His eyes searched hers, then he murmured, deep and low, “Let me think things through. I’ll call on you tomorrow, and we can discuss how best to go on.”
Her skin burned where his lips had brushed. She managed a nod, stepped back. He let her fingers slide from his. Pushing the iron gate, she stepped through, shut it. Looked at him through it. “Until tomorrow, then. Goodbye.”
Her pulse thrumming through her veins, throbbing in her fingertips, she turned and walked up the path.
Chapter Five
“Is this the place?”
Tristan nodded to Charles St. Austell and reached for the doorknob of Stolemore’s establishment. By the time he’d dropped by one of his smaller clubs, the Guards, the previous evening, he’d already decided to call on Stolemore and be rather more persuasive. Encountering Charles, up from the country on business, also taking refuge at the club, had been too good a stroke of fortune to overlook.
Either of them could be menacing enough to persuade almost anyone to talk; together, there was no doubt Stolemore would tell them all Tristan wished to know.
He’d only had to mention the matter to Charles, and he’d agreed. Indeed, he’d leapt at the chance to help, to once again exercise his peculiar talents.
The door swung inward; Tristan led the way in. This time, Stolemore was behind the desk. He looked up as the bell tinkled, his gaze sharpening as he recognized Tristan.
Tristan strolled forward, his gaze trained on the hapless agent. Stolemore’s eyes widened. His gaze deflected to Charles. The agent paled, then tensed.
Behind him, Tristan heard Charles move; he didn’t look around. His senses informed him Charles had turned the wooden sign on the door to CLOSED, then came the rattle of rings on wood; the light faded as Charles drew the curtains across the front windows.
Stolemore’s expression, eyes filled with apprehension, said he understood their threat very well. He grasped the edge of his desk and eased his chair back.
From the corner of his eye, Tristan watched Charles cross soft-footed to lounge, arms folded, against the edge of the curtained doorway leading deeper into the house. His grin would have done credit to a demon.
The message was clear. To escape the small office Stolemore would have to go through one or other of them. Although the agent was a heavy man, heavier than either Tristan or Charles, there was no doubt in any of their minds that he would never make it.
Tristan smiled, not humorously yet gently enough. “All we want is information.”
Stolemore licked his lips, his gaze flicking from him to Charles. “On what?”
His voice was rough, underlying fear grating.
Tristan paused as if savoring the sound, then softly replied, “I want the name and all the details you have on the party who wished to purchase Number 14 Montrose Place.”
Stolemore swallowed; again he edged back, his gaze shifting between them. “I don’t go talking about my clients. Worth my reputation to give out information like that.”
Again Tristan waited, his eyes never leaving Stolemore’s face. When the silence had stretched taut, along with Stolemore’s nerves, he softly inquired, “And what do you imagine it’s going to cost you not to oblige us?”
Stolemore paled even more; the lingering bruises from the beating administered by the very people he was protecting were clearly visible beneath his pasty skin. He turned to Charles, as if gauging his chances; an instant later, he looked back at Tristan. Puzzlement flowed behind his eyes. “Who are you?”
Tristan replied, his tone even, uninflected, “We’
re gentlemen who do not like seeing innocents taken advantage of. Suffice to say the recent activities of your client do not sit well with us.”
“Indeed,” Charles put in, his voice a dark purr, “you could say he’s rattling our cages.”
The last words were laden with menace.
Stolemore glanced at Charles, then quickly looked back at Tristan. “All right. I’ll tell you—but on condition you don’t tell him it was me gave you his name.”
“I can assure you that when we catch up with him, we won’t be wasting time discussing how we found him.” Tristan raised his brows. “Indeed, I can guarantee he’ll have much more pressing claims on his attention.”
Stolemore smothered a nervous snort. He reached for a drawer in the desk.
Tristan and Charles moved, silent, deadly; Stolemore froze, then glanced nervously at them, now positioned so he was directly between them. “It’s just a book,” he croaked. “I swear!”
A heartbeat passed, then Tristan nodded. “Take it out.”