“She’s just the sort of wife we wished for you,” Millicent told him.

“Indeed,” Ethelreda confirmed. “She’s such a sensible young woman—we were awfully afraid you might land us with some flibbertigibbet. One of those empty-headed gels who giggle all the time. The good Lord only knows how we would have coped then.”

In fervent agreement, he excused himself and took refuge in the study. Ruthlessly blocking out the obvious distraction, he spent an hour dealing with the more urgent matters awaiting his attention, remembering to pen a brief letter to his great-aunts informing them of his impending nuptials. When the clock chimed eleven, he put down his pen, rose, and quietly left the house.

He met Charles at the corner of Grosvenor Square. They hailed a hackney; at ten minutes before noon, they pushed through the door of the Red Lion. It was a popular public house catering to a mixture of trades—merchants, agents, shippers, and clerks of every description. The main room was crowded, yet after one glance, most moved out of Tristan’s and Charles’s way. They went to the bar, were served immediately, then, ale mugs in hand, turned and surveyed the room.

After a moment, Tristan took a sip of his ale. “He’s over there, one table from the corner. The one that keeps looking around like an eager pup.”

“That’s the friend?”

“Fits the description to a tee. The cap’s hard to miss.” A tweed cap was sitting on the table at which the young man in question waited.

Tristan considered, then said, “He won’t recognize us. Why don’t we just take the table next to him, and wait for the right moment to introduce ourselves?”

“Good idea.”

Once again the crowd parted like the Red Sea; they installed themselves at the small table in the corner without attracting more than a quick glance and a polite smile from the young man.

He seemed terribly young to Tristan.

The young man continued to wait. So did they. They discussed various points—difficulties they’d both faced on taking up the reins of large estates. There was more than enough there to provide believable cover had the young man been listening. He wasn’t; like a spaniel, he kept his eyes on the door, ready to leap up and wave when his friend entered.

Gradually, as the minutes ticked by, his eagerness ebbed. He nursed his pint; they nursed theirs. But when the clang from a nearby belltower sounded the half hour, it seemed certain that he for whom they all waited was not going to appear.

They waited some more, in growing concern.

Eventually, Tristan exchanged a glance with Charles, then turned to the young man. “Mr. Carter?”

The young man blinked, focused properly on Tristan for the first time. “Y-yes?”

“We’ve not met.” Tristan reached for a card, handed it to Carter. “But I believe an associate of mine told you we were concerned to meet with Mr. Martinbury over a matter of mutual benefit.”

Carter read the card; his youthful face cleared. “Oh, yes—of course!” Then he looked at Tristan and grimaced. “But as you can see, Jonathon hasn’t come.” He glanced around, as if to make sure Martinbury hadn’t materialized in the last minute. Carter frowned. “I really can’t understand it.” He looked back at Tristan. “Jonathon’s very punctual, and we’re very good friends.”

Worry clouded his face.

“Have you heard from him since he’s been in town?”

Charles asked the question; when Carter blinked at him, Tristan smoothly added, “Another associate.”

Carter shook his head. “No. No one at home—York, that is—has had any word from him. His landlady was surprised; she made me promise to tell him to write when I met him. It’s odd—he’s really a very reliable person, and he is fond of her. She’s like a mother to him.”

Tristan exchanged a glance with Charles. “I think it’s time we searched more actively for Mr. Martinbury.” Turning to Carter, he nodded at his card, which the young man still held in his hand. “If you do hear from Martinbury, any contact at all, I’d be obliged if you would send word immediately to that address. Likewise, if you furnish me with your direction, I’ll make sure you’re informed if we locate your friend.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Carter dragged a tablet from his pocket, found a pencil, and quickly wrote down the address of his lodging house. He handed the sheet to Tristan. He read it, then nodded and put the note in his pocket.

Carter was frowning. “I wonder if he even reached London.”

Tristan rose. “He did.” He drained his tankard, set it on the table. “He left the coach when it reached town, not before. Unfortunately, tracing a single man on the streets of London is not at all easy.”

He said the last with a reassuring smile. With a nod to Carter, he and Charles left.

They paused on the pavement outside.

“Tracing a single man walking the streets of London may not be easy.” Charles glanced at Tristan. “Tracing a dead one is not quite so hard.”

“No, indeed.” Tristan’s expression had hardened. “I’ll take the watchhouses.”

“And I’ll take the hospitals. Meet at the club later tonight?”

Tristan nodded. Then grimaced. “I just remembered…”

Charles glanced at him, then hooted. “Just remembered you’d announced your engagement—of course! No longer a life of ease for you—not until you’re wed.”

“Which only makes me even more determined to find Martinbury with all speed. I’ll send word to Gasthorpe if I find anything.”

“I’ll do the same.” With a nod, Charles headed down the street.

Tristan watched him go, then swore, swung on his heel, and strode off in the opposite direction.






Chapter Seventeen

The day was fleeing, whipped away by grey squalls, as Tristan climbed the steps of Number 14 and asked to see Leonora. Castor directed him to the parlor; dismissing the butler, he opened the parlor door and went in.

Leonora didn’t hear him. She was seated on the chaise, facing the windows, looking out at the garden, at the shrubs bowing before the blustering wind. Beside her, a fire burned brightly in the hearth, crackling and spitting cheerily. Henrietta lay stretched before the flames, luxuriating in their heat.

The scene was comfortable, cozy—warming in a way that had nothing to do with temperature, a subtle comfort to the heart.

He took a step, let his heel fall heavily.

She heard, turned…then she saw him and her face lit. Not just with expectation, not just with eagerness to hear what he had learned, but with an open welcome as if a part of her had returned.

He neared and she rose, held out her hands. He took them, raised first one, then the other to his lips, then drew her nearer and bent his head. Took her mouth in a kiss he struggled to keep within bounds, let his senses savor, then reined them in.

When he lifted his head, she smiled at him; their gazes touched, held for a moment, then she sank onto the chaise.

He crouched to pat Henrietta.

Leonora watched him, then said, “Now before you tell me anything else, explain how Mountford got into Number 16 last night. You said there were no forced locks, and Castor told me some tale about you asking after a drainage inspector. What has he to do with anything—or was he Mountford?”

Tristan glanced at her, then nodded. “Daisy’s description tallies. It seems he posed as an inspector and talked her into letting him inspect the kitchen, scullery, and laundry drains.”

“And when she wasn’t looking, he took an impression of a key?”

“That seems most likely. No inspector called here or at Number 12.”

She frowned. “He’s a very…calculating man.”

“He’s clever.” After a moment of studying her face, Tristan said, “Added to that, he must be getting desperate. I’d like you to bear that in mind.”

She met his gaze, then smiled reassuringly. “Of course.”

The look he cast her as he rose to his feet looked more resigned than reassured.

“I saw the sign outside Number 16. That was quick.” She let her approval show in her face.

“Indeed. I’ve handed that aspect over to a gentleman by the name of Deverell. He’s Viscount Paignton.”

She opened her eyes wide. “Do you have any other…associates helping you?”

Sinking his hands into his pockets, the fire warm on his back, Tristan looked down into her face, into eyes that reflected an intelligence he knew better than to underestimate. “I have a small army working for me, as you know. Most of them, you’ll never meet, but there is one other who’s actively helping me—another part-owner of Number 12.”

“As is Deverell?” she asked.

He nodded. “The other gentleman is Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel.”

“Lostwithiel?” She frowned. “I heard something about the last two earls dying in tragic circumstances…”

“They were his brothers. He was the third son and is now the earl.”

“Ah. And what is he helping you with?”

He explained about the meeting they’d hoped to have with Martinbury, and their disappointment. She heard him out in silence, watching his face. When he paused after explaining the agreement they’d made with Martinbury’s friend, she said, “You think he’s met with foul play.”

Not a question. His eyes on hers, he nodded. “Everything that was reported to me from York, everything his friend Carter said of him, painted Martinbury as a conscientious, reliable, honest man—not one to miss an appointment he’d taken care to confirm.” Again he hesitated, wondering how much he should tell her, then pushed aside his reluctance. “I’ve started checking the watchhouses for reported deaths, and Charles is checking the hospitals in case he was brought in alive, but then died.”