She looked ahead, mentally running through all her and her family’s acquaintances. “No. He’s not one of Humphrey’s or Jeremy’s colleagues, either—I help with their correspondence, and that name hasn’t arisen.”
When he said nothing more, she glanced at him. “Did you get an address?”
He nodded. “I’ll go there and see what I can learn.”
They’d reached the archway. She halted. “Where is it?”
He met her gaze; again she got the impression he was irritated. “Bloomsbury.”
“Bloomsbury?” She stared. “That’s where we used to live.”
He frowned. “Before here?”
“Yes. I told you we moved here two years ago, when Humphrey inherited this house. For the four years before that, we lived in Bloomsbury. In Keppell Street.” She caught his sleeve. “Perhaps it’s someone from there, who for some reason…” She gestured. “Who knows why, but there must be a connection.”
“Perhaps.”
“Come on!” She set off for the parlor doors. “I’ll come with you. There’s plenty of time before lunch.”
Tristan swallowed a curse and set off after her. “There’s no need—”
“Of course there is!” She flicked him an impatient glance. “How will you know if this Mr. Mountford is in some odd way connected with our past?”
There was no good answer to that. He’d kissed her with the connected aims of further arousing her sensual curiosity and thus distracting her enough to allow him to pursue the burglar on his own, and had apparently failed on both counts. Swallowing his irritation, he followed her up the steps.
And through the French doors.
Exasperated, he halted. He wasn’t used to following another’s lead, let alone tripping on a lady’s heels. “Miss Carling!”
She halted before the door. Head rising, spine stiffening, she faced him. Her eyes met his. “Yes?”
He struggled to mask his glare. Intransigence glowed in her fine eyes, invested her stance. He debated for an instant, then, like all experienced commanders when faced with the unexpected, adjusted his tactics.
“Very well.” Disgusted, he waved her on. Giving way on a relatively minor point might well strengthen his hand later.
She sent him a beaming smile, then opened the door and led the way into the hall.
Lips compressed, he followed. It was only Bloomsbury, after all.
Indeed, being Bloomsbury, her presence on his arm proved a bonus. He’d forgotten that in the middle-class neighborhood into which Mountford’s address took them, a couple attracted less attention than a single, well dressed gentleman.
The house in Taviton Street was tall and narrow. It proved to be a lodging house. The landlady opened the door; neat and severe in dull black, she narrowed her eyes when he asked for Mountford.
“He’s gone. Left last week.”
After the foiled attempt at Number 12. Tristan affected mild surprise. “Did he say where he was going?”
“No. Just handed me my shillings on the way out.” She sniffed. “I wouldn’t have got them if I hadn’t been right here.”
Leonora edged in front of him. “We’re trying to find a man who might know something of an incident in Belgravia. We’re not even sure Mr. Mountford’s the right man. Was he tall?”
The landlady considered her, then thawed. “Aye. Medium-tall.” Her eyes flicked to Tristan. “Not as tall as your husband here, but tallish.”
A faint blush tinged Leonora’s fine skin; she hurried on. “Lightly built rather than heavy?”
The landlady nodded. “Black-haired, a bit too pale to be healthy. Brown eyes but a cold fish, if you ask me. Youngish in looks but in his middle twenties, I’d say. Thought a lot of himself, he did, and kept to himself, too.”
Leonora glanced up, over her shoulder. “That sounds like the man we’re searching for.”