She glanced at the clock. Too late to call at Trentham House for afternoon tea. Besides, she didn’t want to find herself surrounded by his old ladies; that would not advance her cause.
But losing a whole day in inaction wasn’t her style, either. There had to be some way, some excuse she could use to call on Trentham—and get him to herself in appropriate surrounds.
“Would you like me to show you around, miss?”
“No, no.” Leonora crossed the threshold of the Trentham House conservatory and cast a reassuring smile at Trentham’s butler. “I’ll just amble about and await his lordship. If you’re sure he’ll return soon?”
“I’m certain he’ll arrive home before dark.”
“In that case…” She smiled and gestured about her, moving deeper into the room.
“Should you require anything, the bellpull is to the left.” Serene and unperturbed, the butler bowed and left her.
Leonora looked around. Trentham’s conservatory was much larger than theirs; indeed, it was monstrous. Recalling his supposed need of information on such rooms, she humphed. His was not just larger, it was better, the temperature much more even, the floor beautifully tiled in blue-and-green mosaics. A small fountain tinkled somewhere—she couldn’t see through the artfully arranged, lush and verdant growth.
A path led on; she strolled down it.
It was four o’clock; outside the glass-paned walls the light was fading fast. Trentham clearly wouldn’t be long, but why he would feel impelled by falling night to return to his house she couldn’t fathom. The butler, however, had been quite definite on the point.
She reached the end of the path and stepped into a clearing ringed by high banks of shrubs and flowering bushes. It contained a circular pond set into the floor; the small fountain at its center was responsible for the tinkling. Beyond the pond, a wide window seat, heavily cushioned, followed the curve of the windowed wall; sitting on it, one could either view the garden outside, or look inward, contemplating the pond and the well-stocked conservatory.
Crossing to the window seat, she sank onto the cushions. They were deep, comfortable—perfect for her needs. She considered, then stood and walked on, along another path following the curved outer wall. Better she meet Trentham standing; he towered over her as it was. She could lead him back to the window seat—
A flash of movement in the garden caught her eye. She stopped, looked; she couldn’t see anything unusual. The shadows had deepened while she’d been ambling; gloom now gathered beneath the trees.
Then, out of one such pocket of darkness, a man emerged. Tall, dark, lean, he wore a tattered coat and stained corduroy breeches, a battered cap pulled low on his head. He glanced furtively around as he strode rapidly for the house.
Leonora sucked in a breath. Wild thoughts of yet another burglar flooded her mind; recollection of the man who twice had attacked her stole her breath. This man was much larger; if he got his hands on her, she wouldn’t be able to break free.
And his long legs were carrying him straight to the conservatory.
Sheer panic held her motionless in the shadow of the massed plants. The door would be locked, she told herself. Trentham’s butler was excellent—
The man reached the door, reached for the handle, turned it.
The door swung inward. He stepped through.
Faint light from the distant hallway reached him as he closed the door, turned, straightened.
“Good God!”
The exclamation exploded from Leonora’s tight chest. She stared, unable to believe her eyes.
Trentham’s head had snapped around at her first squeak.
He stared back at her, then his lips thinned and he frowned—and recognition was complete.
“Sssh!” He motioned her to silence, glanced toward the corridor, then, soft-footed, approached. “At the risk of repeating myself, what the damn hell are you doing here?”
She simply stared at him—at the grime worked into his face, at the dark stubble shading his jaw. A smudge of soot ran upward from one brow and disappeared beneath his hair, now hanging lank and listless under that cap—a worn tartan monstrosity that looked even worse at close range.
Her gaze drifted down to take in his coat, tattered and none too clean, to his breeches and knitted stockings, and the rough work boots he had on his feet. Reaching them, she paused, then ran her gaze all the way back up to his eyes. Met his irritated gaze.
“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours—what in all Hades are you supposed to be?”
His lips thinned. “What do I look like?”
“Like a navvy from the most dangerous slum in town.” A definite aroma reached her; she sniffed. “Perhaps down by the docks.”