The Lady Chosen

by Stephanie Laurens

  The moment was going to turn awkward, and he still hadn’t thought of any approach likely to deflect her from the burglaries. Casting about in his mind, he looked past her. And saw the house beyond the garden wall, the house next door, which also, like Number 12, shared a wall with Number 14.

  “Who lives there?”

  She glanced up, followed his gaze. “Old Miss Timmins.”

  “She lives alone?”

  “With a maid.”

  He looked down into Leonora’s eyes; they were already filled with speculation. “I’d like to call on Miss Timmins. Will you introduce me?”

  She was only too happy to do so. To leave the disconcerting moment in the garden—her thudding heart had yet to slow to its normal rhythm—and plunge instead into further investigations. By Trentham’s side.

  Quite why she found his company so stimulating Leonora didn’t know. She wasn’t even sure she approved, or that her Aunt Mildred, let alone her Aunt Gertie, would either, if they knew. He was, after all, a military man. Young girls might have their heads turned by broad shoulders and a magnificent uniform, but ladies such as she were supposed to be too wise to fall victim to such gentlemen’s wiles. They were invariably second sons, or sons of second sons, looking to make their way in the world through an advantageous marriage…except Trentham was now an earl.

  Inwardly, she frowned. Presumably that excused him from the general prohibition.

  Regardless, as she walked briskly down the street beside him, her gloved hand on his sleeve, the sense of his strength engulfing her, the excitement of the hunt simmering in her veins, there was no question in her mind but that she felt immeasurably more alive when with him.

  When she’d heard he’d called, she’d panicked. She’d felt sure he had come to complain of her infraction in going into Number 12 last night. And possibly, even worse, to mention—in whatever manner—their indiscretion on the path. Instead, he’d made not the slightest allusion to her part in the night’s activities; even though she was sure he’d sensed her agitation, he’d said and done nothing to tease her.

  She’d expected a lot worse from a military man.

  Reaching the gate of Number 16, Trentham swung it wide, and they went through, walking up the path and climbing the steps to the small front porch side by side. She pulled the bell, heard it ring deep within the house, smaller than Number 14, a terrace similar in style to Number 12.

  Footsteps pattered, approaching, then came the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door opened a little way; a sweet-faced maid peeped out.

  Leonora smiled. “Good morning, Daisy. I know it’s a trifle early, but if Miss Timmins can spare a few minutes, we have a new neighbor, the Earl of Trentham, who’d like to make her acquaintance.”

  Daisy’s eyes had grown round as she took in Trentham, standing blocking the sunlight at Leonora’s side. “Oh, yes, miss. I’m sure she’ll see you—she always likes to know what’s going on.” Opening the door fully, Daisy waved them in. “If you’ll wait in the morning room, I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  Leonora led the way into the morning room and sat on the chaise.

  Trentham didn’t sit. He paced. Prowled. Looking at the windows.

  Examining the locks.

  She frowned. “What—”

  She broke off as Daisy hurried back in. “She says as she’ll be delighted to receive you.” She bobbed to Trentham. “If you’ll come this way, I’ll take you up to her.”

  They climbed the stairs, following Daisy; Leonora was aware of the glances Trentham directed this way and that. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was the burglar looking for the best way in….

  “Oh.” Halting at the top of the stairs, she swung to face him. Whispered, “Do you think the burglar might try here next?”

  He frowned, waved her on. With Daisy sailing ahead, she had to turn and hurry to catch up. Trentham merely lengthened his stride. With him on her heels, she glided into Miss Timmins’s drawing room.

  “Leonora, my dear.” Miss Timmins’s voice quavered. “How sweet of you to call.”

  Miss Timmins was old and frail and rarely ventured outside. Leonora often called; over the past year, she’d noticed the brightness in Miss Timmins’s soft blue eyes fading, as if a flame were burning low.

  Smiling in return, she pressed Miss Timmins’s claw-like hand, then stepped back. “I’ve brought the Earl of Trentham to call. He and some friends have bought the house beyond ours, Number 12.”

  Gently vague, her prim grey curls neatly brushed and dressed, her pearls looped about her throat, Miss Timmins shyly gave Trentham her hand. Nervously murmured a greeting.

  Trentham bowed. “How do you do, Miss Timmins. I hope you’ve been keeping well through these cold months?”

  Miss Timmins flustered, but still clung to Trentham’s hand. “Yes, indeed.” She seemed caught by his eyes. After a moment, she ventured, “It’s been such a shocking winter.”

  “More sleet than usual, certainly.” Trentham smiled, all charm. “May we sit?”

  “Oh! Yes, of course. Please do.” Miss Timmins leaned forward. “I heard you’re a military man, my lord. Tell me, were you at Waterloo?”

  Leonora sank into a chair and watched, amazed, as Trentham—a self-confessed military man—charmed old Miss Timmins, who wasn’t, generally, comfortable with men. Yet Trentham seemed to know just what to say, just what an old lady thought appropriate to talk about. Just what snippets of gossip she’d like to hear.

  Daisy brought tea; as she sipped, Leonora cynically wondered just what goal Trentham was pursuing.

  Her answer came when he set down his cup and assumed a more serious mien. “Actually, I had a purpose in calling beyond the pleasure of meeting you, ma’am.” He caught Miss Timmins’s gaze. “There have been a number of incidents in the street lately, of burglars trying to gain entry.”

  “Oh, dear me!” Miss Timmins rattled her cup onto its saucer. “I must tell Daisy to be doubly sure she locks every door.”

  “As to that, I wonder if you would mind if I look around the ground floor and belowstairs, to make sure there’s no easy way inside? I would sleep much more soundly if I knew your house, with only you and Daisy here, was secure.”

  Miss Timmins blinked, then beamed at him. “Why, of course, dear. So thoughtful of you.”

  After a few more comments of a more general nature, Trentham rose. Leonora rose, too. They took their leave, with Miss Timmins instructing Daisy that his-lordship-the-earl would be looking around the house to make sure all was safe.

  Daisy beamed, too.

  In parting, Trentham assured Miss Timmins that should he discover any less than adequate lock, he would take care of its replacement—she wasn’t to bother her head.

  From the look in Miss Timmins’s old eyes as she pressed his hand in farewell, his-lordship-the-earl had made a conquest.

  Disturbed, when they reached the stairs and Daisy had gone ahead, Leonora paused and caught Trentham’s eye. “I hope you intend making good on that promise.”

  His gaze was steady and remained so; eventually he replied, “I will.” He studied her face, then added, “I meant what I said.” Stepping past her, he started down the stairs. “I will sleep more soundly knowing this place is secure.”

  She frowned at the back of his head—the man was a complete conundrum—then followed him down the stairs.

  She trailed after him as he systematically checked every single window and door on the ground floor, then descended to the basement and did the same there. He was thorough and, to her eyes, coolly professional, as if securing premises against intruders had been a frequent task in his erstwhile occupation. It was increasingly difficult to dismiss him as “just another military man.”

  In the end, he nodded to Daisy. “This is better than I expected. Has she always been worried about intruders?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, m’lord. Ever since I came here to do for her, and that’s going on six years, now.”

  “Well,
if you lock every lock and shoot every bolt, you’ll be as safe as you could be.”

  Leaving a grateful and reassured Daisy, they walked down the garden path. Reaching the gate, Leonora, who’d been pursuing her own thoughts, glanced at Trentham. “Is the house truly secure?”

  He looked at her, then held the gate open. “As secure as it can be. There’s no way to stop a determined intruder.” He fell into step beside her as they paced along the pavement. “If he uses force—breaking a window or forcing a door—he’ll get in, but I don’t think our man is likely to be so direct. If we’re right in thinking it’s Number 14 he wants access to, then to get that via Number 16, he’ll have to have a few nights undetected to tunnel through the basement walls. He won’t get that if he’s too obvious about how he gets in.”

  “So as long as Daisy is vigilant, all should be well.”

  When he didn’t say anything, she looked at him. He sensed her glance, caught her eye. Grimaced. “On our way in, I was wondering how to introduce some man into the household, at least until we’ve laid this burglar by the heels. But she’s frightened of men, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.” She was astonished he’d been so perceptive. “You’re one of the few I’ve ever known her to talk to beyond the barest commonplace.”

  He nodded, looked down. “She’d be too uncomfortable with a man under her roof, so it’s lucky those locks are so sound. We’ll have to put our faith in them.”

  “And do everything we can to catch this burglar soon.”

  Her determination rang in her voice.

  They’d reached the gate of Number 14. Tristan halted, met her gaze. “I suppose there’s no point insisting you leave the matter of the burglar in my hands?”

  Her periwinkle blue eyes hardened. “None.”

  He exhaled, looked away down the street. He wasn’t above lying for a good cause. Wasn’t above using distractions, either, despite their inherent danger.

  Before she could shift away, he caught her hand. Turned his head and trapped her gaze. Held it while with his fingers he sought, then flicked the opening in her glove wide, then raised her wrist, the inner face now exposed, to his lips.

  Felt the quiver that raced through her, watched her head lift, her eyes darken.

  He smiled, slowly, intently. Softly decreed, “What’s between you and me remains between you and me, but it hasn’t gone away.”

  Her lips set; she tugged, but he didn’t release her, instead, with his thumb, languidly caressed the spot he’d kissed.

  She caught her breath, then hissed, “I’m not interested in any dalliance.”

  Eyes on hers, he raised a brow. “No more am I.” He was interested in distracting her. They’d both be better off with her concentrating on him rather than on the burglar. “In the interests of our acquaintance”—in the interests of his sanity—“I’m willing to make a deal.”

  Suspicion glowed in her eyes. “What deal?”

  He chose his words carefully. “If you promise to do no more than keep your eyes and ears open, to do no more than watch and listen and report all to me when next I call, I’ll agree to share with you all I discover.”

  Her expression turned haughtily dismissive. “And what if you don’t discover anything?”

  His lips remained curved, but he let his mask slide, let his true self show briefly. “Oh, I will.” His voice was soft, faintly menacing; its tone held her.

  Again, slowly, deliberately, he raised her wrist to his lips.

  Holding her gaze, kissed.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  She blinked, refocused on his eyes, then her breasts swelled as she drew in a deep breath. And nodded. “Very well.”

  He released her wrist; she all but snatched it back.

  “But on one condition.”

  He raised his brows, now as haughty as she. “What?”

  “I’ll watch and listen and do no more if you promise to call and tell me what you’ve discovered as soon as you discover it.”

  His gaze locked with hers, he considered, then let his lips ease. He inclined his head. “As soon as practicable, I’ll share any discovery.”

  She was mollified, and surprised to be so. He hid a grin and bowed. “Good day, Miss Carling.”

  She held his gaze for a moment longer, then inclined her head. “Good day, my lord.”

  Days passed.

  Leonora watched and listened, but nothing of any moment occurred. She was content with their bargain; there was in truth little else she could do beyond watch and listen, and the knowledge that if anything did occur, Trentham expected to be involved in dealing with it was unexpectedly heartening. She’d grown used to acting alone, indeed eschewed the help of others who in general were more likely to get in her way, yet Trentham was undeniably able—with him involved, she felt confident of resolving the issue of the burglaries. Staff started to appear at Number 12; Trentham occasionally called in there, as duly reported by Toby, but did not venture to knock on the Carlings’ front door.

  The only factor that disturbed her equanimity was her recollections of that kiss in the night. She’d tried to forget it, simply put it from her mind, an aberration on both their parts, yet forgetting the way her pulse leapt whenever he came near was much harder. And she had absolutely no idea how to interpret his comment that what lay between them hadn’t gone away.

  Did he mean he intended to pursue it?

  But then he’d declared he wasn’t interested in dalliance any more than she was. Despite his past occupation, she was learning to take his words at face value.

  Indeed, his tactful dealings with the old soldier Biggs, his discretion in not speaking of her nighttime adventures, and his unprecedented charming of Miss Timmins, going out of his way to reassure and see to the old lady’s safety, had in large part ameliorated her prejudice.

  Perhaps Trentham was one of those whose existence proved the rule—a trustworthy military man, one who could be relied on, at least in certain matters.

  Despite that, she wasn’t entirely certain she could rely on him to tell her all and anything he discovered. Nevertheless, she would have allowed him a few more days’ grace if it hadn’t been for the watcher.

  At first, it was simply a sensation, a prickling of her nerves, an eerie feeling of being observed. Not just in the street, but in the back garden, too; that last unnerved her. The first of the earlier attacks on her had occurred just inside the front gate; she no longer walked in the front garden.

  She began taking Henrietta with her wherever she went, and if that wasn’t possible, a footman.

  With time, her nerves would doubtless have calmed, steadied.

  But then, strolling in the back garden late one afternoon as the abbreviated February twilight closed in, she glimpsed a man standing almost at the rear of the garden, beyond the hedge that bisected the long plot. Framed by the central arch in the hedge, a lean, dark figure swathed in a dark cloak, he stood among the vegetable beds—and watched her.

  Leonora froze. He wasn’t the same man who had accosted her in January, the first time by the front gate, the second time in the street. That man had been smaller, slighter; she’d been able to fight back, to break free.

  The man who now watched her looked infinitely more menacing. He stood silent, still, yet it was the stillness of a predator waiting for his moment. There was only a stretch of lawn between them. She had to fight the urge to raise a hand to her throat, had to battle an instinct to turn and flee—battle the conviction that if she did he’d be on her.

  Henrietta ambled up, saw the man, and growled low in her throat. The rumbling warning continued, subtly escalating. Hackles rising, the hound placed herself between Leonora and the man.

  He remained still for an instant longer, then whisked around. His cloak flapped; he disappeared from Leonora’s sight.

  Heart thudding uncomfortably, she looked down at Henrietta. The wolfhound remained alert, senses focused. Then a distant thud reached Leonora’s ears; an instant later, Henrietta
wuffed and relaxed from her stance, turning to calmly continue their progress back to the parlor doors.

  A chill swept Leonora’s spine; eyes wide, scanning the shadows, she hurried back to the house.

  The next morning at eleven o’clock—the earliest hour at which it was acceptable to call—she rang the doorbell of the elegant house in Green Street that the urchin sweeping at the corner had told her belonged to the Earl of Trentham.

  An imposing but kindly-looking butler opened the door. “Yes, ma’am?”

  She drew herself up. “Good morning. I am Miss Carling, from Montrose Place. I wish to speak with Lord Trentham, if you please.”

  The butler looked genuinely regretful. “Unfortunately, his lordship is not presently in.”

  “Oh.” She’d assumed he would be, that like most fashionable men he was unlikely to set foot beyond his door before noon. After a frozen moment in which nothing—no other avenue of action—occurred to her, she lifted her gaze to the butler’s face. “Is he expected to return soon?”

  “I daresay his lordship will be back within the hour, miss.” Her determination must have shown; the butler opened the door wider. “If you would care to wait?”

  “Thank you.” Leonora let a hint of approval color the words. The butler had the most sympathetic face. She stepped across the threshold and was instantly struck by the airiness and light in the hall, underscored by the elegant furnishings. As the butler closed the door, she turned to him.

  He smiled encouragingly. “If you’ll come this way, miss?”

  Insensibly reassured, Leonora inclined her head and followed him down the corridor.

  Tristan returned to Green Street at a little after noon, no further forward and increasingly concerned. Climbing his front steps, he fished out his latch key and let himself in; he had still not grown accustomed to waiting for Havers to open the door, relieve him of his cane and coat, all things he was perfectly capable of doing himself.

  Setting his cane in the hall stand, tossing his coat across a chair, he headed, soft-footed, for his study. Hoping to slip past the arches of the morning room without being spotted by any of the old dears. An exceedingly faint hope; regardless of their occupations, they always seemed to sense his flitting presence and glance up just in time to smile and waylay him.