There were lights burning in the rooms on the first floor of the Bastion Club; handing Leonora to the pavement, Tristan saw them, wondered…
Leonora shook out her skirts, then slipped her hand in his arm.
He looked down at her, refrained from mentioning how much he liked the little gesture of feminine acceptance. He was learning that she often did small revealing things instinctively, without noticing; he saw no reason to bring such transparency to her attention.
They headed up the path of Number 14.
“Who will you get to play the part of house agent?” Leonora glanced at him. “You can’t—he knows what you look like.” She ran her gaze over his features. “Even with one of your disguises…there’s no way of being sure he wouldn’t see through it.”
“Indeed.” Tristan glanced across at the Bastion Club as they climbed the porch steps. “I’ll see you in, speak with Humphrey and Jeremy, then I’m going next door.” He met her gaze as the front door opened. “It’s possible some of my associates are in town. If so…”
She arched a brow at him. “Your ex-colleagues?”
He nodded, following her into the hall. “I can’t think of any gentlemen more suited to aid us in this.”
Charles, predictably, was delighted.
“Excellent! I always knew this notion of a club was a brilliant idea.”
It was nearly ten o’clock; having consumed a superb dinner in the elegant dining room downstairs, they—Tristan, Charles, and Deverell—were now seated, sprawled and comfortable, in the library, each cradling a balloon liberally supplied with fine brandy.
“Indeed.” Despite his more reserved manner, Deverell looked equally interested. He eyed Charles. “I think I should be the house agent—you’ve already played one part in this drama.”
Charles looked aggrieved. “But I could always play another.”
“I think Deverell’s right.” Tristan firmly took charge. “He can be the house agent—this is only his second visit to Montrose Place, so chances are Mountford and his cronies won’t have spotted him. Even if they have, there’s no reason he can’t play totally vague and say he’s handling the matter for a friend.” Tristan glanced at Charles. “Meanwhile, there’s something else I think you and I should take care of.”
Charles in
stantly looked hopeful. “What?”
“I told you of this solicitor’s clerk who inherited from Carruthers.” He’d told them the entire story, all the pertinent facts, over dinner.
“The one who came to London and disappeared into the teeming throng?”
“Indeed. I believe I mentioned he’d originally planned to come to town? While searching for information in York, my operative learned that this Martinbury had earlier arranged to meet with a friend, another clerk from his office, here, in town; before he left unexpectedly, he confirmed the meeting.”
Charles raised his brows high. “When, and where?”
“Noon tomorrow, at the Red Lion in Gracechurch Street.”
Charles nodded. “So we nab him after the meeting—I assume you have descriptions?”
“Yes, but the friend has agreed to introduce me, so all we need do is be there, and then we’ll see what we can learn from Mr. Martinbury.”
“He couldn’t be Mountford, could he?” Deverell asked.
Tristan shook his head. “Martinbury was in York for much of the time Mountford’s been active down here.”
“Hmm.” Deverell sat back, rolled the brandy in his balloon. “If it won’t be Mountford who approaches me—and I agree that’s unlikely—then who do you think will try to rent the house?”
“My guess,” Tristan said, “would be a scrawny, weasel-faced specimen, short to medium height. Leonora—Miss Carling—has seen him twice. He seems certain to be an associate of Mountford’s.”
Charles opened his eyes wide. “Leonora, is it?” Swiveling in his chair, he fixed Tristan with his dark gaze. “So tell us—how sits the wind in that quarter, hmm?”
Impassive, Tristan studied Charles’s devilish face, and wondered what fiendish devilment Charles might concoct if he didn’t tell them…“As it happens, the notice of our engagement will appear in the Gazette tomorrow morning.”
“Oh-ho!”