A rush of thoughts tumbled through her mind; a flurry of unfamiliar feelings flitted in her stomach. Inwardly frowning, she quelled them and rose; Henrietta rose, too, and shook herself. “Thank you, Castor. Are my uncle and brother in the library?”

“Indeed, miss.” Castor held the door for her, then followed. “I left his lordship in the morning room.”

Head high, she glided into the front hall, then stopped. She eyed the closed door of the morning room.

And felt something inside her tighten.

She paused. At her age, she hardly needed to be missish over being alone for a short time in the morning room with a gentleman. She could go in, greet Trentham, learn why he’d asked to speak with her, all in private, yet she couldn’t think of anything he might have to tell her that would require privacy.

Caution whispered. The skin above her elbows pricked.

“I’ll go and prepare Sir Humphrey and Mr. Jeremy.” She glanced at Castor. “Give me a moment, then show Lord Trentham into the library.”

“Indeed, miss.” Castor bowed.

Some lions were better left untempted; she had a strong suspicion Trentham was one. With a swish of her skirts, she headed for the safety of the library. Henrietta padded behind.






Chapter Two

Extending along one side of the house, the large library possessed windows facing both the front and back gardens. If either her brother or her uncle had been aware of the outside world, they might have noticed the large visitor walking up the front path.

Leonora assumed they’d both been oblivious.

The sight that met her eyes as she opened the door, entered, then quietly shut it, confirmed her supposition.

Her uncle, Sir Humphrey Carling, was seated in an armchair angled before the hearth, a heavy tome open on his knees, an especially strong quizzing glass distorting one pale blue eye as he squinted at the faded hieroglyphics inscribed on the pages. He had once been an imposing figure, but age had stooped his shoulders, thinned his once leonine head of hair, and drained his physical strength. The years, however, had made no discernible impact on his mental faculties; he was still revered in scientific and antiquarian circles as one of the two foremost authorities in translating obscure languages.

His white head, hair thin, straggling, and worn rather long despite Leonora’s best efforts, was bowed to his book, his mind clearly in…Leonora believed the present tome hailed from Mesopotamia.

Her brother, Jeremy, her junior by two years and the second of the two foremost authorities in translating obscure languages, sat at the desk nearby. The surface of the desk was awash with books, some open, others stacked. Every maid in the house knew she touched anything on that desk at her peril; despite the chaos, Jeremy always instantly knew.

He’d been twelve when, together with Leonora, he’d come to live with Humphrey after the deaths of their parents. They’d lived in Kent then; although Humphrey’s wife had already passed on, the wider family had felt that the countryside was a more suitable environment for two still growing and grieving children, especially as everyone accepted that Humphrey was their favorite relative.

It was no great wonder that Jeremy, bookish from birth, had been infected with Humphrey’s passion to decipher the words of men and civilizations long dead. At twenty-four, he was already well on the way to carving out a niche for himself in that increasingly competitive sphere; his standing had only grown when, six years ago, the household had moved to Bloomsbury so Leonora could be introduced to society under her aunt Mildred, Lady Warsingham’s aegis.

Yet Jeremy was still her little brother; her lips curved as she took in his wide but slight shoulders, the mop of brown hair that regardless of any brushing was perennially tousled—she was sure he ran his fingers through it, yet he swore he didn’t, and she’d never caught him at it.

Henrietta headed across the floor for the spot before the hearth. Leonora walked forward, unsurprised when neither man looked up. A maid had once dropped a silver epergne on the tiles outside the library door, and neither had noticed.

“Uncle, Jeremy—we have a visitor.”

Both looked up, blinked in identical, blankly distant fashion.

“The Earl of Trentham has called.” She continued toward her uncle’s chair, patiently waiting for their brains to wander back to the real world. “He’s one of our new neighbors at Number 12.” Both sets of eyes followed her, both still blank. “I told you the house was bought by a group of gentlemen. Trentham is one of them. I gather he’s been overseeing the renovations.”

“Ah—I see.” Humphrey closed his book, set it aside with his quizzing glass. “Good of him to call.”

Positioning herself behind her uncle’s chair, Leonora didn’t miss the rather more puzzled look in Jeremy’s brown eyes. Plain brown, not hazel. Comforting, not razor-sharp.

Like the eyes of the gentleman who walked into the room in Castor’s wake.

“The Earl of Trentham.”

Pronouncement made, Castor bowed and withdrew, closing the door.

Trentham had paused just before it, his gaze raking the company; as the latch clicked, he smiled. His charming mask very much to the fore, he walked toward the group about the hearth.

Leonora hesitated, suddenly unsure.

Trentham’s gaze lingered on her face, waiting…then he looked at Humphrey.

Who gripped his chair’s arms and, with obvious effort, started to rise. Leonora quickly stepped close to lend a hand.

“I pray you won’t disturb yourself, Sir Humphrey.” With a graceful gesture, Trentham waved Humphrey back. “I’m grateful for your time in seeing me.” He bowed, acknowledging Humphrey’s formal nod. “I was passing and hoped you would forgive the informality as we are in effect neighbors.”

“Indeed, indeed. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I understand you’re making some changes at Number 12 prior to settling in?”

“Purely cosmetic, to make the place more habitable.”

Humphrey waved at Jeremy. “Allow me to present my nephew, Jeremy Carling.”

Jeremy, who had risen, reached across the desk and shook hands. Initially politely, but as his gaze met Trentham’s, his eyes widened; interest flared across his face. “I say! You’re a military man, aren’t you?”

Leonora looked at Trentham, stared. How had she missed it? His stance alone should have alerted her, but combined with that faint tan and his hardened hands…

Self-preservatory instincts flared and had her mentally stepping well back.

“Ex-military.” With Jeremy clearly waiting, wanting to know, Trentham added, “I was a major in the Guards.”

“You’ve sold out?” Jeremy had what Leonora considered an unhealthy interest in the recent campaigns.

“After Waterloo, many of us did.”

“Are your friends ex-Guards, too?

“They are.” Glancing at Humphrey, Trentham went on, “That’s why we bought Number 12. A place to meet that’s more private and quieter than our clubs. We’re not used to the bustle of town life anymore.”

“Aye, well, I can understand that.” Humphrey, never one for tonnish life, nodded feelingly. “You’ve come to the right pocket of London for peace and quiet.”

Swiveling, Humphrey looked up at Leonora, smiled. “Nearly forgot you there, my dear.” He looked back at Trentham. “My niece, Leonora.”

She curtsied.

Trentham’s gaze held hers as he bowed. “Actually, I encountered Miss Carling earlier in the street.”

Encountered? She leapt in before Humphrey or Jeremy could wonder. “Lord Trentham was leaving as I went out. He was good enough to introduce himself.”

Their gazes met, directly, briefly. She looked down at Humphrey.

Her uncle was appraising Trentham; he clearly approved of what he saw. He waved to the chaise on the other side of the hearth. “But do sit down.”

Trentham looked at her. Gestured to the chaise. “Miss Carling?”

The chaise sat two. There was no other seat; she would have to sit beside him. She met his gaze. “Perhaps I should order tea?”

His smile took on an edge. “Not on my account, I pray.”

“Or me,” Humphrey said.

Jeremy merely shook his head, moving back to his chair.

Drawing in a breath, her head discouragingly high, she stepped from behind the armchair and crossed to the end of the chaise closer to the fire and Henrietta, sprawled in a shaggy heap before it. Trentham very correctly waited for her to sit, then sat beside her.

He didn’t purposely crowd her; he didn’t have to. Courtesy of the short chaise, his shoulder brushed hers.

Her lungs seized; warmth slowly spread from the point of contact, sliding beneath her skin.

“I understand,” he said, as soon as he’d elegantly disposed his long limbs, “that you’ve had considerable interest from others in purchasing this house.”

Humphrey inclined his head; his gaze shifted to her.

She plastered on an innocent smile, airily waved. “Lord Trentham was on his way to see Stolemore—I mentioned we’d met.”

Humphrey snorted. “Indeed! The knuckleheaded bounder. Couldn’t get it through his skull that we weren’t interested in selling. Luckily, Leonora convinced him.”

That last was said with sublime vagueness; Tristan concluded that Sir Humphrey had no real idea how insistent Stolemore had been, or to what lengths his niece had been forced to go to dissuade the agent.

He glanced again at the books piled on the desk, at the similar mounds heaped about Sir Humphrey’s chair, at the papers and clutter that spoke eloquently of a scholarly life. And scholarly abstraction.