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—s
he 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.
Unfortunately, there was no other way to reach the study; his great-uncle who’d remodeled the house had, he’d long ago concluded, been a glutton for punishment.
The morning room was a light-filled chamber built out from the main house. A few steps below the level of the corridor, it was separated from it by three large arches. Two hosted huge flower arrangements in urns, which gave him some cover, but the middle arch was the doorway, open country.
As silent as a thief, he neared the first arch and, just out of sight, paused to listen. A babble of female voices reached him; the group was at the far end of the room, where a bow window allowed morning light to stream over two chaises and various chairs. It took a moment to attune his ear to pick out the individual voices. Ethelreda was there, Millie, Flora, Constance, Helen, and yes, Edith, too. All six of them. Chattering on about knots—French knots?—what were they?—and gross-something and leaf-stitch…
They were discussing embroidery.
He frowned. They all embroidered like martyrs, but it was the one arena in which real competition flourished between them; he’d never heard them discussing their shared interest before, let alone with such gusto.