Worry clouded his face.
“Have you heard from him since he’s been in town?”
Charles asked the question; when Carter blinked at him, Tristan smoothly added, “Another associate.”
Carter shook his head. “No. No one at home—York, that is—has had any word from him. His landlady was surprised; she made me promise to tell him to write when I met him. It’s odd—he’s really a very reliable person, and he is fond of her. She’s like a mother to him.”
Tristan exchanged a glance with Charles. “I think it’s time we searched more actively for Mr. Martinbury.” Turning to Carter, he nodded at his card, which the young man still held in his hand. “If you do hear from Martinbury, any contact at all, I’d be obliged if you would send word immediately to that address. Likewise, if you furnish me with your direction, I’ll make sure you’re informed if we locate your friend.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” Carter dragged a tablet from his pocket, found a pencil, and quickly wrote down the address of his lodging hou
se. He handed the sheet to Tristan. He read it, then nodded and put the note in his pocket.
Carter was frowning. “I wonder if he even reached London.”
Tristan rose. “He did.” He drained his tankard, set it on the table. “He left the coach when it reached town, not before. Unfortunately, tracing a single man on the streets of London is not at all easy.”
He said the last with a reassuring smile. With a nod to Carter, he and Charles left.
They paused on the pavement outside.
“Tracing a single man walking the streets of London may not be easy.” Charles glanced at Tristan. “Tracing a dead one is not quite so hard.”
“No, indeed.” Tristan’s expression had hardened. “I’ll take the watchhouses.”
“And I’ll take the hospitals. Meet at the club later tonight?”
Tristan nodded. Then grimaced. “I just remembered…”
Charles glanced at him, then hooted. “Just remembered you’d announced your engagement—of course! No longer a life of ease for you—not until you’re wed.”
“Which only makes me even more determined to find Martinbury with all speed. I’ll send word to Gasthorpe if I find anything.”
“I’ll do the same.” With a nod, Charles headed down the street.
Tristan watched him go, then swore, swung on his heel, and strode off in the opposite direction.
Chapter Seventeen
The day was fleeing, whipped away by grey squalls, as Tristan climbed the steps of Number 14 and asked to see Leonora. Castor directed him to the parlor; dismissing the butler, he opened the parlor door and went in.
Leonora didn’t hear him. She was seated on the chaise, facing the windows, looking out at the garden, at the shrubs bowing before the blustering wind. Beside her, a fire burned brightly in the hearth, crackling and spitting cheerily. Henrietta lay stretched before the flames, luxuriating in their heat.
The scene was comfortable, cozy—warming in a way that had nothing to do with temperature, a subtle comfort to the heart.
He took a step, let his heel fall heavily.
She heard, turned…then she saw him and her face lit. Not just with expectation, not just with eagerness to hear what he had learned, but with an open welcome as if a part of her had returned.
He neared and she rose, held out her hands. He took them, raised first one, then the other to his lips, then drew her nearer and bent his head. Took her mouth in a kiss he struggled to keep within bounds, let his senses savor, then reined them in.
When he lifted his head, she smiled at him; their gazes touched, held for a moment, then she sank onto the chaise.
He crouched to pat Henrietta.
Leonora watched him, then said, “Now before you tell me anything else, explain how Mountford got into Number 16 last night. You said there were no forced locks, and Castor told me some tale about you asking after a drainage inspector. What has he to do with anything—or was he Mountford?”
Tristan glanced at her, then nodded. “Daisy’s description tallies. It seems he posed as an inspector and talked her into letting him inspect the kitchen, scullery, and laundry drains.”