“So!” Jeremy leaned forward, arms folded across an open book. “Were you at Waterloo?”

“Only on the fringes.” The distant fringes. Of the enemy camp. “It was a widespread engagement.”

Eyes alight, Jeremy questioned and probed; Tristan had long ago mastered the knack of satisfying the usual questions without stumbling, of giving the impression he’d been a normal regimental officer when in fact he’d been anything but.

“In the end, the allies deserved to win, and the French deserved to lose. Superior strategy and superior commitment won the day.”

And lost altogether too many lives in the process. He glanced at Leonora; she was staring into the fire, patently distancing herself from the conversation. He was well aware that prudent mamas warned their daughters away from military men. Given her age, she’d doubtless heard all the stories; he shouldn’t have been surprised to find her pokering up, determinedly holding aloof.

Yet…

“I understand”—he returned his attention to Sir Humphrey—“that there’ve been a number of disturbances in the neighborhood.” Both men looked at him, unquestionably intelligent but not connecting with his meaning. He was forced to expand, “Attempted burglaries, I believe?”

“Oh.” Jeremy smiled dismissively. “Those. Just a would-be thief trying his luck, I should think. The first time, the staff were still about. They heard him and caught a glimpse, but needless to say he didn’t stop to give his name.”

“The second time”—Sir Humphrey took up the tale—“Henrietta here raised a fuss. Not even certain there was anyone there, heh, old girl?” He rubbed the somnolent hound’s head with his shoe. “Just got the wind up—could have been anything, but roused us all, I can tell you.”

Tristan shifted his gaze from the placid hound to Leonora’s face, read her tight lips, her closed, noncommittal expression. Her hands were clasped in her lap; she made no move to interject.

She was too well-bred to argue with her uncle and brother before him, a stranger. And she may well have resigned the battle of puncturing their detached and absentminded confidence.

“Whatever the case,” Jeremy cheerfully concluded, “the burglar’s long gone. Quiet as a grave around here at night.”

Tristan met his eyes, and decided to agree with Leonora’s judgment. He would need more than suspicions to convince Sir Humphrey or Jeremy to heed any warning; he consequently said nothing of Stolemore in the remaining minutes of his visit.

It drew to a natural close and he rose. He made his farewells, then looked at Leonora. Both she and Jeremy had risen, too, but it was she he wished to speak with. Alone.

He kept his gaze on her, let the silence stretch; her stubborn resistance was, to him, obvious, but her capitulation came sufficiently fast for both her uncle and brother to remain transparently unaware of the battle conducted literally before their noses.

“I’ll see Lord Trentham out.” The glance that went with the clipped words held an arctic chill.

Neither Sir Humphrey nor Jeremy noticed. As, with an elegant nod, he turned from them, he could see in their eyes that they were already drifting back to whatever world they customarily inhabited.

Who stood at the helm of this household was increasingly clear.

Leonora opened the door and led Trentham into the front hall. Henrietta lifted her head, but for once didn’t follow; she settled down again before the fire. The desertion struck Leonora as unusual, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it; she had a dictatorial earl to dismiss.

Cloaked in chilly calm, she swept to the front door and halted; Castor slipped past and stood ready to open the door. Head high, she met Trentham’s hazel eyes. “Thank you for calling. I bid you a good day, my lord.”

He smiled, something other than charm in his expression, and held out his hand.

She hesitated; he waited…until good manners forced her to surrender her fingers into his clasp.

His untrustworthy smile deepened as his hand closed strongly about hers. “If you could spare me a few minutes of your time?”

Under his heavy lids, his gaze was hard and clear. He had no intention of releasing her until she acceded to his wishes. She tried to slip her fingers free; his grip tightened fractionally, enough to assure her she could not. Would not. Until he permitted it.

Her temper erupted. She let her disbelief—how dare he?—show in her eyes.

The ends of his lips quirked. “I have news you’ll find interesting.”

She debated for two seconds, then, on the principle that one shouldn’t cut off one’s nose to spite one’s face, she turned to Castor. “I’ll walk Lord Trentham to the gate. Leave the door on the latch.”

Castor bowed and swung the door wide. She allowed Trentham to lead her out. He paused on the porch. The door shut behind them; he glanced back as he released her, then met her gaze and waved at the garden.

“Your gardens are amazing—who planted them, and why?”

Assuming that, for some reason, he wished to ensure they were not overheard, she went down the steps by his side. “Cedric Carling, a distant cousin. He was a renowned herbalist.”

“Your uncle and brother—what’s their primary interest?”

She explained as they strolled down the winding path to the gate.

Brows rising, he glanced at her. “You spring from a family of authorities on eccentric subjects.” His hazel eyes quizzed her. “What’s your specialty?”

Head rising, she halted. Met his gaze directly. “I believe you had some news you thought might interest me?”

Her tone was pure ice. He smiled. For once with neither charm nor guile. The gesture, strangely comforting, warmed her. Thawed her…

She fought off the effect, kept her eyes on his—watched as all levity faded and seriousness took hold.

“I met with Stolemore. He’d been given a thorough thrashing, very recently. From what he let fall, I believe his punishment stemmed from his failure to secure your uncle’s house for his mysterious buyer.”

The news rocked her, more than she cared to admit. “Did he give any indication who…?”

Trentham shook his head. “None.” His eyes searched hers; his lips tightened. After a moment, he murmured, “I wanted to warn you.”

She studied his face, forced herself to ask, “Of what?”

His features once more resembled chiseled granite. “Unlike your uncle and brother, I don’t believe your burglar has retired from the field.”

*   *   *

He’d done all he could; he hadn’t meant to do even that much. He didn’t, in fact, have the right. Given the situation within the Carling ménage, he’d be well advised not to get involved.

The next morning, seated at the head of the table in the breakfast room of Trentham House, Tristan idly scanned the news sheets, kept one ear on the twitterings of the three of the six female residents who’d decided to join him for tea and toast, and otherwise kept his head down.

He should, he was well aware, be reconnoitering the social field à propos of identifying a suitable wife, yet he couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for the task. Of course, all his old dears were watching him like hawks, waiting for any sign that he would welcome assistance.

They’d surprised him by being remarkably sensitive in not pushing their help upon him thus far; he sincerely hoped they’d hold to that line.

“Do pass the marmalade, Millie. Did you hear that Lady Warrington has had her ruby necklace copied?”

“Copied? Great heavens—are you sure?”

“I had it from Cynthia Cunningham. She swore it was true.”

Their scandalized accents faded as his mind returned to the events of the day before.

He hadn’t intended to return to Montrose Place after seeing Stolemore. He’d left the shop in Motcomb Street deep in thought; when next he’d looked up, he’d been in Montrose Place, outside Number 14. He’d surrendered to instinct and gone in.

All in all, he was glad he had. Leonora Carling’s face when he’d told her his suspicions had remained with him long after he’d left.

“Did you see Mrs. Levacombe making eyes at Lord Mott?”

Lifting one of the news sheets, he held it before his face.

He’d shocked himself by his readiness, unquestioning and immediate, to use force to extract information from Stolemore. Admittedly, he’d been trained to be utterly ruthless in pursuit of vital information. What shocked him was that by some warping of his mind information pertaining to threats against Leonora Carling had assumed the status of vital to him. Previous to yesterday, such status had been attained only by king and country.

But he’d now done all he legitimately could. He’d warned her. And maybe her brother was right and they’d seen the last of the burglar.

“My lord, the builder from Montrose Place has sent a boy with a message.”

Tristan looked up at his butler, Havers, who had come to stand by his elbow. About the table, the chatter died; he debated, then inwardly shrugged. “What’s the message?”

“The builder thinks there’s been some tampering, nothing major, but he’d like you to view the damage before he repairs it.” Holding Tristan’s gaze, Havers word-lessly conveyed the fact that the message had been rather more dramatic. “The boy’s waiting in the hall if you wish to send a reply.”

Premonition clanging, instincts alert, Tristan tossed his napkin on the table and rose. He inclined his head to Ethelreda, Millicent, and Flora, all elderly cousins many times removed. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have business to attend.”

He turned, leaving them agog, the room wrapped in pregnant silence.