Stephanie Laurens - The Lady Chosen

Tristan strolled down Motcomb Street toward the huddle of shops midway along that housed the office of Earnest Stolemore, House and Land Agent. His discussion with Leonora Carling had sharpened his senses, stirring instincts that, until recently, had been a critical element in his daily life. Until recently his life had depended on those instincts, in reading their messages accurately, and reacting correctly.

He wasn’t sure what he made of Miss Carling—Leonora as he thought of her, only reasonable given he’d been silently watching her for three weeks. She’d been physically more attractive than he’d deduced from afar, her hair a rich mahogany in which veins of garnet glowed, those unusual blue eyes large and almond-shaped beneath finely drawn dark brows. Her nose was straight, her face finely boned, cheekbones high, her skin pale and flawless. But it was her lips that set the tone of her appearance; full, generously curved, a dusky rose, they tempted a man to take, to taste.

His instantaneous reaction, and hers, had not escaped him. Her response, however, intrigued him; it was almost as if she hadn’t recognized that flash of sensual heat for what it was.

Which raised certain fascinating questions he might well be tempted to pursue, later. At present, however, it was the pragmatic facts she’d revealed that exercised his mind.

Her fears about the attempted burglaries might be simply a figment of an overactive feminine imagination aroused by what he assumed had been Stolemore’s intimidatory tactics in trying to gain the sale of the house.

She might even have imagined the incidents entirely.

His instincts whispered otherwise.

In his previous occupation, reading people, assessing them, had been crucial; he’d long ago mastered the knack. Leonora Carling was, he would swear, a strong-willed, practical female with a healthy vein of common sense. Definitely not the sort to start at shadows, let alone imagine burglaries.

If her supposition was correct, and the burglaries were connected with Stolemore’s client’s wish to buy her uncle’s house…

His eyes narrowed. The full picture of why she’d come out to beard him formed in his mind. He didn’t, definitely didn’t, approve. Face set, he strolled on.

To the green-painted frontage of Stolemore’s enterprise. Tristan’s lips curved; no one viewing the gesture would have labeled it a smile. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the door as he reached for the handle, as he turned it, substituted a more comforting face. Stolemore, no doubt, would satisfy his curiosity.

The bell over the door jangled.

Tristan entered. The rotund figure of Stolemore was not behind his desk. The small office was empty. A doorway opposite the front door was masked by a curtain; it led into the tiny house of which the office was the front room.

Shutting the door, Tristan waited, but there was no sound of shuffling feet, of the lumbering gait of the heavily built agent.

“Stolemore?” Tristan’s voice echoed, far stronger than the tinkling bell. Again he waited. A minute ticked by and still there was no sound.

None.

He had an appointment, one Stolemore would not have missed. He had the bank draft for the final payment for the house in his pocket; the way the sale had been arranged, Stolemore’s commission came from this last payment.

Hands in his greatcoat pockets, Tristan stood perfectly still, his back to the door, his gaze fixed on the thin curtain before him.

Something was definitely not right.

He drew in his attention, focused it, then walked forward, slowly, absolutely silently, to the curtain. Reaching up, he abruptly drew the folds aside, simultaneously stepping to the side of the doorway.

The jingle of the curtain rings died.

A narrow, dimly lit corridor led on. He entered, keeping his shoulders angled, his back toward the wall. A few steps along he came to a stairway so narrow he wondered how Stolemore got up it; he debated but, hearing no sound from upstairs, sensing no presence, he continued along the corridor.

It ended in a tiny lean-to kitchen built onto the back of the house.

A figure lay slumped on the flags on the other side of the rickety table that took up most of the space.

Otherwise, the room was uninhabited.

The figure was Stolemore; he’d been savagely beaten.

There was no one else in the house; Tristan was certain enough to dispense with caution. From the look of the bruises on Stolemore’s face, he’d been attacked some hours ago.

One chair had tipped over. Tristan righted it as he edged around the table, then went down on one knee by the agent’s side. The briefest examination confirmed Stolemore was alive, but unconscious. It appeared he’d been staggering to reach the pump handle set in the bench at the end of the small kitchen. Rising, Tristan found a bowl, placed it under the spout, and wielded the handle.

A large handkerchief was protruding from the nattily dressed agent’s coat pocket; Tristan took it and used it to bathe Stolemore’s face.

The agent stirred, then opened his eyes.

Tension stabbed through the large frame. Panic flared in Stolemore’s eyes, then he focused, and recognized Tristan.

“Oh. Argh …” Stolemore winced, then struggled to rise.

Tristan grabbed his arm and hauled him up. “Don’t try to talk yet.” He hoisted Stolemore onto the chair. “Do you have any brandy?”

Stolemore pointed to a cupboard. Tristan opened it, found the bottle and a glass, and poured a generous amount. He pushed the glass to Stolemore, recorked the bottle and placed it on the table before the agent.

Slipping his hands into his greatcoat pockets, he leaned back against the narrow counter. Gave Stolemore a minute to regain his wits.

But only a minute.

“Who did it?”

Stolemore squinted up at him through one half-closed eye. The other remained completely closed. He took another sip of brandy, dropped his gaze to the glass, then murmured, “Fell down the stairs.”

“Fell down the stairs, walked into a door, hit your head on the table…I see.”

Stolemore glanced up at him fleetingly, then lowered his gaze to the glass and kept it there. “Was an accident.”

Tristan let a moment slip by, then quietly said, “If you say so.”

At the note in his voice, one of menace that chilled the spine, Stolemore looked up, lips parting. His eye now wide, he rushed into speech. “I can’t tell you anything—bound by confidentiality, I am. And it don’t affect you gentlemen, not at all. I swear.”

Tristan read what he could from the agent’s face, difficult given the swelling and bruising. “I see.” Whoever had punished Stolemore had been an amateur; he or indeed any of his ex-colleagues could have inflicted much greater damage yet left far less evidence.

But there was no point, given Stolemore’s present condition, in going further down that road. He would simply lose consciousness again.

Reaching into his pocket, Tristan withdrew the banker’s draft. “I’ve brought the final payment as agreed.” Stolemore’s eyes fastened on the slip of paper as he drew it back and forth between his fingers. “You have the title deed, I take it?”

Stolemore grunted. “In a safe place.” Slowly, he pushed up from the table. “If you’ll stay here for a minute, I’ll fetch it.”

Tristan nodded. He watched Stolemore hobble to the door. “No need to rush.”

A small part of his mind tracked the lumbering agent as he moved through the house, identified the location of his “safe place” as under the third stair. For the most part, however, he stayed leaning against the counter, quietly adding two and two.

And not liking the number he came up with.

When Stolemore limped back, a title deed tied with ribbon in one hand, Tristan straightened. He held out a commanding hand; Stolemore gave him the deed. Unraveling the ribbon, he unrolled the deed, swiftly checked it, then rerolled it and slipped it into his pocket.