Stephanie Laurens - The Lady Chosen

Jonathon nodded. “My coat was ripped apart.”

“So, finding nothing, they put you out of the picture and left you for dead. But they didn’t check what time the coach pulled in—tsk, tsk. Very slapdash.” Charles strolled toward the door. “Are we going?”

“Indeed.” Tristan swung on his heel and headed for the door. “Let’s fetch Mountford.”

Leonora watched the door close behind them.

Humphrey cleared his throat, caught Jonathon’s eye, then pointed to the black bag. “May we?”

Jonathon waved. “By all means.”

Leonora was torn.

Jonathon was obviously drooping, exhaustion and his injuries catching up with him; she urged him to lie back and recoup. At her suggestion, Humphrey and Jeremy took themselves and the black bag off to the library.

Closing the parlor door behind her, she hesitated. Part of her wanted to hurry after her brother and uncle, to help with and share in the academic excitement of making sense of Cedric and A. J.’s discovery.

More of her was drawn to the real, more physical excitement of the hunt.

She debated for all of ten seconds, then headed for the front door. Opening it, she left it on the latch. Night had fallen, the darkness of evening closing in. On the porch, she hesitated. Wondered if she should take Henrietta. But the hound was still in the kitchens of the Club; she didn’t have time to fetch her. She peered across at Number 16, but its front door was closer to the street; she couldn’t see anything.

Don’t. Go. Into. Danger.

There were three of them ahead of her; what danger could there be?

She hurried down the front steps and ran quickly down the front path.

They were, she assumed, going to pluck Mountford from his hole—she was curious, after all this time, to see what he was really like, what sort of man he was. Jonathon’s description was ambivalent; yes, Mountford—Duke—was a violent bully, but not a murderous one.

He’d been violent enough where she was concerned….

She approached the front door of Number 16 with appropriate caution.

It stood half-open. She strained her ears but heard nothing.

She peered past the door.

Faint moonlight threw her shadow deep into the hall. Caused the man framed in the doorway to the kitchen stairs to pause and turn around.

It was Deverell. He motioned her to silence, and to stay back, then he turned and melted into the shadows.

Leonora hesitated for a second; she’d stay back, just not this far back.

Her slippers silent on the tiles, she glided into the hall and followed in Deverell’s wake.

The stairs leading down to the kitchens and the basement level were just beyond the hall door. From her earlier visit following Tristan around, Leonora knew that the double flight of stairs ended in a long corridor. The doors to the kitchens and scullery gave off it to the left; on the right lay the butler’s pantry, followed by a long cellar.

Mountford was tunneling through from the cellar.

Pausing at the stairhead, she leaned over the banister and peered down; she could make out the three men moving below, large shadows in the gloom. Faint light shone from somewhere ahead of them. As they moved out of her sight, she crept down the stairs.

She paused on the landing. From there she could see the length of the corridor before and below her. There were two doors into the cellar. The nearer stood ajar; the faint light came from beyond it.

Even more faintly, like a frisson across her nerves, came a steady, scritch-scratch.

Tristan, Charles, and Deverell came together before the door; although she saw them move, assumed they were talking, she heard nothing, not the slightest sound.

Then Tristan turned to the cellar door, thrust it open and walked in.

Charles and Deverell followed.

The silence lasted for a heartbeat.

“Hey!”

“What…?”

Thuds. Bangs. Stifled shouts and oaths. It was more than just a scuffle.

How many men had been in there? She’d assumed only two, Mountford and the weasel, but it sounded like more…

A horrendous crash shook the walls.

She gasped, stared down. The light had gone out.

In the gloom, a figure burst out of the second cellar door, the one at the end of the corridor. He turned, slammed the door, fiddled. She heard the grating sound of an old iron lock falling into place.

The man ran from the door, raced, hair and coat wildly flapping, up the corridor toward the stairs.

Startled, paralyzed by recognition—the man was Mountford—Leonora hauled in a breath. She forced her hands to her skirts, grasped them to turn and flee, but Mountford hadn’t seen her—he skidded to a halt by the nearer cellar door, now wide-open.

He reached in, grabbed the door, and swung it shut, too. Grabbed the knob, desperately worked.

Into a sudden silence came a telltale grating, then the clunk as the heavy lock fell home.

Chest heaving, Mountford stepped back. The blade of a knife held in one fist gleamed dully.

A thud fell on the door, then the handle rattled.

A muffled oath filtered through the thick panels.

“Hah! Got you!” Face alight, Mountford turned.

And saw her.

Leonora whirled and fled.

She was nowhere near fast enough.

He caught her at the top of the stairs. Fingers biting into her arm, he swung her hard back against the wall.

“Bitch!”

The word was vicious, snarled.

Looking into the starkly pale face thrust close to hers, Leonora had a second to make up her mind.

Strangely, that was all it took—just a second for her emotions to guide her, for her wits to catch up. All she had to do was delay Mountford, and Tristan would save her.

She blinked. Wilted a fraction, lost a little of her starch. Infused her best imitation of Miss Timmins’s vagueness into her manner. “Oh, dear—you must be Mr. Martinbury?”

He blinked, then his eyes blazed. He shook her. “How do you know that?”

“Well…” She let her voice quaver, kept her eyes wide. “You are the Mr. Martinbury who is related to A. J. Carruthers, aren’t you?”

For all his reconnoitering, Mountford—Duke—would not have learned what sort of woman she was; she was perfectly certain he wouldn’t have thought to ask.

“Yes. That’s me.” Gripping her arm, he pushed her ahead of him into the front hall. “I’m here to get something of my aunt’s that now belongs to me.”

He didn’t put away the knife, a dagger of sorts. A frenetic tension thrummed through him, about him; his manner was strained, nervous.

She let her lips part, striving to look suitably witless. “Oh! Do you mean the formula?”

She had to get him away from Number 16, preferably into Number 14. Along the way, she had to convince him she was so helpless and unthreatening that he didn’t need to keep hold of her. If Tristan and the others came up the stairs now…Mountford had her and a dagger, not to her mind a helpful arrangement.

He was studying her through slitted eyes. “What do you know about the formula? Have they found it?”

“Oh, I believe so. At least, I think that’s what they said. My uncle, you know, and my brother. They’ve been working on our late cousin Cedric Carling’s journals, and I think they were saying only just a few hours ago that they believe they have the thing clear at last!”

Throughout her artless speech, she’d been drifting toward the front door; he’d been drifting with her.

She cleared her throat. “I realize there must have been some misunderstanding.” With an airy wave, she dismissed whatever had occurred downstairs. “But I’m sure if you talk to my uncle and brother, they’d be happy to share the formula with you, given you are A. J. Carruthers’s heir.”