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.”