“There are any number of versions, you see.” Jeremy took up the explanation. “But there’s no way to tell from Cedric’s journal which came after which, let alone why. Cedric must have known, and from comments in the letters, Carruthers knew, too, but…so far, we’ve only been able to match a handful of Carruthers’s experimental notes with his letters, which are the only things that are dated.”

Humphrey chewed, nodded morosely. “Enough to make you tear out your hair.”

In the distance, the front doorbell pealed. Castor left them, reappearing a minute later with a folded note on a salver.

He walked to Deverell’s side. “A footman from next door brought this for you, my lord.”

Deverell glanced at Tristan and Charles as he set down his fork and reached for the note. It was a scrap of plain paper, the writing an ill-formed scrawl in pencil. Deverell scanned it, then looked at Tristan and Charles across the table.

They both sat up.

“What?”

Everyone looked at Deverell. A slow smile curved his lips.

“The good sisters of the Little Sisters of Mercy off the Whitechapel Road have been caring for a young man who answers to the name of Jonathon Martinbury.” Deverell glanced at the note; his face hardened. “He was brought to them two weeks ago, the victim of a vicious beating left to die in a gutter.”

Arranging to fetch Martinbury—they all agreed he had to be fetched—was an exercise in logistics. In the end, it was agreed that Leonora and Tristan would go; neither St. Austell nor Deverell wanted to risk being seen leaving or returning to Number 14. Even Leonora and Tristan had to be cautious. They left the house via the front door, with Henrietta on her lead.

Once on the street, the line of trees along the boundary of Number 12 screened them from anyone watching from Number 16. They turned in at the gate of the club and, much to Henrietta’s disgruntlement, left her in the kitchens there.

Tristan hurried Leonora down the back path of the club, then out into the alleyway behind. From there it was easy to reach the next street, where they hired a hackney and headed with all speed for the Whitechapel Road.

In the infirmary at the convent, they found Jonathon Martinbury. He looked to be a stalwart young man, squarish of both build and countenance, with brown hair visible through the breaks in the bandages wrapping his head. Much of him seemed bandaged; one arm rested in a sling. His face was badly bruised and cut, with a massive contusion above one eye.

He was lucid, if weak. When Leonora explained their presence by saying they’d been searching for him in relation to Cedric Carling’s work with A. J. Carruthers, his eyes lit.

“Thank God!” Briefly, he closed his eyes, then opened them. His voice was rough, still hoarse. “I got your letter. I came down to town early, intending to call on you—” He broke off, his face clouding. “Everything since has been a nightmare.”

Tristan talked to the sisters. Although concerned, they agreed that Martinbury was well enough to be moved, given he was now with friends.

Between them, Tristan and the convent’s gardener supported Jonathon out to the waiting hackney. Leonora and the sisters fussed. Climbing into the carriage severely tried the young man’s composure; he was tight-lipped and pale when they had him finally settled on the seat, wrapped in a blanket and cushioned by old pillows. Tristan had given Jonathon his greatcoat; Jonathon’s coat had been ripped beyond redemption.

Together with Leonora, Tristan repeated Jonathon’s thanks to the sisters and promised a much-needed donation as soon as he could arrange it. Leonora gave him an approving look. He handed her up into the carriage, and was about to follow when a motherly sister came hurrying up.

“Wait! Wait!” Lugging a large leather bag, she huffed out of the convent gate.

Tristan stepped forward and took the bag from her. She beamed in at Jonathon. “A pity after all you’ve been through to lose that one little piece of good luck!”

As Tristan hoisted the bag onto the carriage floor, Jonathon leaned down, reaching to touch it as if to reassure himself. “Indeed,” he gasped, nodding as well as he could. “Many thanks, Sister.”

The sisters waved and called blessings; Leonora waved back. Tristan climbed up and closed the door, settling beside Leonora as the carriage rumbled off.

He looked at the large leather traveling bag sitting on the floor between the seats. He glanced at Jonathon. “What’s in it?”

Jonathon laid his head back against the squabs. “I think it’s what the people who did this to me were after.”

Both Leonora and Tristan looked at the bag.

Jonathon drew a painful breath. “You see—”

“No.” Tristan held up a hand. “Wait. This journey’s going to be bad enough. Just rest. Once we’ve got you settled and comfortable again, then you can tell us all your story.”

“All?” Through half-closed lids Jonathon regarded him. “How many of you are there?”

“Quite a few. Better if you have to tell your tale only once.”

A fever of impatience gripped Leonora, centered on Jonathon’s black leather bag. A perfectly ordinary traveling bag, but she could imagine what it might contain; she was almost beside herself with frustrated curiosity by the time the carriage finally rolled to a halt in the alleyway alongside the back gate of Number 14 Montrose Place.

Tristan had first halted the carriage in a street closer to the park; he’d left them there, saying he needed to get things in place.

He’d returned more than half an hour later. Jonathon had been sleeping; he was still groggy when they stopped for the last time, and Deverell opened the carriage door.

“Go.” Tristan gave her a little push.

She gave Deverell her hand and he helped her down; behind him, the garden gate stood open, with Charles St. Austell beyond—he beckoned her through.

Their largest footman, Clyde, was standing behind Charles with what Leonora realized was a makeshift stretcher in his hands.

Charles saw her looking. “We’re going to carry him in. Too slow and painful otherwise.”

She glanced at him. “Slow?”

With his head, he indicated the house next door. “We’re trying to minimize the chance of Mountford seeing anything.”

They’d assumed Mountford or more likely his accomplice would be watching the comings and goings at Number 14.

“I thought we’d have taken him to Number 12.” Leonora glanced toward their club.

“Too difficult to disguise getting all of us over there to hear his story.” Gently, Charles eased her aside as Tristan and Deverell helped Jonathon through the gate. “Here we are.”

Between the four of them, they got Jonathon settled in the stretcher, constructed from folded sheets and two long broom poles. Deverell went ahead, leading the way. Clyde and Charles followed, carrying the stretcher. Carrying Jonathon’s bag in one hand, Tristan brought up the rear, Leonora before him.

“What about the hackney?” Leonora whispered.

“Taken care of. I’ve paid him to rest there for another ten minutes before rumbling off, just in case the sound as he passes behind next door alerts them.”

He’d thought of everything—even cutting a new, narrow arch in the hedge dividing the well-screened kitchen garden from the more open lawn. Instead of going up the central path and on through the central archway and then having to cross a wide expanse of lawn, they headed up a narrow side path following the boundary wall with Number 12, then through the newly hacked breach in the hedge, emerging hard by the garden wall, largely concealed in its shadow.

They only had a short distance to cover until the jut of the kitchen wing hid them from Number 16. Then they were free to climb the steps to the terrace and go in through the parlor doors.

When Tristan closed the French doors behind her, she caught his eye. “Very neat.”

“All part of the service.” His gaze went past her. She turned to see Jonathon being helped out of the stretcher and onto a daybed, already made up.

Pringle was hovering. Tristan caught his eye. “We’ll leave you to your patient. We’ll be in the library—join us when you’re finished.”

Pringle nodded, and turned to Jonathon.

They all filed out. Clyde took the stretcher and headed for the kitchens; the rest of them trooped into the library.

Leonora’s eagerness to see what Jonathon had in his bag was nothing to Humphrey’s and Jeremy’s. If Tristan and the others had not been there, she doubted she would have been able to prevent them having the bag fetched and “just checking” what it contained.

The comfortable old library had rarely seemed so full, and even more rarely so alive. It wasn’t just Tristan, Charles, and Deverell, all pacing, waiting, hard-faced and intent; their repressed energy seemed to infect Jeremy and even Humphrey. This, she thought, sitting feigning patience on the chaise and with Henrietta, sprawled at her feet, watching them all, must be what the atmosphere in a tent full of knights had felt like just before the call to battle.

Finally, the door opened and Pringle entered. Tristan splashed brandy into a glass and handed it to him; Pringle took it with a nod, sipped, then sighed appreciatively. “He’s well enough, certainly well enough to talk. Indeed, he’s eager to do so, and I’d suggest you hear him out with all speed.”

“His injuries?” Tristan asked.

“I’d say those who attacked him were coldly intent on killing him.”

“Professionals?” Deverall asked.

Pringle hesitated. “If I had to guess, I’d say they were professionals, but more used to knives or pistols, yet in this case they were trying to make the attack look like the work of local thugs. However, they failed to take Mr. Martinbury’s rather heavy bones into account; he’s very bruised and battered, but the sisters have done well, and with time he’ll be as good as new. Mind you, if some kind soul hadn’t taken him to the convent, I wouldn’t have given much for his chances.”