The Lady Chosen

by Stephanie Laurens

  His eyes were now open.

  Lady Hartington had chosen to enliven her soirée with a short spell of dancing. As the musicians set up, Gertie turned to him. “Grab the opportunity while you may.” She poked his arm. “You’ve got another hour or more to endure before we can leave.”

  He didn’t wait; he reached for Leonora’s hand, smiled charmingly, and excused them to the two ladies with whom they’d been conversing. Constance and Millicent stepped in, smoothly covering his and Leonora’s retreat.

  Leonora sighed and went into his arms with real relief. “How exhausting. I had no idea it would be this bad, not so early in the year.”

  Whirling her down the room, he met her gaze. “You mean it could be worse?”

  She looked into his eyes, and smiled. “Not everyone’s in town yet.”

  She said no more; he studied her face as they twirled, turned, and precessed back up the room. She seemed to have given herself, her senses, over to the waltz; he followed her lead.

  And found a degree of comfort. Of soothing reassurance in the feel of her in his arms, in the reality of her under his hands, in the brush of their thighs as they went through the turns, the flowing harmony with which their bodies moved, in tune, attuned. Together.

  When the music finally ended, they were at the other end of the room. Without asking, he set her hand on his sleeve and guided her back to where their supporters waited, a small island of relative safety.

  She slanted him a glance, a smile on her lips, understanding in her eyes. “How are you faring?”

  He glanced at her. “I feel like a general surrounded by a bevy of personal guards well equipped with initiative and experience.” He drew breath, looked ahead to where their group of sweet old ladies were waiting. “The fact they’re female is a trifle unsettling, but I have to admit I’m humbly grateful.”

  Achortle, smothered, answered him. “Indeed, you should be.”

  “Believe me,” he murmured as they neared the others, “I know my limitations. This is a female theater dominated by female strategies too convoluted for any male to fathom.”

  She threw him a laughing glance, one wholly personal, then they resumed their public personas and went forward to deal with the small horde still waiting to congratulate them.

  The night, predictably but to his mind regrettably, ended without affording him and Leonora any opportunity to slake the physical need that had burgeoned, fed by close contact, by the promise of the waltz, by his inevitable reaction to the evening’s less civilized moments.

  Mine.

  That word still rang in his head, prodded his instincts whenever she was close, most especially whenever others seemed not to comprehend that fact.

  Not a civilized response but a primitive one. He knew it, and didn’t care.

  The next morning, he left Green Street restless and unfulfilled, and threw himself into the search for Martinbury. They were all increasingly convinced the object of Mountford’s search was something buried in Cedric’s papers; A. J. Carruthers had been Cedric’s closest confidant, Martinbury was by all accounts the heir to whom Carruthers had entrusted his secrets—and Martinbury had unexpectedly disappeared.

  Locating Martinbury, or discovering what they could of his fate, seemed the likeliest route to learning Mountford’s aim and dealing with his threat.

  The fastest way to end the business so he and Leonora could wed.

  But entering watchhouses, gaining men’s trust, accessing records in search of the recently deceased, took time. He’d started with those watchhouses closest to the coaching inn where Martinbury had alighted. As, in a hackney, he rumbled home in the late afternoon, no further forward, he wondered if that wasn’t a false assumption. Martinbury could have been in London for some days before disappearing.

  He entered his house to discover Charles waiting in his library to report.

  “Nothing,” Charles said the instant he’d shut the door. In one of the armchairs before the hearth, he swiveled to look up at him. “What about you?”

  Tristan grimaced. “Same story.” He picked up the decanter from the sideboard, filled a glass, then crossed to top up Charles’s glass before sinking into the other armchair. He frowned at the fire. “Which hospitals have you checked?”

  Charles told him—the hospitals and hospices closest to the inn where the mail coaches from York terminated.

  Tristan nodded. “We need to move faster and widen our search.” He explained his reasoning.

  Charles inclined his head in agreement. “The question is, even with Deverell helping, how do we widen our search and simultaneously go faster?”

  Tristan sipped, then lowered his glass. “We take a calculated risk and narrow the field. Leonora mentioned that Martinbury may still be alive, but if he’s injured, with no friends or relatives in town, he may simply be lying in a hospital bed somewhere.”

  Charles grimaced. “Poor bugger.”

  “Indeed. In reality, that scenario is the only one that’s going to advance our cause quickly. If Martinbury’s dead, then it’s unlikely whoever did the deed will have left any useful papers behind, ones that will point us in the right direction.”

  “True.”

  Tristan sipped again, then said, “I’m swinging my people on to searching the hospitals for any gentleman matching Martinbury’s description who’s still alive. They don’t need our authority to do that.”

  Charles nodded. “I’ll do the same—I’m sure Deverell will, too….”

  The sound of a male voice in the hall outside reached them. They both looked at the door.

  “Speak of the devil,” Charles said.

  The door opened. Deverell walked in.

  Tristan rose and poured him a brandy. Deverell took it and sprawled elegantly on the chaise. In contrast to their sober expressions, his green eyes were alight. He saluted them with his glass. “I bring tidings.”

  “Positive tidings?” Charles asked.

  “The only sort a wise man brings.” Deverell paused to sip his brandy; lowering the glass, he smiled. “Mountford took the bait.”

  “He rented the house?”

  “The weasel brought the lease back this morning along with the first month’s rent. A Mr. Caterham has signed the lease and intends moving in immediately.” Deverell paused, frowning slightly. “I handed over the keys and offered to show them around the property, but the weasel—he goes by the name of Cummings—declined. He said his master was a recluse and insisted on total privacy.”

  Deverell’s frown grew. “I did think of following the weasel back to his hole, but decided the risk of scaring them off was too high.” He glanced at Tristan. “Given Mountford, or whoever he is, seems set on going into the house forthwith, letting him pursue that aim and walk into our trap with all speed seemed the wisest course.”

  Both Tristan and Charles were nodding.

  “Excellent!” Tristan stared at the fire, his gaze distant. “So we have him, we know where he is. We’ll continue trying to solve the riddle of what he’s after, but even if we don’t succeed, we’ll be waiting for his next move. Waiting for him to reveal all himself.”

  “To success!” Charles said.

  The others echoed the words, then they drained their glasses.

  After seeing Charles and Deverell out, Tristan headed for his study. Passing the arches of the morning room, he heard the usual babel of elderly feminine voices and glanced in.

  He halted in midstride. He could barely believe his eyes.

  His great-aunts had arrived, along with—he counted heads—his other six resident pensioners from Mallingham Manor. All fourteen of his dependent old dears were now gathered under his Green Street roof, scattered about the morning room, heads together…plotting.

  Uneasiness filled him.

  Hortense glanced up and saw him. “There you are, m’boy! Wonderful news about you and Miss Carling.” She thumped the arm of her chair. “Just as we’d all hoped.”

  He went down the steps. Hermione
flapped her hand at him. “Indeed, my dear. We are excellently pleased!”

  Bowing over her hand, he accepted those and the others’ murmured expressions of delight with a mild, “Thank you.”

  “Now!” Hermione turned to look up at him. “I hope you won’t think we’ve taken too much on ourselves, but we’ve organized a family dinner for tonight. Ethelreda has spoken with Miss Carling’s family—Lady Warsingham and her husband, the elder Miss Carling, and Sir Humphrey and Jeremy Carling—and they are all in agreement, as is Miss Carling, of course. Given there are so many of us, and some of us are getting on in years, and as the proper course would be for us to meet Miss Carling and her family formally at such a dinner, we hoped you, too, would agree to holding it tonight.”

  Hortense snorted. “Aside from all else, we’re too fagged from driving up this afternoon to weather an outing to some other entertainment.”

  “And, dear,” Millicent put in, “we should remember that Miss Carling and Sir Humphrey and young Mr. Carling had a funeral to attend this morning. A neighbor, I understand?”

  “Indeed.” A vision danced through Tristan’s mind, of a comfortable if large dinner party, rather less formal than might be imagined—he knew his great-aunts and their companions quite well…He looked around, met their bright, transparently hopeful gazes. “Do I take it you’re suggesting this dinner would be in lieu of any appearance in the ton tonight?”

  Hortense pulled a face. “Well, if you really wish to attend some ball or other—”

  “No, no.” The relief that flooded him was very real; he smiled, struggling to keep his delight within bounds. “I see no reason at all your dinner can’t go ahead, precisely as you’ve planned it. Indeed”—his mask slipped; he let his gratitude shine through—“I’ll be grateful for any excuse to avoid the ton tonight.” He bowed to his aunts, with a glance extended the gesture to the others, deploying his charm to maximum effect. “Thank you.”

  The words were heartfelt.

  They all smiled, bobbed, delighted to have been of use.

  “Didn’t think you’d be all that enamored of the gadding throng,” Hortense opined. She grinned up at him. “If it comes to it, neither are we.”

  He could have kissed them. Knowing how flustered that would make most of them, he contented himself with dressing with extra care, then being in the drawing room to greet them as they entered, bowing over their hands, commenting on their gowns and coiffures, on their jewels—deploying for them that irresistible charm he knew well how to use but rarely did without some goal in mind.

  Tonight, his goal was simply to repay them for their kindness, their thoughtfulness.

  He’d never been so thankful to hear of a family dinner in his life.

  While they waited in the drawing room for their guests to arrive, he thought of how incongruous their gathering would appear—he standing before the mantelpiece, the sole male surrounded by fourteen elderly females. But they were his family; he did, in truth, feel more comfortable surrounded by them and their amiable chatter than he did in the more glittering, more exciting, but also more malicious world of the ton. They and he shared something—an intangible connection of place and people spread over time.

  And into this, Leonora would now come—and she would fit.

  Havers entered to announce Lord and Lady Warsingham and Miss Carling—Gertie. On their heels, Sir Humphrey, Leonora, and Jeremy arrived.

  Any thought that he would have to act as a formal host evaporated in minutes. Sir Humphrey was engaged by Ethelreda and Constance, Jeremy by a group of the others, while Lord and Lady Warsingham were treated to the Wemyss charm as dispensed by Hermione and Hortense. Gertie and Millicent, who had met the previous evening, had their heads together.

  After exchanging a few words with the other old dears, Leonora joined him. She gave him her hand, her special smile—the one she reserved just for him—curving her lips. “I have to say I was extremely glad of your great-aunts’ suggestion. After attending Miss Timmins’s funeral this morning, attending Lady Willoughby’s ball tonight and dealing with the—as you described it—prurient interest, would have severely tried my temper.” She glanced up, met his eyes. “And yours.”

  He inclined his head. “Even though I didn’t attend the funeral. How was it?”

  “Quiet, but sincere. I think Miss Timmins would have been pleased. Henry Timmins shared the service with the local vicar, and Mrs. Timmins was there, too—a nice woman.”

  After an instant, she turned to him and lowered her voice. “We found some papers in Cedric’s room, hidden in the bottom of his woodbasket. They weren’t letters, but sheets of entries similar to those in the journals but most importantly, they weren’t in Cedric’s hand—they were written by Carruthers. Humphrey and Jeremy are concentrating on those now. Humphrey says they’re descriptions of experiments, similar to those in Cedric’s journal, but there’s still no way to make any sense of them, to know if they mean anything at all. It seems all we’ve discovered so far contains only part of whatever they were working on.”

  “Which suggests even more strongly that there is some discovery, one Cedric and Carruthers thought it worthwhile to deal with carefully.”

  “Indeed.” Leonora searched his face. “In case you’re wondering, the staff at Number 14 are very much on alert, and Castor will send to Gasthorpe should anything untoward occur.”

  “Good.”

  “Have you learned anything?”

  He felt his jaw start to set; he pulled his charming mask back into place. “Nothing about Martinbury, but we’re trying a new tack that might get us further faster. However, the big news is that Mountford—or whoever he is—has taken the bait. He, acting via the weasel, rented Number 16 late this afternoon.”

  Her eyes widened; she kept them fixed on his. “So things are starting to happen.”

  “Indeed.”

  He turned, smiling, as Constance joined them. Leonora stood by his side and chatted with the ladies as they came up. They told her of the church fete, and of the little routine day-to-day changes, the alterations the seasons brought to the manor. They told her of this and that, remembered snippets of Tristan’s early life, of his father and grandfather.

  She occasionally glanced at him, saw him extend that ready charm—also saw beneath it. Having met Lady Hermione and Lady Hortense, she could see from where he’d got it; she wondered what his father had been like.

  Yet in this sphere Tristan’s manners were more genuine; the real man showed through, not just with his strengths but with his weaknesses, too. He was comfortable, relaxing; she suspected that previously, he might well have gone for years without lowering his guard. Even now, the drawbridge chains were rusty.

  She moved around the room, chatting here, chatting there, always conscious of Tristan, that he watched her as she watched him. Then Havers announced dinner, and they all went in, she on Tristan’s arm.

  He sat her beside him at one end of the table; Lady Hermione was at the other end. She made a neat speech expressing her pleasure at the prospect of shortly yielding her chair to Leonora, and led a toast to the affianced couple, then the first course was served. The gentle hum of conversation rose and engulfed the table.

  The evening passed pleasantly, truly enjoyably. The ladies repaired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port; it wasn’t long before they rejoined them.

  Her uncle Winston, Lord Warsingham, Mildred’s husband, stopped by her side. “An excellent choice, my dear.” His eyes twinkled; he’d been concerned by her lack of interest in marriage, but had never sought to interfere. “Might have taken you an unconscionable time to make up your mind, but the result’s the thing, heh?”

  She smiled, inclined her head. Tristan joined them, and she directed the conversation to the latest play.

  And continued, at some level she wasn’t sure she understood, to watch Tristan. She didn’t always keep her eyes on him, yet she was wholly aware—an emotional watching if such a thing could be, a fo
cusing of the senses.

  She’d noticed, again and again, his momentary hesitations when, discussing something with her, he would check, pause, consider, then go on. She’d started to identify the patterns that told her what he was thinking, when and in what vein he was thinking of her. The decisions he was making.

  The fact he’d made no move to exclude her from their active investigations heartened her. He could have been much more difficult; indeed, she’d expected it. Instead, he was feeling his way, accommodating her as he could; that bolstered her hope that in the future—the future they’d both committed themselves to—they would rub along well together.

  That they would be able to accommodate each other’s natures and needs.

  His, both nature and needs, were more complex than most; she’d realized that sometime ago—it was part of the attraction he held for her, that he was different from others, that he needed and wanted on a somewhat different scale, on a different plane.

  Given his dangerous past, he was less disposed to excluding women, infinitely more disposed to using them. She’d sensed that from the first, that he was less inclined than his less adventurous brethren to coddle females; she now knew him well enough to guess that in pursuit of his duty he would have been coldly ruthless. It was that side of his nature that had allowed her to become as involved as she was in their investigations with only relatively minor resistance.

  However, with her, that more pragmatic side had come into direct conflict with something much deeper. With more primitive impulses, all-but-primal instincts, the imperative to keep her forever shielded, tucked away from all harm.

  Again and again, that conflict darkened his eyes. His jaw would set, he would glance at her briefly, hesitate, then leave matters as they were.

  Adjustment. Him to her, her to him.

  They were meshing together, step by step learning the ways in which their lives would interlock. Yet that fundamental clash remained; she suspected it always would.