Shutting the door, Tristan waited, but there was no sound of shuffling feet, of the lumbering gait of the heavily built agent.

“Stolemore?” Tristan’s voice echoed, far stronger than the tinkling bell. Again he waited. A minute ticked by and still there was no sound.

None.

He had an appointment, one Stolemore would not have missed. He had the bank draft for the final payment for the house in his pocket; the way the sale had been arranged, Stolemore’s commission came from this last payment.

Hands in his greatcoat pockets, Tristan stood perfectly still, his back to the door, his gaze fixed on the thin curtain before him.

Something was definitely not right.

He drew in his attention, focused it, then walked forward, slowly, absolutely silently, to the curtain. Reaching up, he abruptly drew the folds aside, simultaneously stepping to the side of the doorway.

The jingle of the curtain rings died.

A narrow, dimly lit corridor led on. He entered, keeping his shoulders angled, his back toward the wall. A few steps along he came to a stairway so narrow he wondered how Stolemore got up it; he debated but, hearing no sound from upstairs, sensing no presence, he continued along the corridor.

It ended in a tiny lean-to kitchen built onto the back of the house.

A figure lay slumped on the flags on the other side of the rickety table that took up most of the space.

Otherwise, the room was uninhabited.

The figure was Stolemore; he’d been savagely beaten.

There was no one else in the house; Tristan was certain enough to dispense with caution. From the look of the bruises on Stolemore’s face, he’d been attacked some hours ago.

One chair had tipped over. Tristan righted it as he edged around the table, then went down on one knee by the agent’s side. The briefest examination confirmed Stolemore was alive, but unconscious. It appeared he’d been staggering to reach the pump handle set in the bench at the end of the small kitchen. Rising, Tristan found a bowl, placed it under the spout, and wielded the handle.

A large handkerchief was protruding from the nattily dressed agent’s coat pocket; Tristan took it and used it to bathe Stolemore’s face.

The agent stirred, then opened his eyes.

Tension stabbed through the large frame. Panic flared in Stolemore’s eyes, then he focused, and recognized Tristan.

“Oh. Argh…” Stolemore winced, then struggled to rise.

Tristan grabbed his arm and hauled him up. “Don’t try to talk yet.” He hoisted Stolemore onto the chair. “Do you have any brandy?”

Stolemore pointed to a cupboard. Tristan opened it, found the bottle and a glass, and poured a generous amount. He pushed the glass to Stolemore, recorked the bottle and placed it on the table before the agent.

Slipping his hands into his greatcoat pockets, he leaned back against the narrow counter. Gave Stolemore a minute to regain his wits.

But only a minute.

“Who did it?”

Stolemore squinted up at him through one half-closed eye. The other remained completely closed. He took another sip of brandy, dropped his gaze to the glass, then murmured, “Fell down the stairs.”

“Fell down the stairs, walked into a door, hit your head on the table…I see.”

Stolemore glanced up at him fleetingly, then lowered his gaze to the glass and kept it there. “Was an accident.”

Tristan let a moment slip by, then quietly said, “If you say so.”

At the note in his voice, one of menace that chilled the spine, Stolemore looked up, lips parting. His eye now wide, he rushed into speech. “I can’t tell you anything—bound by confidentiality, I am. And it don’t affect you gentlemen, not at all. I swear.”

Tristan read what he could from the agent’s face, difficult given the swelling and bruising. “I see.” Whoever had punished Stolemore had been an amateur; he or indeed any of his ex-colleagues could have inflicted much greater damage yet left far less evidence.

But there was no point, given Stolemore’s present condition, in going further down that road. He would simply lose consciousness again.

Reaching into his pocket, Tristan withdrew the banker’s draft. “I’ve brought the final payment as agreed.” Stolemore’s eyes fastened on the slip of paper as he drew it back and forth between his fingers. “You have the title deed, I take it?”

Stolemore grunted. “In a safe place.” Slowly, he pushed up from the table. “If you’ll stay here for a minute, I’ll fetch it.”

Tristan nodded. He watched Stolemore hobble to the door. “No need to rush.”

A small part of his mind tracked the lumbering agent as he moved through the house, identified the location of his “safe place” as under the third stair. For the most part, however, he stayed leaning against the counter, quietly adding two and two.

And not liking the number he came up with.

When Stolemore limped back, a title deed tied with ribbon in one hand, Tristan straightened. He held out a commanding hand; Stolemore gave him the deed. Unraveling the ribbon, he unrolled the deed, swiftly checked it, then rerolled it and slipped it into his pocket.

Stolemore, wheezing, had slumped back into the chair.

Tristan met his eyes. Raised the draft, held between two fingers. “One question, and then I’ll leave you.”

Stolemore, his gaze all but blank, waited.

“If I was to guess that whoever did this to you was the same person or persons who late last year hired you to negotiate the purchase of Number 14 Montrose Place, would I be wrong?”

The agent didn’t need to answer; the truth was there in his bloated face as he followed the carefully spaced words. Only when he had to decide how to reply did he stop to think.

He blinked, painfully, then met Tristan’s gaze. His own remained dull. “I’m bound by confidentiality.”

Tristan let a half minute slide by, then inclined his head. He flicked his fingers; the bank draft sailed down to the table, sliding toward Stolemore. He put out a large hand and trapped it.

Tristan pushed away from the counter. “I’ll leave you to your business.”

Half an hour after returning to the house, Leonora escaped the demands of the household and took refuge in the conservatory. The glass-walled and -roofed room was her own special place within the large house, her retreat.

Her heels clicked on the tiled floor as she walked to the wrought-iron table and chairs set in the bow window. Henrietta’s claws clicked in soft counterpoint as she followed.

Presently heated against the cold outside, the room was filled with rioting plants—ferns, exotic creepers, and strange-smelling herbs. Combining with the scents, the faint yet pervasive smell of earth and growing things soothed and reassured.

Sinking into one of the cushioned chairs, Leonora looked out over the winter garden. She should report meeting Trentham to her uncle and Jeremy; if he called later and mentioned it, it would appear odd if she hadn’t. Both Humphrey and Jeremy would expect some description of Trentham, yet assembling a word picture of the man she’d met on the pavement less than an hour ago was not straightforward. Dark-haired, tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, dressed elegantly, and patently of the first stare—the superficial characteristics were simple to define.

Less certain was the impression she’d gained of a man outwardly charming and inwardly quite different.

That impression had owed more to his features, to the sharpness in his heavy-lidded eyes, not always concealed by his long lashes, the almost grimly determined set of mouth and chin before they’d softened, the harsh lines of his face before they’d eased, adopting a cloak of beguiling charm. It was an impression underscored by other physical attributes—like the fact he’d not even flinched when she’d run full tilt into him. She was taller than the average; most men would at least have taken a step back.

Not Trentham.

There were other anomalies, too. His behavior on meeting a lady he’d never set eyes on before, and could not have known anything of, had been too dictatorial, too definite. He’d actually had the temerity to interrogate her, and he’d done it, even knowing she’d noticed, without a blink.

She was accustomed to running the house, indeed, to running all their lives; she’d performed in that role for the past twelve years. She was decisive, confident, assured, in no way intimidated by the male of the species, yet Trentham…what was it about him that had made her, not exactly wary but watchful, careful?

The remembered sensations their physical contact had evoked, not once but multiple times, rose in her mind; she frowned and buried them. Doubtless some disordered reaction on her part; she hadn’t expected to collide with him—it was most likely some strange symptom of shock.

Moments passed; she sat staring through the windows, unseeing, then shifted, frowned, and focused her mind on defining where she and her problem now were.

Regardless of Trentham’s disconcerting presence, she’d extracted all she’d needed from their meeting. She’d learned the answer to what had been her most pressing question—neither Trentham nor his friends were behind the offers to buy this house. She accepted his word unequivocally; there was that about him that left no room for doubt. Likewise, he and his friends were not responsible for the attempts to break in, nor the more disturbing, infinitely more unnerving attempts to scare her witless.

Which left her facing the question of who was.

The latch clicked; she turned as Castor walked in.

“The Earl of Trentham has called, miss. He’s asked to speak with you.”