Stephanie Laurens: The Lady Chosen

“Of course not.” Leonora glanced down at her gown; she tweaked the bodice. “But I must learn whether the gentlemen next door were those who previously wanted this house.”

“And if they are?”

“If they are, then either they were behind the incidents, in which case the incidents will cease, or alternatively they know nothing of our attempted burglaries, or the other happenings, in which case…” She frowned, then pushed past Harriet. “I must go. Toby said the man would be leaving soon.”

Ignoring Harriet’s worried look, Leonora hurried through the kitchen. Waving aside the usual household queries from Cook, Mrs. Wantage, their housekeeper, and Castor, her uncle’s ancient butler, promising to return shortly and deal with everything, she pushed through the swinging baize-covered door into the front hall.

Castor followed. “Shall I summon a hackney, miss? Or do you wish for a footman…?”

“No, no.” Grabbing her cloak, she swung it about her shoulders and quickly tied the strings. “I’m just stepping into the street for a minute—I’ll be back directly.”

Snatching her bonnet from the hall stand, she plonked it on her head; looking into the hall mirror, she swiftly tied the ribbons. She spared a glance for her appearance. Not perfect, but it would do. Interrogating unknown gentlemen was not something she often did; regardless, she wasn’t about to quail or quake. The situation was all too serious.

She turned to the door.

Castor stood before it, a vague frown creasing his brow. “Where shall I say you’ve gone if Sir Humphrey or Mr. Jeremy should ask?”

“They won’t. If they do, just tell them I’ve gone to call next door.” They’d think she’d gone to visit at Number 16, not Number 12.

Henrietta sat beside the door, bright eyes locked on her, canine jaws parted, tongue lolling, hoping against hope…

“Stay here.”

With a whine, the hound flopped to the flags and, in patent disgust, laid her huge head on her paws.

Leonora ignored her. She gestured impatiently at the door; as soon as Castor opened it, she hurried out onto the tiled front porch. At the top of the steps, she paused to scan the street; it was, as she’d hoped, deserted. Relieved, she rapidly descended into the fantasy of the front garden.

Normally, the garden would have distracted her, at least made her look and take note. Today, hurrying down the main path, she barely saw the bushes, the bright berries bobbing on the naked branches, the strange lacy leaves growing in profusion. Today, the fantastical creation of her distant cousin Cedric Carling failed to slow her precipitate rush for the front gate.

The new owners of Number 12 were a group of lords—so Toby had heard, but who knew? At the very least they were tonnish gentlemen. Apparently they were refurbishing the house, but none of them planned to live in it—an unquestionably odd, distinctly suspicious circumstance. Combined with all else that had been going on…she was determined to discover if there was any connection.

For the past three months, she and her family had been subjected to determined harrassment aimed at persuading them to sell their house. First had come an approach through a local agent. From dogged persuasion, the agent’s arguments had degenerated into belligerence and pugnacity. Nevertheless, she’d eventually convinced the man, and presumably his clients, that her uncle would not sell.

Her relief had been short-lived.

Within weeks, there’d been two attempts to break into their house. Both had been foiled, one by the staff, the other by Henrietta. She might have dismissed the occurences as coincidence if it hadn’t been for the subsequent attacks on her.

Those had been much more frightening.

She’d told no one bar Harriet of those incidents, not her uncle Humphrey or her brother Jeremy or any other of the staff. There was no point rattling the servants, and as for her uncle and brother, if she managed to make them believe that the incidents had actually happened and weren’t a figment of her untrustworthy female imagination, they would only restrict her movements, further compromising her ability to deal with the problem. To identify those responsible and their reasons, and ensure no further incidents occurred.

That was her goal; the gentleman from next door would, she hoped, get her one step further along her road.

Reaching the tall wrought-iron gate set into the high stone wall, she hauled it open and whisked through, turning to her right, toward Number 12—

And crashed into a walking monument.

“Oh!”

She cannoned off a body like stone.

It gave not an inch, but it moved like lightning.

Hard hands gripped her arms above the elbows.

Sparks flared and sizzled, struck by the collision. Sensation flashed from where his fingers grasped.

He held her steady, stopping her from falling.

Also trapping her.

Her lungs seized. Her eyes, widening, clashed, then locked with a hard hazel gaze, one surprisingly sharp. Even as she noticed, he blinked; his heavy lids descended, screening his eyes. The planes of his face, until then chiseled granite, softened into an expression of easy charm.

His lips changed the most—from a rigid, determined line into curving, beguiling mobility.

He smiled.

She hauled her gaze back up to his eyes. Blushed.

“I’m so sorry. Pray excuse me.” Flustered, she stepped back, disengaged. His fingers eased; his hands slid from her. Was it her imagination that labeled the move reluctant? Her skin prickled; her nerves skittered. Oddly breathless, she hurried on, “I didn’t see you coming…”

Her gaze flicked beyond him—to the house at Number12. She registered the direction from which he’d been walking, and the trees along the boundary wall between Number 12 and Number 14, the only ones that could have hidden him during her earlier survey of the street.

Her fluster abruptly evaporated; she looked at him. “Are you the gentleman from Number 12?”

He didn’t blink; not a flicker of surprise at such a strange greeting—almost an accusation given her tone—showed in that charmingly mobile face. He had sable brown hair, worn slightly longer than was fashionable; his features possessed a distinctly autocratic cast. An instant, brief but discernible, passed, then he inclined his head. “Tristan Wemyss. Trentham, for my sins.” His gaze moved past her to the open gate. “I take it you live here?”

“Indeed. With my uncle and brother.” Lifting her chin, she drew a tight breath, fixed her eyes on his, glinting green and gold beneath his dark lashes. “I’m glad I caught you. I wished to ask if you and your friends were the purchaser who attempted to buy my uncle’s house last November, through the agent Stolemore.”

His gaze returned to her face, studying it as if he could read far more than she would like therein. He was tall, broad-shouldered; his scrutiny gave her no opportunity to assess further, but the impression she’d gleaned was one of quiet elegance, a fashionable facade behind which unexpected strength lurked. Her senses had registered the contradiction between how he looked and how he felt in the instant she’d run into him.

Neither name nor title meant anything to her yet; she would check in Debrett’s later. The only thing that struck her as out of place was the light tan that colored his skin…an idea stirred, but, held by his gaze, she couldn’t pin down the impression. His hair fell in gentle waves about his head, framing a broad forehead above arched dark brows that now drew into a frown.

“No.” He hesitated, then added, “We heard of the proposed sale of Number 12 in mid-January, through an acquaintance. Stolemore handled the sale, true enough, but we dealt directly with the owners.”