wanted—lusted after—a handsome husband. Listening to him now, and remembering, she could admit that she hadn’t been in love with him but with the idea of being in love, of getting married and having her own household. Of gaining what for girls of that age had been the Holy Grail.

  She listened, observed, and sent up a heartfelt prayer; she truly had had a lucky escape.

  Tristan strolled nonchalantly down the stairs of Lady Catterthwaite’s ballroom. He was later than usual; a message received earlier in the day from one of his contacts had necessitated another visit to the docks—night had fallen before he’d returned to Trentham House.

  Pausing two steps from the bottom, he scanned the room, but failed to find Leonora. He did, however, locate her aunts. A niggle of concern pricking his nape, he stepped down to the floor and headed their way.

  Impelled by a need to find Leonora, an impulse whose strength unnerved him.

  Their interlude the previous evening, the explanation he’d given her, that she and she alone could fulfill his need, had only served to underscore, to exacerbate, his growing sense of vulnerability. He felt as if he were going into battle missing part of his armor, that he was exposing himself, his emotions, in a reckless, foolish, wantonly idiotic fashion.

  His intincts were to immediately and comprehensively guard against any such weakness, to cover it up, shore it up with all speed.

  He couldn’t help being the type of man he was, had long ago accepted his nature. Knew there was no sense fighting his escalating need to secure Leonora, to make her unequivocally his.

  To have her agree to marry him with all speed.

  Reaching the gaggle of older ladies, he bowed before Mildred and shook hands with both her and Gertie. He then had to endure a round of introductions to the circle of eager, interested, matronly faces.

  Mildred saved him by waving toward the crowd. “Leonora is here, somewhere in the melee.”

  “About time you got here!” Grumbling under her breath, Gertie, sitting to one side of the group, drew his attention. “She’s over there.” She pointed with her cane; Tristan turned, looked, and saw Leonora chatting with an officer from some infantry regiment.

  Gertie snorted. “That blackguard Whorton’s toadying up to her—can’t imagine she’s enjoying it. You’d best go and rescue her.”

  He’d never been one to rush in without understanding the game. Although the trio of which Leonora was one was at some distance, they were, from this angle, clearly visible. Although he could see only Leonora’s profile, her stance and her occasional gesture assured him she was neither upset nor worried. She also showed no sign of wanting to slip away.

  He looked back at Gertie. “Whorton—I assume he’s the captain she’s talking with?” Gertie nodded. “Why do you call him a blackguard?”

  Gertie narrowed her old eyes at him. Her lips compressed in a tight line, she considered him closely; from the first, she’d been the less encouraging of Leonora’s aunts, yet she hadn’t attempted to thrust a spoke in his wheel. Indeed, as the days had passed, he thought she’d come to look on him more favorably.

  He apparently passed muster, for she suddenly nodded and looked again at Whorton. Her dislike was evident in her face.

  “He jilted her, that’s why. They were engaged when she was seventeen, before he went away to Spain. He came back the next year, and came straightaway to see her—we were all expecting to learn when the wedding bells would ring. But then Leonora showed him out, and returned to tell us he’d asked her to release him. Seemed he’d found his colonel’s daughter more to his liking.”

  Gertie’s snort was eloquent. “That’s why I call him a blackguard. Broke her heart, he did.”

  A complex swirl of emotions swept through Tristan. He heard himself ask, “She released him?”

  “Of course she did! What lady wouldn’t, in such circumstances? The bounder didn’t want to marry her—he’d found a better billet.”

  Gertie’s fondness for Leonora rang in her voice, colored her distress. Impulsively, he patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry—I’ll go and rescue her.”

  But he wasn’t going to make Whorton into a martyr in the process. Aside from all else, he was damned glad the bounder hadn’t married Leonora.

  Eyes on the trio, he tacked through the crowd. He’d just been handed a vital piece of the jigsaw of Leonora and her attitude to marriage, but he couldn’t yet spare the time to stop, consider, jiggle, and see exactly how it fitted, nor what it would tell him.

  He came up beside Leonora; she glanced up at him, smiled.

  “Ah—there you are.”

  Taking her hand, he raised it briefly to his lips, then placed it on his sleeve as was his habit. Her brows lifted faintly, in resignation, then she turned to the others
. “Allow me to introduce you.”

  She did; he heard with a jolt that the other lady was Whorton’s wife. His polite mask in place, he returned the greetings.

  Mrs. Whorton smiled sweetly at him. “As I was saying, it’s proved quite an effort to organize our sons’ schooling…”

  To his definite surprise, he found himself listening to a discussion of where to send the Whorton brats for their education. Leonora gave her opinion from her experience with Jeremy; Whorton quite clearly intended giving her advice due consideration.

  Contrary to Gertie’s supposition, Whorton made no attempt to attach Leonora, nor to evoke any long-ago sympathies.

  Tristan watched Leonora closely, but could detect nothing beyond her customary serene confidence, her usual effortless social grace.

  She wasn’t a particularly good actress; her temper was too definite. Whatever her feelings over Whorton had been, they were no longer strong enough to raise her pulse. It beat steadily beneath his fingers; she was truly unperturbed.

  Even discussing children who, had things been different, might have been hers.

  He suddenly wondered how she felt about children, realized he’d been taking her views vis à vis his heir for granted.

  Wondered if she was already carrying his child.

  His gut clenched; a wave of possessiveness flowed over him. He didn’t so much as flutter an eyelash, yet Leonora glanced at him, a faint frown—one of questioning concern—in her eyes.

  The sight saved him. He smiled easily; she blinked, searched his eyes, then turned back to Mrs. Whorton’s chatter.

  Finally, the musicians tuned up. He seized the moment to part from the Whortons; he led Leonora directly to the floor.

  Drew her into his arms, whirled her into the waltz.

  Only then focused on her face, on the long-suffering look in her eyes.

  He blinked, raised a brow.

  “I realize you military men are accustomed to acting with dispatch, but within the ton’s ballrooms, it’s customary to ask a lady if she wishes to dance.”

  He met her gaze. After a moment, said, “My apologies.”

  She waited, then raised her brows high. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

  “No. We’re already waltzing—asking you is redundant. And you might refuse.”

  She blinked at him, then smiled, clearly amused. “I must try that sometime.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you won’t like what happens.”

  She held his gaze, then sighed exaggeratedly. “You’re going to have to work on your social skills. This dog-in-the-manger attitude won’t do.”

  “I know. Believe me, I’m working on a solution. Your help would be appreciated.”

  She narrowed her eyes, then tipped up her nose and looked away. Feigning temper because he’d had the last word.

  He swung her into a sweeping turn, and thought of the other little matter, a pertinent and possibly urgent matter, he now had to address.

  Military men. Her memories of Whorton, no matter how ancient and buried, could not have been happy ones—and she almost certainly classed him and the captain as men of the same stamp.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  “Excellent!” Leonora looked up as Tristan walked in. Quickly tidying her escritoire, she shut it and rose. “We can walk in the park with Henrietta, and I can tell you my news.”

  Tristan raised a brow at her, but obediently held the door and followed her back out into the hall. She’d told him last night that she’d received quite a few replies from Cedric’s acquaintances; she’d asked him to call to discuss them—she’d made no mention of walking her hound.

  He helped her into her pelisse, then shrugged on his greatcoat; the wind was chilly, whipping through the streets. Clouds hid the sun, but the day was dry enough. A footman arrived with Henrietta straining on a leash. Tristan fixed the hound with a warning glance, then took the leash.

  Leonora led the way out. “The park is only a few streets away.”

  “I trust,” Tristan said, following her down the garden path, “that you’ve been exercising with your dog?”

  She shot him a glance. “If by that you mean to ask have I been strolling the streets without her, no. But it’s definitely restricting. The sooner we lay Mountford by the heels, the better.”

  Bustling forward, she swung open the gate, held it while he and Henrietta passed through, then swung it shut.

  He caught her hand, trapped her gaze as he wound her arm in his. “So cut line.” Holding her beside him, he let Henrietta tow them in the direction of the park. “What have you learned?”

  She drew breath, settled her arm in his, looked ahead. “I’d had great hopes of A. J. Carruthers—Cedric had communicated most frequently with Carruthers in the last few years. However, I didn’t receive any reply from Yorkshire, where Carruthers lived, until yesterday. Before that, however, over the previous days, I received three replies from other herbalists, all scattered about the country. All three wrote that they believed Cedric had been working on some special formula, but none of them knew any details. Each of them, however, suggested I contact A. J. Carruthers, as they understood Cedric had been working most closely with Carruthers.”

  “Three independent replies, all believing Carruthers would know more?”

  Leonora nodded. “Precisely. Unfortunately, however, A. J. Carruthers is dead.”

  “Dead?” Tristan halted on the pavement and met her gaze. The green expanse of the park lay across the street. “Dead how?”

  She didn’t misunderstand, but grimaced. “I don’t know—all I do know is that he’s dead.”

  Henrietta tugged; Tristan checked, then led both females across the street. Henrietta’s huge and shaggy form, her gaping jaws filled with sharp teeth, gave him a perfect excuse to avoid the fashionable area thronging with matrons and their daughters; he turned the questing hound toward the more leafy and overgrown region beyond the western end of Rotten Row.

  That area was all but deserted.

  Leonora didn’t wait for his next question. “The letter I received yesterday was from the solicitor in Harrogate who acted for Carruthers and oversaw his estate. He informed me of Carruthers’s demise, but said he couldn’t otherwise help with my query. He suggested that Carruthers’s nephew, who inherited all Carruthers’s journals and so on, might be able to shed some light on the matter—the solicitor was aware that Carruthers and Cedric had corresponded a great deal in the months prior to Cedric’s death.”

  “Did this solicitor mention exactly when Carruthers died?”

  “Not exactly. All he said was that Carruthers died some months after Cedric, but that he’d been ill for some time before.” Leonora paused, then added, “There’s no mention in the letters Carruthers sent to Cedric of any illness, but they might not have been that close.”

  “Indeed. This nephew—do we have his name and direction?”

  “No.” Her grimace was frustration incarnate. “The solicitor advised that he’d forwarded my letter to the nephew in York, but that was all he said.”

  “Hmm.” Looking down, Tristan walked on, assessing, extrapolating.

  Leonora glanced at him. “It’s the most interesting piece of information we’ve found yet—the most likely, indeed, the only possible link to something that might be what Mountford seeks. There’s nothing specific in Carruthers’s letters to Cedric, other than oblique references to something they were working on—no details at all. But we need to pursue it, don’t you think?”

  He looked up, met her eyes, nodded. “I’ll get someone on it tomorrow.”

  She frowned. “Where? In Harrogate?”

  “And York. Once we have the name and direction, there’s no reason to wait to pay this nephew a visit.”

  His only regret was that he couldn’t do so personally. Traveling to Yorkshire would mean leaving Leonora beyond his reach; he could surround her with guards, yet no amount of organized protection
would be sufficient to reassure him of her safety, not until Mountford, whoever he was, was caught.

  They’d been strolling, neither slowly nor briskly, towed along in Henrietta’s wake. He realized Leonora was studying him, a rather odd look on her face.

  “What?”

  She pressed her lips together, her eyes on his, then she shook her head, looked away. “You.”

  He waited, then prompted, “What about me?”

  “You knew enough to realize someone had taken an impression of a key. You waited for a burglar and closed with him without turning a hair. You can pick locks. Assessing premises for their ability to withstand intruders is something you’ve done before. You got access to special records from the Registry, records others wouldn’t even know existed. With a wave of your hand”—she demonstrated—“you can have men watching my street. You dress like a navvy and frequent the docks, then change into an earl—one who somehow always knows where I’ll be, one with exemplary knowledge of our hostesses’ houses.

  “And now, just like that, you’ll arrange for people to go hunting for information in Harrogate and York.” She pinned him with an intent but intrigued look. “You’re the oddest ex-soldier-cum-earl I’ve ever met.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment, then murmured, “I wasn’t your average soldier.”

  She nodded, looking ahead once more. “So I gathered. You were a major in the Guards—a soldier of Devil Cynster’s type—”

  “No.” He waited until she met his gaze. “I—”

  He broke off. The moment had come sooner than he’d anticipated. A rush of thoughts jostled through his mind, the most prominent being how a woman who’d been jilted by one soldier would feel about being lied to by another. Perhaps not quite lied to, but would she see the difference? His instincts were all for keeping her in the dark, for keeping his dangerous past and his equally dangerous propensities from her. For keeping her in sublime ignorance of that side of his life, and all it said of his character.