“Yes. That’s me.” Gripping her arm, he pushed her ahead of him into the front hall. “I’m here to get something of my aunt’s that now belongs to me.”
He didn’t put away the knife, a dagger of sorts. A frenetic tension thrummed through him, about him; his manner was strained, nervous.
She let her lips part, striving to look suitably witless. “Oh! Do you mean the formula?”
She had to get him away from Number 16, preferably into Number 14. Along the way, she had to convince him she was so helpless and unthreatening that he didn’t need to keep hold of her. If Tristan and the others came up the stairs now…Mountford had her and a dagger, not to her mind a helpful arrangement.
He was studying her through slitted eyes. “What do you know about the formula? Have they found it?”
“Oh, I believe so. At least, I think that’s what they said. My uncle, you know, and my brother. They’ve been working on our late cousin Cedric Carling’s journals, and I think they were saying only just a few hours ago that they believe they have the thing clear at last!”
Throughout her artless speech, she’d been drifting toward the front door; he’d been drifting with her.
She cleared her throat. “I realize there must have been some misunderstanding.” With an airy wave, she dismissed whatever had occurred downstairs. “But I’m sure if you talk to my uncle and brother, they’d be happy to share the formula with you, given you are A. J. Carruthers’s heir.”
Emerging into the moonlight on the front porch, he stared at her.
She kept her expression as vacant as she could, tried not to react to his menace. The hand holding the knife was trembling; he seemed uncertain, off-balance, struggling to think.
He looked across at Number 14. “Yes,” he breathed. “Your uncle and brother are very fond of you, aren’t they?”
“Oh, yes.” She gathered her skirts and with absolutely no hurry, descended the steps; he still did not let go of her arm but descended alongside her. “Why, I’ve kept house for them for more than a decade, you know. Indeed, they’d be lost without me—”
She continued in airy, totally vacuous vein as they went down the path, turned into the street, walked the short distance to the gate of Number 14, and went in. He walked beside her, still holding her arm, not saying anything; he was so tense, nervously starting, twitching, if he’d been a woman she’d have diagnosed incipient hysteria.
When they reached the front steps, he pulled her roughly closer. Held the dagger up for her to see. “We don’t need any interference from your servants.”
She blinked at the dagger, then, forcing her eyes wide, stared blankly up at him. “The door’s on the latch—we won’t need to disturb them.”
His tension eased a notch. “Good.” He propelled her up the steps. He seemed to be trying to look in every direction at once.
Leonora reached for the door; she glanced at Duke’s white face, tight, taut, wondered for one instant if she was wise to trust in Tristan…
Hauling in a breath, she lifted her head and opened the door. Prayed Castor wouldn’t appear.
Duke stepped inside with her, keeping close beside her. His grip on her arm eased as he scanned the empty hall.
Quietly closing the door, she said, her tone easy and light, inconsequential, “My uncle and brother will be in the library. It’s this way.”
He kept his hand on her arm, still looked this way and that, but went with her quickly and quietly through the hall and into the corridor leading to the library.
Leonora thought furiously, tried to plan what she should say. Duke’s nerves were strung tight, any tighter and they’d snap. God only knew what he might do then. She hadn’t dared look to see if Tristan and the others were following, but the old locks on the cellar doors might take longer to pick than less heavy modern locks.
She still didn’t feel that she’d made the wrong decision—Tristan would rescue her, and Jeremy and Humphrey, soon. Until then, it was up to her to keep them all—Jeremy, Humphrey, and herself—safe.
Her ploy had worked so far; she couldn’t think of anything better than to continue in that vein.
Opening the library door, she sailed in. “Uncle, Jeremy—we have a guest.”
Duke kept pace with her, kicking the door shut behind them.
Inwardly muttering—when would he let her go?—she kept a silly, innocuous expression plastered on her face. “I found Mr. Martinbury next door—it seems he’s been looking for that formula of Cousin Cedric’s. He seems to think it belongs to him—I told him you wouldn’t mind sharing it with him…?”
She infused every ounce of quavering helplessness into her voice, every last iota of intent into her eyes. If anyone could confuse and obstruct someone with words written on a page, it was her brother and uncle.
Both were in their usual places; both had glanced up, then remained frozen.
Jeremy met her gaze, read the message in her eyes. His desk was awash with papers; he started to rise from his chair behind it.