Tristan rose, drawing her to her feet beside him, setting her hand on his sleeve. He led her in, halting before the desk and the chairs set before it.
After closing the door, Dalziel joined them. “Miss Carling, I presume.”
“Indeed.” She gave him her hand, met his gaze—as penetrating as Tristan’s—coolly. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Dalziel’s gaze flicked to Tristan’s face; his thin lips were not quite straight when he inclined his head and waved them to the chairs.
Rounding the desk, he sat. “So—who was behind the incidents in Montrose Place?”
“A Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.”
Unimpressed, Dalziel raised his brows.
Tristan smiled his chilly smile. “The Count is known at Hapsburg House.”
“Ah.”
“And—” From his pocket, Tristan withdrew the sketch Humphrey had, to everyone’s surprise, made of the Count. “This should help in identifying him—it’s a remarkable likeness.”
Dalziel took it, studied it, then nodded. “Excellent. And he accepted the false formula?”
“As far as we could tell. He handed over Martinbury’s vowels in exchange.”
“Good. And Martinbury is on his way north?”
“Not yet, but he will be. He appears genuinely appalled by his cousin’s injuries and will escort him back to York once he—Jonathon—is fit enough to travel. Until then, they’ll remain at our club.”
“And St. Austell and Deverell?”
“Both have been neglecting their own affairs. Pressing matters necessitated their return to their own hearths.”
“Indeed?” One laconic brow rose, then Dalziel turned his dark gaze on Leonora. “I’ve made inquiries among government ranks, and there’s considerable interest in your late cousin’s formula, Miss Carling. I’ve been asked to inform your uncle that certain gentlemen would like to call on him at his earliest convenience. It would, of course, be helpful if their visit could take place before the Martinburys leave London.”
She inclined her head. “I’l
l convey that message to my uncle. Perhaps your gentlemen could send a messenger tomorrow to set a time?”
Dalziel inclined his head in turn. “I’ll advise them to do so.”
His gaze, fathomless, lingered on her for a moment, then switched to Tristan. “I take it”—the words were even, yet gentler—“that this is farewell, then?”
Tristan held his gaze, then his lips quirked. He rose, and extended his hand. “Indeed. As close to farewell as those in our business ever get.”
An answering smile fleetingly softened Dalziel’s face as rising, too, he gripped Tristan’s hand. Then he released it, and bowed to Leonora. “Your servant, Miss Carling. I won’t pretend I would much rather you did not exist, but fate has clearly overruled me.” His lazy smile robbed the words of any offense. “I sincerely wish you both well.”
“Thank you.” Feeling far more in charity with him than she had expected, Leonora politely nodded.
Then she turned. Tristan took her hand, opened the door, and they left the small office in the bowels of Whitehall.
“Why did you take me to meet him?”
“Dalziel?”
“Yes, Dalziel. He obviously wasn’t expecting me—he clearly saw my presence as some message. What?”
Tristan looked into her face as the carriage slowed for a corner, then righted and rolled on. “I took you because seeing you, meeting you, was the one message he could neither ignore nor misconstrue. He is my past; you—” He lifted her hand, placed a kiss in her palm, then closed his hand about hers. “You,” he said, his voice deep and low, “are my future.”
She considered what little she could read in his shadowed face. “So all that”—with her other hand, she gestured back toward Whitehall—“is at an end—behind you?”