The Lady Chosen

by Stephanie Laurens

  Inwardly sighing, Leonora sat on her bed, then encouraged Harriet to pour out her guilt, her worries and concerns, then made peace with her.

  That proved the easiest fence to mend.

  Drained, still physically shaken, she remained in her room for the rest of the day. Her aunts called, but after one look at her face, kept their visit brief. At her insistence, they agreed to avoid all mention of the attack; to all who asked after her, she would be simply indisposed.

  The next morning, Harriet had just removed her breakfast tray and left her sitting in an armchair before the fire, when a tap sounded on her door. She called, “Come in.”

  The door opened; Jeremy looked around it.

  He spotted her. “Are you well enough to talk?”

  “Yes, of course.” She waved him in.

  He came slowly, carefully shutting the door behind him, then walking quietly across to stand by the mantelpiece and look down at her. His gaze fastened on the bandage still circling her head. A spasm contorted his features. “It’s my fault you got hurt. I should have listened—paid more attention. I knew it wasn’t your imagination, what you said about the burglars, but it was so much easier to simply ignore it all—”

  He was twenty-four, but suddenly he was, once again, her little brother. She let him talk, let him say what he needed to. Let him, too, make his peace, not just with her but himself. The man he knew he should have been.

  A draining twenty minutes later, he was sitting on the floor beside her chair, his head leaning against her knee.

  She stroked his hair, so soft yet as ever ruffled and unruly.

  Suddenly, he shivered. “If Trentham hadn’t come…”

  “If he hadn’t, you would have coped.”

  After a moment, he sighed, then rubbed his cheek against her knee. “I suppose.”

  She remained in bed for the rest of that day, too. By the next morning, she was feeling considerably better. The doctor called again, tested her vision and her balance, probed the tender spot on her skull, then pronounced himself satisfied.

  “But I would advise you to avoid any activity that might exhaust you, at least for the next few days.”

  She was considering that—considering the apology she had to make and how exhausting, mentally and physically, that was likely to be—as she slowly, carefully, went down the stairs.

  Humphrey was sitting on a bench in the hall; using his cane, he slowly rose as she descended. He smiled, a little lopsidedly. “There you are, my dear. Feeling better?”

  “Indeed. A great deal better, thank you.” She was tempted to launch into questions about the household, anything to avoid what she foresaw was to come. She put the urge from her as unworthy; Humphrey, like Harriet and Jeremy, needed to speak. Smiling easily, she accepted his arm when he offered it and steered him into the parlor.

  The interview was worse—more emotionally involved—than she’d expected. They sat side by side on the chaise in the parlor, looking out over the gardens but seeing nothing of them. To her surprise, Humphrey’s guilt stretched back many more years than she’d realized.

  He broached his recent shortcomings head-on, apologizing gruffly, but then he looked back, and she’d discovered he’d spent the last days thinking much more deeply than she’d guessed.

  “I should have made Mildred come down to Kent more often—I knew it at the time.” Staring through the window, he absentmindedly patted Leonora’s hand. “You see, when your aunt Patricia died, I shut myself away—I swore I’d never care for anyone like that again, never leave myself open to so much hurt. I liked having you and Jeremy about the house—you were my distractions, my anchors to the daily round; with you two about, it was easy to forget my hurt and lead a normal enough life.

  “But I was absolutely determined never to let any person get close, and become important to me. Not again. So I always kept myself distanced from you—from Jeremy, too, in many ways.” His old eyes weary, half-filled with tears, he turned to her. Smiled weakly, wryly. “And so I failed you, my dear, failed to take care of you as I ought, and I’m immensely ashamed of that. But I failed myself, too, in more ways than one. I cut myself off from what might have been between us, you and me, and with Jeremy, too. I shortchanged us all in that regard. But I still didn’t achieve what I wanted—I was too arrogant to see that caring about others is not wholly a conscious decision.”

  His fingers tightened about hers. “When we found you lying on the flags that night…”

  His voice quavered, died.

  “Oh, Uncle.” Leonora raised her arms and hugged him. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” She rested her head on his shoulder “It’s past.”

  He hugged her back, but brusquely replied, “It does matter, but we won’t argue, because you’re right—it’s in the past. From now on, we go forward as we should have been.” He ducked his head to look into her face. “Eh?”

  She smiled, a trifle teary herself. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Good!” Humphrey released her and hauled in a breath. “Now—you must tell me all you and Trentham have discovered. I gather there’s some question about Cedric’s work?”

  She explained. When Humphrey demanded to see Cedric’s journals she fetched a few from the stack in the corner.

  “Hmm…humph!” Humphrey read down one page, then eyed the stack of journals. “How far have you got with these?”

  “I’m only onto the fourth, but…” She explained that the journals were not filled in chronological order.

  “He’ll have had some other order—a journal for each idea, for instance.” Humphrey shut the book on his lap. “No reason Jeremy and I can’t put our other work aside and give you a hand with these. Not your forte, but it is ours, after all.”

  She managed not to gape. “But what about the Mesapotamians—and the Sumerians?”

  The work they were both engaged in was a commission from the British Museum.

  Humphrey snorted, waved the protest aside as he levered to his feet. “The museum can wait—this patently can’t. Not if some nefarious and dangerous bounder is after something here. Besides”—on his feet, he straightened and grinned at Leonora—“who else is the museum going to get to do such translations?”

  An unarguable point. She rose and crossed to the bellpull. When Castor entered, she instructed him to move the stack of journals to the library. The journal he’d been looking at tucked under his arm, Humphrey shuffled out in that direction, Leonora assisting him; a footman carrying the journals passed them in the hall—they followed him into the library.

  Jeremy looked up; as always open books covered his desk.

  Humphrey waved his stick. “Clear a space. New task. Urgent matter.”

  “Oh?”

  To Leonora’s surprise, Jeremy obeyed, shutting books and moving them so the footman could set the towering stack of journals down.

  Jeremy immediately took the top one and opened it. “What are they?”

  Humphrey explained; Leonora added that they were assuming there was some valuable formula buried somewhere in the journals.

  Already absorbed in the volume in his hands, Jeremy humphed.

  Humphrey returned to his seat, and returned to the volume he’d carried from the parlor. Leonora considered, then left to check with the servants, and review all household matters.

  An hour later, she reentered the library. Both Jeremy and Humphrey had their heads down; a frown was fixed on Jeremy’s face. He looked up when she lifted the top volume off the pile of journals.

  “Oh.” He blinked somewhat myopically at her.

  She sensed his instinctive wish to take the book back. “I thought I’d help.”

  Jeremy colored, glanced at Humphrey. “Actually, it’s not going to be easy to do that, not unless you can stay here most of the day.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “It’s the cross-referencing. We’ve only just made a start, but it’s going to be a nightmare until we discover the connection between the journals, and th
eir correct sequence, too. We’ll have to do it verbally—it’s simply too big a job, and we need the answer too urgently, to attempt to write down connections.” He looked at her. “We’re used to it. If there are other avenues that need to be investigated, you might be better employed—we might get this mystery solved sooner if you gave your attention to them.”

  Neither wanted to exclude her; it was there in their eyes, in their earnest expressions. But Jeremy spoke the truth; they were the experts in this field—and she really did not fancy spending the rest of the day and the evening, too, squinting at Cedric’s wavering script.

  And there were numerous other matters on her plate.

  She smiled benignly. “There are other avenues it would be worthwhile exploring, if you can cope without me?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “We’ll manage.”

  Her smile widened. “Good, then I’ll leave you to it.”

  Turning, she went to the door. Glancing back as she turned the knob, she saw both heads down again. Still smiling, she left.

  And determinedly turned her mind to her most urgent task: tending to her wounded wolf.

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  Accomplishing that goal—making her peace with Tristan—arranging to do so, required a degree of ingenuity and bold-faced recklessness she’d never before had to employ. But she had no choice. She summoned Gasthorpe, boldly gave him orders, arranged to hire a carriage and be conveyed to the mews behind Green Street, the coachman to wait for her return.

  All, of course, with the firm insistence that under no circumstances was his-lordship-the-earl to be informed. She’d discovered a ready intelligence in Gasthorpe; although she hadn’t liked subverting him from his loyalty to Tristan, when all was said and done, it was for Tristan’s own good.

  When, in the darkness of late evening, she stood in the bushes at the end of Tristan’s garden and saw light shining from the windows of his study, she felt vindicated in every respect.

  He hadn’t gone out to any ball or dinner. Given her absence from the ton, the fact that he, too, wasn’t attending the usual events would be generating intense speculation. Following the path through the bushes and farther to where it skirted the house, she wondered how immediate he would wish their wedding to be. For herself, having made her decision, she didn’t truly care…or, if she did, she would rather it was sooner than later.

  Less time to anticipate how things would work out—much better to take the plunge and get straight on with it.

  Her lips lifted. She suspected he would share that opinion, if not for quite the same reasons.

  Pausing outside the study, she stood on tiptoe and peeked in; the floor was considerably higher than the ground. Tristan was seated at his desk, his back to her, his head bent as he worked. A pile of papers sat on his right; on his left, a ledger lay open.

  She could see enough to be sure he was alone.

  Indeed, as he turned to check an entry in the ledger and she glimpsed his face, he looked very much alone. A lone wolf who’d had to change his solitary ways and live among the ton, with title, houses, and dependents, and all the associated demands.

  He’d given up his freedom, his exciting, dangerous, and lonely life, and picked up the reins that had been left to his care without complaint.

  In return, he’d asked for little, either in excuse, or as reward.

  The one thing he had asked of this new life was to have her as his wife. He’d offered her all she could hope for, given her all she could and would accept.

  In return, she’d given him her body, but not what he’d wanted most. She hadn’t given him her trust. Or her heart.

  Or rather, she had, but she’d never admitted it. Never told him.

  She was there to rectify that omission.

  Turning away, taking care to tread silently, she continued toward the morning room. She’d guessed he would stay in and work at estate matters, all the matters he’d no doubt been neglecting while concentrating on catching Mountford. The study was where she’d hoped he’d be; she’d seen both library and study, and it was the study that held the most definite impression of him, of being the room to which he would retreat. His lair.

  She was glad to have been proved right; the library was in the other wing, across the front hall.

  Reaching the French doors through which they’d entered on her previous visit, she placed herself squarely before them, braced her hands on the frame as he had—using both hands rather than just one—and pushed sharply.

  The doors rattled, but remained closed.

  “Damn!” She frowned at them, then stepped close and put her shoulder to the spot. She counted to three, then flung her weight against the doors.

  They popped open; she only just saved herself from sprawling on the floor.

  Regaining her balance, she whirled and closed the doors, then, catching her cloak about her, slunk silently into the room. She waited, breath bated, to see if anyone had been alerted; she didn’t think she’d made much noise.

  No footsteps sounded; no one came. Her heartbeat gradually slowed.

  Cautiously, she went forward. The last thing she wished was to be discovered breaking into this house in order to meet illicitly with its master; if she were caught, once they wed, she’d have to dismiss, or bribe, the entire staff. She didn’t want to have to face the choice.

  She checked the front hall. As before, at this time of night there were no footmen hovering; Havers, the butler, would be belowstairs. Her way was clear; she slipped into the shadows of the corridor leading to the study with a prayer on her lips.

  In thanks for what she’d thus far received, and with hope that her luck would hold.

  Halting outside the study door, she faced the panels, and tried to imagine, in a last-minute rehearsal, how their conversation would go…but her mind stubbornly remained blank.

  She had to get on with it, with her apology and her declaration. Drawing in a deep breath, she grasped the doorknob.

  It jerked out of her grip; the door was flung wide.

  She blinked, and found Tristan beside her. Towering over her.

  He looked past her, down the corridor, then seized her hand and pulled her into the room. Lowering the pistol he held in his other hand, he released her and closed the door.

  She stared at the pistol. “Good heavens!” She lifted stunned eyes to his face. “Would you have shot me?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Not you. I didn’t know who…” His lips thinned. He turned away. “Creeping up on me is never wise.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “I’ll remember that in future.”

  He prowled to a sideboard and laid the pistol in the display case atop it. His gaze was dark as he glanced back at her, then returned to stand by the desk.

  She remained where she’d halted, more or less in the middle of the room. It wasn’t a big room, and he was in it.

  His gaze rose to her face. Hardened. “What are you doing here? No—wait!” He held up a hand. “First tell me how you got here.”

  She’d expected that tack. Clasping her hands, she nodded. “You didn’t call—not that I’d expected it”—she had, but had realized her error—“so I had to call here. As we’ve previously discovered, me calling during the customary visiting hours is unlikely to provide us with much chance of private conversation, so…” She dragged in a huge breath and rushed on, “I summoned Gasthorpe, and hired a coach through him—I insisted he keep the matter strictly private, so you mustn’t hold that against him. The coach—”

  She told him all, stressing that the coach with coachman and footman was waiting in the mews to take her home. When she came to the end of her recitation, he let a moment pass, then faintly raised his brows—the first change in his expression since she’d entered the room.

  He shifted and leaned back against the edge of the desk. His gaze remained on her face. “Jeremy—where does he think you are?”

  “He and Humphrey are quite sure I’m asleep. They’ve thro
wn themselves into making sense of Cedric’s journals; they’re engrossed.”

  A subtle change rippled across his features, sharpening, hardening; she quickly added, “Despite that, Jeremy did make sure the locks were all changed, as you suggested.”

  He held her gaze; a long moment passed, then he inclined his head fractionally, acknowledging she’d read his thoughts accurately. Dampening an urge to smile, she went on, “Regardless, I’ve been keeping Henrietta in my room at night, so she won’t wander…” And disturb her, worry her. She blinked, and continued, “So I had to take her with me when I left this evening—she’s with Biggs in the kitchen at Number 12.”

  Tristan considered. Inwardly humphed. She’d covered all the necessary details; he could rest easy on that score. She was there, safe; she’d even arranged her safe return. He settled against the desk, crossed his arms. Let his gaze, fixed on her face, grow even more intent. “So why are you here?”

  She met his gaze directly, steadily, perfectly calm. “I’ve come to apologize.”

  He raised his brows; she went on, “I should have remembered about those first attacks, and told you of them, but what with all that’s happened more recently, they’d drifted to the back of my mind.” She studied his eyes, considering rather than searching; he realized she was assembling her words as she went—this was no rehearsed speech.

  “Nevertheless, at the time the attacks occurred, we hadn’t met, and there was no other who considered me important in that vein, such that I would feel obliged to inform them. Warn them.”

  She lifted her chin, still held his eyes. “I accept and concede that the situation has now changed, that I’m important to you, and that you therefore need to know….” She hesitated, frowned at him, then reluctantly amended, “Perhaps even have a right to know, of anything that constitutes a threat to me.”

  Again she paused, as if reviewing her words, then straightened and nodded, her eyes refocusing on his. “So I apologize unequivocally for not telling you of those incidents, for not recognizing that I should.”

  He blinked, slowly; he hadn’t expected an apology in such thorough and crystal-clear terms. His nerves started tingling; a nervous eagerness gripped him. He recognized his typical reaction to being on the brink of success. To having victory—complete and absolute—within his grasp.