She looked at Tristan, beside her. “You said you would discuss a plan.”
He nodded. “A plan of how best to react to the situation as we currently know it.” He glanced at Humphrey. “Perhaps, if I outline the situation, you would correct me if you have more recent information.”
Humphrey inclined his head.
Tristan looked down at the table, clearly gathering his thoughts. “We know that Mountford is searching for something he believes hidden in this house. He’s been intent, persistent, unswervingly fixed on his goal for months. He seems increasingly desperate, and clearly will not cease until he finds what he’s after. We have a connection between Mountford and a foreigner, which may or may not be pertinent. Mountford is now on the scene, trying to gain access to the basement here. He has one known accomplice, a weasel-faced man.” Tristan paused to sip his coffee. “That’s the opposition as we know it.
“Now, to the something they’re after. Our best guess is that it’s something the late Cedric Carling, the previous owner of this house and a renowned herbalist, discovered, possibly working with another herbalist, A. J. Carruthers, unfortunately now also deceased. Cedric’s journals, and Carruthers’s letters and notes, all we’ve found so far, suggest a collaboration, but the project itself remains unclear.” Tristan looked at Humphrey.
Humphrey glanced at Jeremy. Waved him on.
Jeremy met the others’ eyes. “We have three sources of information—Cedric’s journals, letters to Cedric from Carruthers, and a set of notes from Carruthers, which we believe were enclosures sent with the letters. I’ve been concentrating on the letters and notes. Some of the notes detail individual experiments discussed and referred to in the letters. From what we’ve been able to link together so far, it seems certain Cedric and Carruthers were working together on some specific concoction. They discuss the properties of some fluid they were trying to influence with this concoction.” Jeremy paused, grimaced. “We have nothing where they state what the fluid is, but from various references, I believe it to be blood.”
The effect of that pronouncement on Tristan, St. Austell, and Deverell was marked. Leonora watched them exchange significant glances.
“So,” St. Austell murmured, his gaze locked with Tristan’s, “we have two renowned herbalists working on something to affect blood, and a possible foreign connection.”
Tristan’s expression had hardened. He nodded to Jeremy. “That clarifies the one uncertainty I had regarding our way forward. Clearly, Carruthers’s heir, Jonathon Martinbury, an upright and honest young man who has mysteriously disappeared after reaching London, apparently coming down in response to a letter regarding Carruthers’s and Cedric’s collaboration, is a potentially critical pawn in this game.”
“Indeed.” Deverell looked at Tristan. “I’ll swing my people on to that line, too.”
Leonora glanced from one to the other. “What line?”
“It’s now imperative we locate Martinbury. If he’s dead, that will take some time—probably more time than we have with Mountford working downstairs. But if Martinbury’s alive, there’s a chance we can scour the hospitals and hospices sufficiently well to locate him.”
“Convents.” When Tristan glanced at her, Leonora elaborated. “You didn’t mention them, but there are quite a lot in the city, and most take in the sick and injured as they’re able.”
“She’s right.” St. Austell looked at Deverell.
Who nodded. “I’ll direct my people that way.”
“What people?” Jeremy frowned at the trio. “You talk as if you have troops at your disposal.”
St. Austell raised his brows, amused. Tristan straightened his lips and replied, “In a way, we do. In our previous calling, we had need of…connections at all levels of society. And there are a lot of ex-soldiers we can call on for assistance. We each know people who are used to going out and looking for things for us.”
Leonora frowned Jeremy down when he would have asked more. “So you’ve combined your troops and sent them out to search for Martinbury. What does that leave us to do? What’s your plan?”
Tristan met her eyes, then glanced at Humphrey and Jeremy. “We still don’t know what Mountford’s after—we could simply sit back and wait for him to break in, then see what he goes for. That, however, is the more dangerous course. Letting him into this house, letting him at any stage get his hands on what he’s after, should be our last resort.”
“The alternative?” Jeremy asked.
“Is to go forward following the lines of inquiry we already have. One, seek Martinbury—he may have more specific information from Carruthers. Two, continue to piece together what we can from the three sources we have—the journals, letters, and notes. It’s likely those are at least part of what Mountford is after. If he has access to the pieces we’re missing, that would make sense.
“Three.” Tristan glanced at Leonora. “We’ve assumed that the something—let’s call it a formula—was hidden in Cedric’s workshop. That may still be the case. We’ve only removed all the obvious written materials—if there’s something specificially concealed in the workshop, it may still be there. Lastly, the formula may be completed, written down and hidden elsewhere in this house.” He paused, then continued, “The risk of letting something like that fall into Mountford’s hands is too great to take. We need to search this house.”
Recalling how he’d searched Miss Timmins’s rooms, Leonora nodded. “I agree.” She glanced around the table. “So Humphrey and Jeremy should continue with the journals, letters, and notes in the library. Your people are scouring London for Martinbury. That leaves you three, I take it?”
Tristan smiled at her, one of his charming smiles. “And you. If you could warn your staff and clear the way for us, we three will search. We may need to search from attics to basement, and this is a large house.” His smile took on an edge. “But we’re very good at searching.”
They were.
Leonora watched from the doorway of the workshop as, silent as mice, the three noblemen pried, poked, and prodded into every last nook and cranny, climbed about the heavy shelving, squinting down the backs of cupboards, whisked hidden crevices with canes, and lay on the floor to inspect the undersides of desks and drawers. They missed nothing.
And found nothing but dust.
From there, they worked steadily outward and upward, going through kitchen and pantries, even the now silent laundry, through every room on the lower floor, then they climbed the stairs and, quietly determined, set about applying their unexpected skills to the rooms on the ground floor.
Within two hours, they’d reached the bedchambers; an hour later, they broached the attics.
The luncheon gong was clanging when Leonora, seated on the stairs leading up to the attics—into which she’d flatly refused to venture—felt the reverberations of their descent.
She stood and swung around. Their footfalls, heavy, slow, told her they’d found nothing at all. They came into view, brushing cobwebs from their hair and coats—Shultz would not have approved.
Tristan met her eyes, somewhat grimly concluded, “If any precious formula is secreted in this house, it’s in the library.”
In Cedric’s journals, Carruthers’s letters and notes.
“At least we’re now sure of that much.” Turning, she led them back to the main stairs and down to the dining room.
Jeremy and Humphrey joined them there.
Jeremy shook his head as he sat. “Nothing more, I’m afraid.”
“Except”—Humphrey frowned as he shook out his napkin—“that I’m increasingly certain Cedric did not keep any record of his own as to the rationale and conclusions he drew from his experiments.” He grimaced. “Some scientists are like that—keep it all in their head.”
“Secretive?” Deverall asked, starting on his soup.
Humphrey shook his head. “Not usually. More a case of they don’t want to waste time writing down what they already know.”
They all started
eating, then Humphrey, still frowning, continued, “If Cedric didn’t leave any record—and most of the books in the library are ours—there were only a handful of ancient texts in there when we moved in.”
Jeremy nodded. “And I went through all of those. There were no records stuck in them, or written in them.”
Humphrey continued, “If that’s so, then we’re going to have to pray Carruthers left some more detailed account. The letters and notes give one hope—and I’m not saying we won’t ever get the answer if that’s all there is for us to work with—but a properly kept journal with a consecutive listing of experiments…if we had that, we could sort out which recipes for this concoction were the later ones. Especially which was the final version.”
“There are any number of versions, you see.” Jeremy took up the explanation. “But there’s no way to tell from Cedric’s journal which came after which, let alone why. Cedric must have known, and from comments in the letters, Carruthers knew, too, but…so far, we’ve only been able to match a handful of Carruthers’s experimental notes with his letters, which are the only things that are dated.”
Humphrey chewed, nodded morosely. “Enough to make you tear out your hair.”
In the distance, the front doorbell pealed. Castor left them, reappearing a minute later with a folded note on a salver.
He walked to Deverell’s side. “A footman from next door brought this for you, my lord.”
Deverell glanced at Tristan and Charles as he set down his fork and reached for the note. It was a scrap of plain paper, the writing an ill-formed scrawl in pencil. Deverell scanned it, then looked at Tristan and Charles across the table.
They both sat up.
“What?”
Everyone looked at Deverell. A slow smile curved his lips.
“The good sisters of the Little Sisters of Mercy off the Whitechapel Road have been caring for a young man who answers to the name of Jonathon Martinbury.” Deverell glanced at the note; his face hardened. “He was brought to them two weeks ago, the victim of a vicious beating left to die in a gutter.”
Arranging to fetch Martinbury—they all agreed he had to be fetched—was an exercise in logistics. In the end, it was agreed that Leonora and Tristan would go; neither St. Austell nor Deverell wanted to risk being seen leaving or returning to Number 14. Even Leonora and Tristan had to be cautious. They left the house via the front door, with Henrietta on her lead.
Once on the street, the line of trees along the boundary of Number 12 screened them from anyone watching from Number 16. They turned in at the gate of the club and, much to Henrietta’s disgruntlement, left her in the kitchens there.
Tristan hurried Leonora down the back path of the club, then out into the alleyway behind. From there it was easy to reach the next street, where they hired a hackney and headed with all speed for the Whitechapel Road.
In the infirmary at the convent, they found Jonathon Martinbury. He looked to be a stalwart young man, squarish of both build and countenance, with brown hair visible through the breaks in the bandages wrapping his head. Much of him seemed bandaged; one arm rested in a sling. His face was badly bruised and cut, with a massive contusion above one eye.
He was lucid, if weak. When Leonora explained their presence by saying they’d been searching for him in relation to Cedric Carling’s work with A. J. Carruthers, his eyes lit.
“Thank God!” Briefly, he closed his eyes, then opened them. His voice was rough, still hoarse. “I got your letter. I came down to town early, intending to call on you—” He broke off, his face clouding. “Everything since has been a nightmare.”
Tristan talked to the sisters. Although concerned, they agreed that Martinbury was well enough to be moved, given he was now with friends.
Between them, Tristan and the convent’s gardener supported Jonathon out to the waiting hackney. Leonora and the sisters fussed. Climbing into the carriage severely tried the young man’s composure; he was tight-lipped and pale when they had him finally settled on the seat, wrapped in a blanket and cushioned by old pillows. Tristan had given Jonathon his greatcoat; Jonathon’s coat had been ripped beyond redemption.
Together with Leonora, Tristan repeated Jonathon’s thanks to the sisters and promised a much-needed donation as soon as he could arrange it. Leonora gave him an approving look. He handed her up into the carriage, and was about to follow when a motherly sister came hurrying up.
“Wait! Wait!” Lugging a large leather bag, she huffed out of the convent gate.
Tristan stepped forward and took the bag from her. She beamed in at Jonathon. “A pity after all you’ve been through to lose that one little piece of good luck!”
As Tristan hoisted the bag onto the carriage floor, Jonathon leaned down, reaching to touch it as if to reassure himself. “Indeed,” he gasped, nodding as well as he could. “Many thanks, Sister.”
The sisters waved and called blessings; Leonora waved back. Tristan climbed up and closed the door, settling beside Leonora as the carriage rumbled off.
He looked at the large leather traveling bag sitting on the floor between the seats. He glanced at Jonathon. “What’s in it?”
Jonathon laid his head back against the squabs. “I think it’s what the people who did this to me were after.”
Both Leonora and Tristan looked at the bag.
Jonathon drew a painful breath. “You see—”
“No.” Tristan held up a hand. “Wait. This journey’s going to be bad enough. Just rest. Once we’ve got you settled and comfortable again, then you can tell us all your story.”
“All?” Through half-closed lids Jonathon regarded him. “How many of you are there?”
“Quite a few. Better if you have to tell your tale only once.”
A fever of impatience gripped Leonora, centered on Jonathon’s black leather bag. A perfectly ordinary traveling bag, but she could imagine what it might contain; she was almost beside herself with frustrated curiosity by the time the carriage finally rolled to a halt in the alleyway alongside the back gate of Number 14 Montrose Place.
Tristan had first halted the carriage in a street closer to the park; he’d left them there, saying he needed to get things in place.
He’d returned more than half an hour later. Jonathon had been sleeping; he was still groggy when they stopped for the last time, and Deverell opened the carriage door.
“Go.” Tristan gave her a little push.
She gave Deverell her hand and he helped her down; behind him, the garden gate stood open, with Charles St. Austell beyond—he beckoned her through.
Their largest footman, Clyde, was standing behind Charles with what Leonora realized was a makeshift stretcher in his hands.
Charles saw her looking. “We’re going to carry him in. Too slow and painful otherwise.”
She glanced at him. “Slow?”
With his head, he indicated the house next door. “We’re trying to minimize the chance of Mountford seeing anything.”
They’d assumed Mountford or more likely his accomplice would be watching the comings and goings at Number 14.
“I thought we’d have taken him to Number 12.” Leonora glanced toward their club.
“Too difficult to disguise getting all of us over there to hear his story.” Gently, Charles eased her aside as Tristan and Deverell helped Jonathon through the gate. “Here we are.”
Between the four of them, they got Jonathon settled in the stretcher, constructed from folded sheets and two long broom poles. Deverell went ahead, leading the way. Clyde and Charles followed, carrying the stretcher. Carrying Jonathon’s bag in one hand, Tristan brought up the rear, Leonora before him.
“What about the hackney?” Leonora whispered.
“Taken care of. I’ve paid him to rest there for another ten minutes before rumbling off, just in case the sound as he passes behind next door alerts them.”
He’d thought of everything—even cutting a new, narrow arch in the hedge dividing the well-screened kitchen garden fr
om the more open lawn. Instead of going up the central path and on through the central archway and then having to cross a wide expanse of lawn, they headed up a narrow side path following the boundary wall with Number 12, then through the newly hacked breach in the hedge, emerging hard by the garden wall, largely concealed in its shadow.
They only had a short distance to cover until the jut of the kitchen wing hid them from Number 16. Then they were free to climb the steps to the terrace and go in through the parlor doors.
When Tristan closed the French doors behind her, she caught his eye. “Very neat.”
“All part of the service.” His gaze went past her. She turned to see Jonathon being helped out of the stretcher and onto a daybed, already made up.
Pringle was hovering. Tristan caught his eye. “We’ll leave you to your patient. We’ll be in the library—join us when you’re finished.”
Pringle nodded, and turned to Jonathon.
They all filed out. Clyde took the stretcher and headed for the kitchens; the rest of them trooped into the library.
Leonora’s eagerness to see what Jonathon had in his bag was nothing to Humphrey’s and Jeremy’s. If Tristan and the others had not been there, she doubted she would have been able to prevent them having the bag fetched and “just checking” what it contained.
The comfortable old library had rarely seemed so full, and even more rarely so alive. It wasn’t just Tristan, Charles, and Deverell, all pacing, waiting, hard-faced and intent; their repressed energy seemed to infect Jeremy and even Humphrey. This, she thought, sitting feigning patience on the chaise and with Henrietta, sprawled at her feet, watching them all, must be what the atmosphere in a tent full of knights had felt like just before the call to battle.
Finally, the door opened and Pringle entered. Tristan splashed brandy into a glass and handed it to him; Pringle took it with a nod, sipped, then sighed appreciatively. “He’s well enough, certainly well enough to talk. Indeed, he’s eager to do so, and I’d suggest you hear him out with all speed.”
The Lady Chosen Page 36
