Stephanie Laurens - The Lady Chosen

Stolemore, wheezing, had slumped back into the chair.

Tristan met his eyes. Raised the draft, held between two fingers. “One question, and then I’ll leave you.”

Stolemore, his gaze all but blank, waited.

“If I was to guess that whoever did this to you was the same person or persons who late last year hired you to negotiate the purchase of Number 14 Montrose Place, would I be wrong?”

The agent didn’t need to answer; the truth was there in his bloated face as he followed the carefully spaced words. Only when he had to decide how to reply did he stop to think.

He blinked, painfully, then met Tristan’s gaze. His own remained dull. “I’m bound by confidentiality.”

Tristan let a half minute slide by, then inclined his head. He flicked his fingers; the bank draft sailed down to the table, sliding toward Stolemore. He put out a large hand and trapped it.

Tristan pushed away from the counter. “I’ll leave you to your business.”

Half an hour after returning to the house, Leonora escaped the demands of the household and took refuge in the conservatory. The glass-walled and -roofed room was her own special place within the large house, her retreat.

Her heels clicked on the tiled floor as she walked to the wrought-iron table and chairs set in the bow window. Henrietta’s claws clicked in soft counterpoint as she followed.

Presently heated against the cold outside, the room was filled with rioting plants—ferns, exotic creepers, and strange-smelling herbs. Combining with the scents, the faint yet pervasive smell of earth and growing things soothed and reassured.

Sinking into one of the cushioned chairs, Leonora looked out over the winter garden. She should report meeting Trentham to her uncle and Jeremy; if he called later and mentioned it, it would appear odd if she hadn’t. Both Humphrey and Jeremy would expect some description of Trentham, yet assembling a word picture of the man she’d met on the pavement less than an hour ago was not straightforward. Dark-haired, tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, dressed elegantly, and patently of the first stare—the superficial characteristics were simple to define.

Less certain was the impression she’d gained of a man outwardly charming and inwardly quite different.

That impression had owed more to his features, to the sharpness in his heavy-lidded eyes, not always concealed by his long lashes, the almost grimly determined set of mouth and chin before they’d softened, the harsh lines of his face before they’d eased, adopting a cloak of beguiling charm. It was an impression underscored by other physical attributes—like the fact he’d not even flinched when she’d run full tilt into him. She was taller than the average; most men would at least have taken a step back.

Not Trentham.

There were other anomalies, too. His behavior on meeting a lady he’d never set eyes on before, and could not have known anything of, had been too dictatorial, too definite. He’d actually had the temerity to interrogate her, and he’d done it, even knowing she’d noticed, without a blink.

She was accustomed to running the house, indeed, to running all their lives; she’d performed in that role for the past twelve years. She was decisive, confident, assured, in no way intimidated by the male of the species, yet Trentham…what was it about him that had made her, not exactly wary but watchful, careful?

The remembered sensations their physical contact had evoked, not once but multiple times, rose in her mind; she frowned and buried them. Doubtless some disordered reaction on her part; she hadn’t expected to collide with him—it was most likely some strange symptom of shock.

Moments passed; she sat staring through the windows, unseeing, then shifted, frowned, and focused her mind on defining where she and her problem now were.

Regardless of Trentham’s disconcerting presence, she’d extracted all she’d needed from their meeting. She’d learned the answer to what had been her most pressing question—neither Trentham nor his friends were behind the offers to buy this house. She accepted his word unequivocally; there was that about him that left no room for doubt. Likewise, he and his friends were not responsible for the attempts to break in, nor the more disturbing, infinitely more unnerving attempts to scare her witless.

Which left her facing the question of who was.

The latch clicked; she turned as Castor walked in.

“The Earl of Trentham has called, miss. He’s asked to speak with you.”

A rush of thoughts tumbled through her mind; a flurry of unfamiliar feelings flitted in her stomach. Inwardly frowning, she quelled them and rose; Henrietta rose, too, and shook herself. “Thank you, Castor. Are my uncle and brother in the library?”

“Indeed, miss.” Castor held the door for her, then followed. “I left his lordship in the morning room.”

Head high, she glided into the front hall, then stopped. She eyed the closed door of the morning room.

And felt something inside her tighten.

She paused. At her age, she hardly needed to be missish over being alone for a short time in the morning room with a gentleman. She could go in, greet Trentham, learn why he’d asked to speak with her, all in private, yet she couldn’t think of anything he might have to tell her that would require privacy.

Caution whispered. The skin above her elbows pricked.

“I’ll go and prepare Sir Humphrey and Mr. Jeremy.” She glanced at Castor. “Give me a moment, then show Lord Trentham into the library.”

“Indeed, miss.” Castor bowed.

Some lions were better left untempted; she had a strong suspicion Trentham was one. With a swish of her skirts, she headed for the safety of the library. Henrietta padded behind.

Chapter Two

Extending along one side of the house, the large library possessed windows facing both the front and back gardens. If either her brother or her uncle had been aware of the outside world, they might have noticed the large visitor walking up the front path.

Leonora assumed they’d both been oblivious.

The sight that met her eyes as she opened the door, entered, then quietly shut it, confirmed her supposition.

Her uncle, Sir Humphrey Carling, was seated in an armchair angled before the hearth, a heavy tome open on his knees, an especially strong quizzing glass distorting one pale blue eye as he squinted at the faded hieroglyphics inscribed on the pages. He had once been an imposing figure, but age had stooped his shoulders, thinned his once leonine head of hair, and drained his physical strength. The years, however, had made no discernible impact on his mental faculties; he was still revered in scientific and antiquarian circles as one of the two foremost authorities in translating obscure languages.

His white head, hair thin, straggling, and worn rather long despite Leonora’s best efforts, was bowed to his book, his mind clearly in…Leonora believed the present tome hailed from Mesopotamia.

Her brother, Jeremy, her junior by two years and the second of the two foremost authorities in translating obscure languages, sat at the desk nearby. The surface of the desk was awash with books, some open, others stacked. Every maid in the house knew she touched anything on that desk at her peril; despite the chaos, Jeremy always instantly knew.

He’d been twelve when, together with Leonora, he’d come to live with Humphrey after the deaths of their parents. They’d lived in Kent then; although Humphrey’s wife had already passed on, the wider family had felt that the countryside was a more suitable environment for two still growing and grieving children, especially as everyone accepted that Humphrey was their favorite relative.

It was no great wonder that Jeremy, bookish from birth, had been infected with Humphrey’s passion to decipher the words of men and civilizations long dead. At twenty-four, he was already well on the way to carving out a niche for himself in that increasingly competitive sphere; his standing had only grown when, six years ago, the household had moved to Bloomsbury so Leonora could be introduced to society under her aunt Mildred, Lady Warsingham’s aegis.