He nodded, surveying the ground in the direction she’d indicated. “That was two evenings ago.” It hadn’t rained since. “Has your gardener been working here?”
“Not in the last few days. There’s not much to do here in winter.”
He put a hand on her arm, pressed briefly. “Stay here.” He continued down the path, treading carefully along the edge. “Tell me when I get to where he was standing.”
She watched, then said, “About there.”
He circled the area, eyes on the ground, then moved between the beds away from the path in the direction the man had gone.
He found what he was looking for a foot from the base of the wall, where the man had stepped heavily before jumping onto the thick creeper. He crouched down; Leonora came bustling up. The footprint was clearly delineated.
“Hmm…yes.”
He glanced up to find her bending near, studying the impression.
She caught his eye. “That looks about right.”
He rose; she straightened. “It’s the same size and shape as the print I found in the dust by the side door of Number 12.”
“The door the burglar came in through?”
He nodded and turned to the creeper-covered wall. He scanned it carefully, but it was Leonora who found the evidence.
“Here.” She lifted a broken twig, then let it fall.
“And here.” He pointed higher, where the creeper had been dislodged from the wall. He glanced at the heavy gate. “I don’t suppose you have the key?”
The look she threw him was coolly superior. She drew an old key from her pocket.
He swiped it from her fingers. Pretended not to see the flare of irritation in her eyes. Moving past her, he fitted the key to the huge old lock and turned it. The gate groaned protestingly as he hauled it open.
There were two clear prints in the alley running behind the houses, in the accumulated dirt covering the rough flags. A brief glance was enough to confirm they were from the same boot, made as the man jumped down from the wall. Thereafter, however, there were no clear traces.
“That’s conclusive enough.” He took Leonora’s arm, urged her back to the gate.
They reentered the garden, Leonora shooing Henrietta before them. Tristan closed and relocked the gate. Leonora was the only one who walked in the garden; he’d been watching long enough to be certain of that. That the burglar had singled her out worried him. Reminded him of his earlier conviction that she hadn’t told him all.
Turning from the gate, he held out the key. She took it, looked down to slip it into her pocket.
He glanced around. The gate lay to one side of the path, not in line with the archway in the hedge; they were out of sight of the lawn and the house. Courtesy of the fruit trees lining the side walls, they were also screened from any neighbors.
He looked down as Leonora raised her head.
He smiled. Infused all the art of which he was capable into the gesture.
She blinked, but, somewhat to his chagrin, seemed less addled than he’d hoped.
“Those earlier attempts to break in here—the burglar didn’t see you, did he?”
She shook her head. “The first time, only the servants were about. The second time, when Henrietta raised the alarm, we all came tumbling down, but he was long gone by then.”
She offered nothing more. Her periwinkle blue eyes remained clear, unclouded. She hadn’t stepped back; they were close, her face turned up so she could look into his.
Attraction flared, raced over his skin.
He let it. Let it flow and build, didn’t try to suppress it. Let it show in his face, in his eyes.
Hers, locked on his, widened. She cleared her throat. “We were going to discuss how best to go on.”