Or rather, she had, but she’d never admitted it. Never told him.
She was there to rectify that omission.
Turning away, taking care to tread silently, she continued toward the morning room. She’d guessed he would stay in and work at estate matters, all the matters he’d no doubt been neglecting while concentrating on catching Mountford. The study was where she’d hoped he’d be; she’d seen both library and study, and it was the study that held the most definite impression of him, of being the room to which he would retreat. His lair.
She was glad to have been proved right; the library was in the other wing, across the front hall.
Reaching the French doors through which they’d entered on her previous visit, she placed herself squarely before them, braced her hands on the frame as he had—using both hands rather than just one—and pushed sharply.
The doors rattled, but remained closed.
“Damn!” She frowned at them, then stepped close and put her shoulder to the spot. She counted to three, then flung her weight against the doors.
They popped open; she only just saved herself from sprawling on the floor.
Regaining her balance, she whirled and closed the doors, then, catching her cloak about her, slunk silently into the room. She waited, breath bated, to see if anyone had been alerted; she didn’t think she’d made much noise.
No footsteps sounded; no one came. Her heartbeat gradually slowed.
Cautiously, she went forward. The last thing she wished was to be discovered breaking into this house in order to meet illicitly with its master; if she were caught, once they wed, she’d have to dismiss, or bribe, the entire staff. She didn’t want to have to face the choice.
She checked the front hall. As before, at this time of night there were no footmen hovering; Havers, the butler, would be belowstairs. Her way was clear; she slipped into the shadows of the corridor leading to the study with a prayer on her lips.
In thanks for what she’d thus far received, and with hope that her luck would hold.
Halting outside the study door, she faced the panels, and tried to imagine, in a last-minute rehearsal, how their conversation would go…but her mind stubbornly remained blank.
She had to get on with it, with her apology and her declaration. Drawing in a deep breath, she grasped the doorknob.
It jerked out of her grip; the door was flung wide.
She blinked, and found Tristan beside her. Towering over her.
He looked past her, down the corridor, then seized her hand and pulled her into the room. Lowering the pistol he held in his other hand, he released her and closed the door.
She stared at the pistol. “Good heavens!” She lifted stunned eyes to his face. “Would you have shot me?”
His eyes narrowed. “Not you. I didn’t know who…” His lips thinned. He turned away. “Creeping up on me is never wise.”
She opened her eyes wide. “I’ll remember that in future.”
He prowled to a sideboard and laid the pistol in the display case atop it. His gaze was dark as he glanced back at her, then returned to stand by the desk.
She remained where she’d halted, more or less in the middle of the room. It wasn’t a big room, and he was in it.
His gaze rose to her face. Hardened. “What are you doing here? No—wait!” He held up a hand. “First tell me how you got here.”
She’d expected that tack. Clasping her hands, she nodded. “You didn’t call—not that I’d expected it”—she had, but had realized her error—“so I had to call here. As we’ve previously discovered, me calling during the customary visiting hours is unlikely to provide us with much chance of private conversation, so…” She dragged in a huge breath and rushed on, “I summoned Gasthorpe, and hired a coach through him—I insisted he keep the matter strictly private, so you mustn’t hold that against him. The coach—”
She told him all, stressing that the coach with coachman and footman was waiting in the mews to take her home. When she came to the end of her recitation, he let a moment pass, then faintly raised his brows—the first change in his expression since she’d entered the room.
He shifted and leaned back against the edge of the desk. His gaze remained on her face. “Jeremy—where does he think you are?”
“He and Humphrey are quite sure I’m asleep. They’ve thrown themselves into making sense of Cedric’s journals; they’re engrossed.”
A subtle change rippled across his features, sharpening, hardening; she quickly added, “Despite that, Jeremy did make sure the locks were all changed, as you suggested.”
He held her gaze; a long moment passed, then he inclined his head fractionally, acknowledging she’d read his thoughts accurately. Dampening an urge to smile, she went on, “Regardless, I’ve been keeping Henrietta in my room at night, so she won’t wander…” And disturb her, worry her. She blinked, and continued, “So I had to take her with me when I left this evening—she’s with Biggs in the kitchen at Number 12.”