The door opened.

Leonora swept in. Her eyes found him; she beamed. “My lord! How delightful to see you again.”

Rising, Tristan met her eyes. She wasn’t delighted—she was in a flat panic. She glided up; inwardly disgusted with how poorly things had gone, he seized the inherent advantage and held out his hand.

She blinked at it, but after only the slightest hesitation surrendered her fingers. He bowed; she curtsied. Her fingers quivered in his.

The courtesies satisfied, he drew her to sit beside him on the chaise. She had no option but to do so. As, tense and on edge, she sank onto the damask, Humphrey said, “Trentham’s just told us there was a burglary next door—just last night. Blackguard escaped, unfortunately.”

“Indeed?” Eyes wide, she turned to Tristan as he sat again, angling herself so she could watch his face.

He caught her eye. “Just so.” His dry tone wasn’t wasted on her. “I was just suggesting that the attempt to gain access to Number 12 might be connected to the previous attempts to gain entry here.”

She, he knew, had arrived at the same conclusion, and that sometime ago.

“I still don’t see any real link.” Jeremy leaned on his book and fixed Tristan with a steady but still dismissive gaze. “I mean, burglars try their hand wherever they might, don’t they?”

Tristan nodded. “Which is why it seems odd that this ‘burglar’—and I think we can safely assume all the attempts have been by the same party—continues to push his luck in Montrose Place despite his failures to date.”

“Hmm, yes, well, perhaps he’ll take the hint and go away, given he couldn’t get into either of our houses?” Humphrey raised his brows hopefully.

Tristan hung on to his temper. “The very fact he’s tried three times suggests he won’t go away—that whatever he’s after he’s driven to get.”

“Yes, but that’s just it, don’t you see.” Sitting back, Jeremy spread his hands wide. “What on earth could he want here?”

“That,” Tristan retorted, “is the question.”

Yet every suggestion that the “burglar” might be after something contained in their researches, some information, concealed or otherwise, or some unexpectedly valuable tome, met with denials and incomprehension. Other than speculating that the villain might be after Leonora’s pearls, something Tristan found difficult to believe—and from the look on her face, so did Leonora—neither Humphrey nor Jeremy had any ideas to advance.

It was patently clear they had no interest in solving the mystery of the burglar, and were both of the opinion that ignoring the matter entirely was the surest route to getting it to disappear.

At least for them.

Tristan didn’t approve, but he recognized their type. They were selfish, absorbed in their own interests to the exclusion of all else. Over the years, they’d learned to leave anything and everything to Leonora to deal with; because she always had, they now viewed her efforts as their right. She haggled with the real world while they remained engrossed in their academic one.

Admiration for Leonora—exceedingly reluctant for it was definitely something he didn’t want to feel—along with a deeper understanding and a niggling sense that she deserved better bloomed and slid through him.

He could make no headway with Humphrey or Jeremy; eventually he had to concede defeat. He did, however, exact a promise that they would bend their minds to the question and inform him immediately if they thought of any item that could be the burglar’s goal.

Catching Leonora’s eye, he rose. Throughout, he’d been conscious of her tension, of her watching him like a hawk ready to jump in and deflect or confuse any comment that might reveal her part in the previous night’s activities.

He held her gaze; she read his message and rose, too.

“I’ll see Lord Trentham out.”

With easy smiles, Humphrey and Jeremy bade him farewell. Following Leonora to the door, he paused on the threshold and looked back.

Both men were already head down, back in the past.

He looked at Leonora. Her expression stated she knew what he’d seen. One brow rose quizzically, as if she was wryly amused that he’d thought he could change things.

He felt his face harden. Waving her on, he followed, closing the door behind them.

She led him to the front hall. Drawing level with the door to the parlor, he touched her arm.

Met her gaze when she looked at him. “Let’s walk in the back garden.” When she didn’t immediately acquiesce, he added, “I want to talk to you.”

She hesitated, then inclined her head. She led him through the parlor—he noticed the piece of embroidery still precisely as it had been previously—out through the French doors and down onto the lawn.

Head high, she walked on; he fell in beside her. And said nothing. Waited for her to ask what he wished to talk about, grasping the moment to work on a strategy for convincing her to leave the matter of the mysterious burglar to him.

The lawn was lush and well tended, the beds circling it thick with odd plants he’d never seen before. The late Cedric Carling must have been a collector as well as an authority on herbal horticulture…“How long ago did your cousin Cedric die?”

She glanced at him. “Over two years ago.” She paused, then continued, “I can’t see that there’d be anything valuable in his papers, or we would have heard long ago.”

“Most likely.” After Humphrey and Jeremy, her open acuity was refreshing.

They’d walked across the width of the lawn; she halted where a sundial was set on a pedestal standing just within the boundary of a deep bed. He stopped beside and a little behind her. Watched as she put out a hand, with her fingertips traced the engraving in the bronze face.

“Thank you for not mentioning my presence in Number 12 last night.” Her voice was low but clear; she kept her gaze on the sundial. “Or what happened on the path.”

She drew breath, lifted her head.

Before she could say more—tell him the kiss hadn’t meant anything, had been a silly mistake, or some similar nonsense he’d feel forced to prove wrong—he raised his hand, set one fingertip to her nape, and traced slowly, deliberately, down her spine, all the way down to below her waist.

Her breath caught, then she swung to face him, periwinkle blue eyes wide.

He trapped her gaze. “What happened last night, especially those moments on the path, is between you and me.”

When she continued to stare at him, searching his eyes, he elaborated, “Kissing you and telling anyone is not within my code, and definitely not my style.”

He saw the flash of reaction in her eyes, saw her consider asking, waspishly, just what his style was, but caution caught her tongue; she raised her head, haughtily inclined it as she looked away.

The moment was going to turn awkward, and he still hadn’t thought of any approach likely to deflect her from the burglaries. Casting about in his mind, he looked past her. And saw the house beyond the garden wall, the house next door, which also, like Number 12, shared a wall with Number 14.

“Who lives there?”

She glanced up, followed his gaze. “Old Miss Timmins.”

“She lives alone?”

“With a maid.”

He looked down into Leonora’s eyes; they were already filled with speculation. “I’d like to call on Miss Timmins. Will you introduce me?”

She was only too happy to do so. To leave the disconcerting moment in the garden—her thudding heart had yet to slow to its normal rhythm—and plunge instead into further investigations. By Trentham’s side.

Quite why she found his company so stimulating Leonora didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure she approved, or that her Aunt Mildred, let alone her Aunt Gertie, would either, if they knew. He was, after all, a military man. Young girls might have their heads turned by broad shoulders and a magnificent uniform, but ladies such as she were supposed to be too wise to fall victim to such gentlemen’s wiles. They were invariably second sons, or sons of second sons, looking to make their way in the world through an advantageous marriage…except Trentham was now an earl.

Inwardly, she frowned. Presumably that excused him from the general prohibition.

Regardless, as she walked briskly down the street beside him, her gloved hand on his sleeve, the sense of his strength engulfing her, the excitement of the hunt simmering in her veins, there was no question in her mind but that she felt immeasurably more alive when with him.

When she’d heard he’d called, she’d panicked. She’d felt sure he had come to complain of her infraction in going into Number 12 last night. And possibly, even worse, to mention—in whatever manner—their indiscretion on the path. Instead, he’d made not the slightest allusion to her part in the night’s activities; even though she was sure he’d sensed her agitation, he’d said and done nothing to tease her.

She’d expected a lot worse from a military man.

Reaching the gate of Number 16, Trentham swung it wide, and they went through, walking up the path and climbing the steps to the small front porch side by side. She pulled the bell, heard it ring deep within the house, smaller than Number 14, a terrace similar in style to Number 12.

Footsteps pattered, approaching, then came the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door opened a little way; a sweet-faced maid peeped out.

Leonora smiled. “Good morning, Daisy. I know it’s a trifle early, but if Miss Timmins can spare a few minutes, we have a new neighbor, the Earl of Trentham, who’d like to make her acquaintance.”

Daisy’s eyes had grown round as she took in Trentham, standing blocking the sunlight at Leonora’s side. “Oh, yes, miss. I’m sure she’ll see you—she always likes to know what’s going on.” Opening the door fully, Daisy waved them in. “If you’ll wait in the morning room, I’ll tell her you’re here.”