Puzzled, he raised a brow.
Her smile deepened. “You’re leaving me here.”
He searched her face, saw understanding in her eyes. He saluted her, and left.
By the time he reached Green Street, his plan was clear in his mind. It was late; his house was quiet. He went straight to his study, sat at his desk, and reached for his pen.
The next morning, he, Charles, and Deverell met at the Bastion Club shortly after dawn. It was March; dawn wasn’t that early, but they needed sufficient light to see by as they circled Number 16 Montrose Place. They checked every possible escape route, tested the guards Tristan already had in place, and arranged for reinforcements where needed.
At half past seven, they retreated to the club’s meeting room to reassess and report all that each individually had done, had set in train since the previous evening. At eight o’clock, they repaired to Number 14, where Humphrey and Jeremy, weary after working most of the night, and an eager Leonora were waiting.
A
long with a substantial breakfast. Leonora had clearly given orders that they were to be fed well.
Seated at one end of the table, Leonora sipped her tea; over the rim of her cup, she regarded the trio of dangerous men who had invaded her home.
It was the first time she’d met St. Austell and Deverell; one glance was enough for her to see the similarities between them and Tristan. Likewise, they both evoked the same wariness she’d initially felt with Tristan; she wouldn’t trust them, not entirely, not as a woman trusts a man, not unless she came to know them much better.
She looked at Tristan, beside her. “You said you would discuss a plan.”
He nodded. “A plan of how best to react to the situation as we currently know it.” He glanced at Humphrey. “Perhaps, if I outline the situation, you would correct me if you have more recent information.”
Humphrey inclined his head.
Tristan looked down at the table, clearly gathering his thoughts. “We know that Mountford is searching for something he believes hidden in this house. He’s been intent, persistent, unswervingly fixed on his goal for months. He seems increasingly desperate, and clearly will not cease until he finds what he’s after. We have a connection between Mountford and a foreigner, which may or may not be pertinent. Mountford is now on the scene, trying to gain access to the basement here. He has one known accomplice, a weasel-faced man.” Tristan paused to sip his coffee. “That’s the opposition as we know it.
“Now, to the something they’re after. Our best guess is that it’s something the late Cedric Carling, the previous owner of this house and a renowned herbalist, discovered, possibly working with another herbalist, A. J. Carruthers, unfortunately now also deceased. Cedric’s journals, and Carruthers’s letters and notes, all we’ve found so far, suggest a collaboration, but the project itself remains unclear.” Tristan looked at Humphrey.
Humphrey glanced at Jeremy. Waved him on.
Jeremy met the others’ eyes. “We have three sources of information—Cedric’s journals, letters to Cedric from Carruthers, and a set of notes from Carruthers, which we believe were enclosures sent with the letters. I’ve been concentrating on the letters and notes. Some of the notes detail individual experiments discussed and referred to in the letters. From what we’ve been able to link together so far, it seems certain Cedric and Carruthers were working together on some specific concoction. They discuss the properties of some fluid they were trying to influence with this concoction.” Jeremy paused, grimaced. “We have nothing where they state what the fluid is, but from various references, I believe it to be blood.”
The effect of that pronouncement on Tristan, St. Austell, and Deverell was marked. Leonora watched them exchange significant glances.
“So,” St. Austell murmured, his gaze locked with Tristan’s, “we have two renowned herbalists working on something to affect blood, and a possible foreign connection.”
Tristan’s expression had hardened. He nodded to Jeremy. “That clarifies the one uncertainty I had regarding our way forward. Clearly, Carruthers’s heir, Jonathon Martinbury, an upright and honest young man who has mysteriously disappeared after reaching London, apparently coming down in response to a letter regarding Carruthers’s and Cedric’s collaboration, is a potentially critical pawn in this game.”
“Indeed.” Deverell looked at Tristan. “I’ll swing my people on to that line, too.”
Leonora glanced from one to the other. “What line?”
“It’s now imperative we locate Martinbury. If he’s dead, that will take some time—probably more time than we have with Mountford working downstairs. But if Martinbury’s alive, there’s a chance we can scour the hospitals and hospices sufficiently well to locate him.”
“Convents.” When Tristan glanced at her, Leonora elaborated. “You didn’t mention them, but there are quite a lot in the city, and most take in the sick and injured as they’re able.”
“She’s right.” St. Austell looked at Deverell.
Who nodded. “I’ll direct my people that way.”
“What people?” Jeremy frowned at the trio. “You talk as if you have troops at your disposal.”
St. Austell raised his brows, amused. Tristan straightened his lips and replied, “In a way, we do. In our previous calling, we had need of…connections at all levels of society. And there are a lot of ex-soldiers we can call on for assistance. We each know people who are used to going out and looking for things for us.”
Leonora frowned Jeremy down when he would have asked more. “So you’ve combined your troops and sent them out to search for Martinbury. What does that leave us to do? What’s your plan?”
Tristan met her eyes, then glanced at Humphrey and Jeremy. “We still don’t know what Mountford’s after—we could simply sit back and wait for him to break in, then see what he goes for. That, however, is the more dangerous course. Letting him into this house, letting him at any stage get his hands on what he’s after, should be our last resort.”