Unconditional surrender.

She had said she would be his. Now she was. Forever.

He needed no further reassurance, no evidence beyond the tight clasp of her body, the supple writhing of her naked curves beneath him.

But he’d always wanted more, and she’d given without him asking.

Not just her body, but this—an unfettered commitment to him, to her, to what lay between them.

It rose up in a tide, impossible to control. It rolled over them both, crashed, swirled, made them gasp, cling. Fight for air. Fight for their hold on life, then lose it as brilliance swamped them, as their bodies clutched, clung, shuddered.

He spilled his seed deep within her, held tight, immobile, as ecstasy drenched them.

Filled them, sank deep, then slowly ebbed and faded.

He let go, felt his muscles relax, let her hold him, cradle him, his forehead bowed to hers.

Wrapped together, lips brushing, together they surrendered to their fate.

She stayed for hours. Few words were spoken. There was no need between them to explain; neither needed nor wanted inadequate words to intrude.

He’d restoked the fire. Slumped in an armchair before it with her curled in his lap, still naked, with her cloak thrown over her to keep her warm, his arms beneath it, his hands on her bare skin, her hair like wild silk clinging to them both…he would have happily remained so forever.

He glanced down at her. The firelight gilded her face. It had earlier gilded her body when she’d stood unabashed before the flames and let him examine each curve, each line. This time, he’d left her largely unmarked; only the imprints of his fingers at her hip where he’d anchored her were visible.

Leonora looked up, caught his eye, smiled, then laid her head back on his shoulder. Under her palm, spread across his bare chest, his heart beat steadily. The beat echoed in her blood. Throughout her body.

Closeness wrapped them about, linked them in a way she couldn’t define, certainly hadn’t expected.

He hadn’t either, yet they’d both accepted it.

Once accepted, it couldn’t be denied.

It had to be love, but who was she to say? All she knew was that for her it was immutable. Unchanging, fixed, and forever.

Whatever the future held—marriage, family, dependents, and all—she would have that, that strength, to call on.

It felt right. More right than she’d imagined anything could feel.

She was where she belonged. In his arms. With love between them.






Chapter Sixteen

The next morning, Leonora breezed down to the breakfast parlor somewhat later than usual; she was normally the first of the family up and about, but this morning she’d slept in. With a definite spring in her step and a smile on her lips, she swept over the threshold—and came to an abrupt halt.

Tristan sat beside Humphrey, listening intently while calmly demolishing a plate of ham and sausages.

Jeremy sat opposite; all three men looked up, then Tristan and Jeremy rose.

Humphrey beamed at her. “Well, my dear! Congratulations! Tristan has told us your news. I have to say I’m utterly delighted!”

“Indeed, sis. Congratulations.” Leaning over the table, Jeremy caught her hand and drew her across to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Excellent choice,” he murmured.

Her smile became a trifle fixed. “Thank you.”

She looked at Tristan, expecting to see some degree of apology. Instead, he met her gaze with a steady, assured—confident—expression. She took due note of that last, inclined her head. “Good morning.”

The “my lord” stuck in her throat. She would not soon forget his notion of an appropriate finale to their reconciliation the previous evening. Later, he’d dressed her, then carried her out to the carriage, overridden her by then thoroughly weak protest, and accompanied her to Montrose Place, leaving her in the tiny parlor of Number 12 while he collected Henrietta, then escorting them both to her front door.

Suavely, he took her hand, raised it briefly to his lips, then held her chair for her. “I trust you slept well?”

She glanced at him as he resumed his seat beside her. “Like one dead.”

His lips twitched, but he merely inclined his head.

“We’ve been telling Tristan here that Cedric’s journals do not, at first glance, fall into any of the customary patterns.” Humphrey paused to eat a mouthful of egg.

Jeremy took up the tale. “They’re not organized by subject, which is most usual with such things, and as you’d found”—he dipped his head to Leonora—“the entries are not in any type of chronological order.”

“Hmm.” Humphrey chewed, then swallowed. “There has to be some key, but it’s perfectly possible Cedric kept it in his head.”

Tristan frowned. “Does that mean you won’t be able to make sense of the journals?”

“No,” Jeremy answered. “It just means it’ll take us rather longer.” He glanced at Leonora. “I vaguely recall you mentioned letters?”

She nodded. “There are lots. I’ve only looked at the ones in the past year.”

“You’d better give them to us,” Humphrey said. “All of them. In fact, any scrap of paper of Cedric’s you can find.”

“Scientists,” Jeremy put in, “especially herbalists, are renowned for writing vital information on scraps of whatever comes to hand.”

Leonora grimaced. “I’ll have the maids gather up everything from the workshop. I’ve been meaning to search Cedric’s bedchamber—I’ll do that today.”

Tristan glanced at her. “I’ll help you.”

She turned her head to check his expression to see what he really intended—

“Aaaah! Aieee-ah!”

The hysterical wails came from a distance. They all heard them. The cries continued clearly for an instant, then were muted—by the green baize door, they all realized, when a footman, startled and pale, skidded to a halt in the parlor doorway. “Mr. Castor! You got to come quick!”

Castor, a serving dish in his ancient hands, goggled at him.

Humphrey stared. “What the devil’s the matter, man?”

The footman, completely shaken out of his habitual aplomb, bowed and bobbed to those around the table. “It’s Daisy, sir. M’lord. From next door.” He fixed on Tristan, who was rising to his feet. “She’s just rushed in wailing and carrying on. Seems Miss Timmins has fallen down the stairs and…well, Daisy says as she’s dead, m’lord.”

Tristan tossed his napkin on the table and stepped around his chair.

Leonora rose at his shoulder. “Where is Daisy, Smithers? In the kitchen?”

“Yes, miss. She’s taking on something terrible.”

“I’ll come and see her.” Leonora swept out into the hall, conscious of Tristan following at her heels. She glanced back at him, took in his grim expression, met his eyes. “Will you go next door?”

“In a minute.” His hand touched her back, a curiously comforting gesture. “I want to hear what Daisy has to say first. She’s no fool—if she says Miss Timmins is dead, then she probably is. She won’t be going anywhere.”

Leonora inwardly grimaced and pushed through the door into the corridor leading to the kitchen. Tristan, she reminded herself, was much more accustomed to dealing with death than she was. Not a nice thought, but in the circumstances it held a certain comfort.

“Oh, miss! Oh, miss!” Daisy appealed to her the instant she saw her. “I don’t know what to do. I couldn’t do nothing!” She sniffed, wiped her eyes with the dishcloth Cook pressed into her hand.

“Now, Daisy.” Leonora reached for one of the kitchen chairs; Tristan anticipated her, lifting it and setting it for her to sit facing Daisy. Leonora sat, felt Tristan lean his hands on the chair’s back. “What you must do now, Daisy—what would be most help to Miss Timmins now—is to compose yourself—just take deep breaths, there’s a good girl—and tell us—his-lordship-the-earl and me—what happened.”

Daisy nodded, dutifully gulped in air, then blurted out, “Everything started out normal this morning. I came down from my room by the back stairs, riddled the grate and got the kitchen fire going, then got Miss Timmins’s tray ready. Then I went to take it up to her…” Daisy’s huge eyes clouded with tears. “Swept through the door I did, as usual, and plonked the tray on the hall table to tidy my hair and straighten up before I went up—and there she was.”

Daisy’s voice quavered and broke. Tears gushed, she mopped them furiously. “She was lying there—at the bottom of the stairs—like a little broken bird. I rush over, o’course, and checked, but there was no point. She was gone.”

For a moment, no one said anything; they’d all known Miss Timmins.

“Did you touch her?” Tristan asked, his tone quiet, almost soothing.

Daisy nodded. “Aye—I patted her hand, and her cheek.”

“Her cheek—was it cold? Do you remember?”

Daisy looked up at him, frowning as she thought. Then she nodded. “Aye, you’re right. Her cheek was cold. Didn’t think anything of her hands—they always were cold. But her cheek…yeah, it was cold.” She blinked at Tristan. “Does that mean she’d been dead for a while?”

Tristan straightened. “It means it’s likely she died some hours ago. Sometime in the night.” He hesitated, then asked, “Did she ever wander at night? Do you know?”

Daisy shook her head. She’d stopped crying. “Not that I ever knew. She never mentioned such a thing.”

Tristan nodded, stepped back. “We’ll take care of Miss Timmins.”

His gaze included Leonora. She stood, too, but glanced back at Daisy. “You’d best stay here. Not just for today, but tonight, too.” She saw Neeps, her uncle’s valet, hovering, concerned. “Neeps, you can help Daisy get her things after luncheon.”