The Lady Chosen by Stephanie Laurens Page A

were few tools left before the door, but the marks in the fine dust where others had lain were clearly visible.
    Along with a footprint, close by the wall.
    Tristan hunkered down; one close look confirmed that the print had been made by a gentleman’s leather-soled boot, not the heavy working boots the builders wore.
    He was the only gentleman who’d been about the house recently, certainly within the time the coating of fine sawdust had fallen, and he hadn’t been anywhere near this door. And the print was too small; definitely a man’s, but not his. Rising, he looked at the door. A heavy key was in the lock. He took it out, turned, and walked back to the kitchen where windows allowed light to stream in.
    Telltale flecks of wax were visible, both along the key’s shank and its teeth.
    Billings peered around his shoulder; suspicion darkened his face. “An impression?”
    Tristan grunted. “Looks like it.”
    “I’ll order new locks.” Billings was outraged. “Never had such a thing happen before.”
    Tristan turned the key in his fingers. “Yes, get in new locks. But don’t fit them until I give you the word.”
    Billings glanced at him, then nodded. “Aye, m’lord. I’ll do that.” He paused, then added, “We’re finished with the second floor if you’d like to take a gander?”
    Tristan looked up. Nodded. “I’ll just put this back.”
    He did so, carefully aligning the key precisely as it had been, so it wouldn’t impede another key being inserted from the outside. Waving Billings ahead, he followed him up the kitchen stairs to the ground floor. There, the workmen were busily preparing what would be a comfortable drawing room and cosy dining room for the finishing touches of paint and polish. The only other rooms at that level were a small parlor beside the front door that the club members had agreed should be set aside for interviewing any females they might be forced to meet, a boothlike office for the club porter and another larger office toward the rear for the club’s majordomo.
    Climbing the stairs in Billings’s wake, Tristan paused on the first floor to glance briefly at the painting and polishing going on in the library and the meeting room before heading up to the second floor where the three bedrooms were located. Billings conducted him through each room, pointing out the finishes and specific touches they’d requested, all in place.
    The rooms smelled new. Fresh and clean, yet substantial and solid. Despite the winter chill, there was no hint of damp.
    “Excellent.” In the largest bedroom, the one above the library, Tristan met Billings’s eye. “You and your men are to be commended.”
    Billings inclined his head, accepting the compliment with a craftsman’s pride.
    “Now”—Tristan swung to the window; like the library below it commanded an excellent view of the Carling’s rear garden—“how long will it be before the staff quarters are habitable? In light of our nighttime visitor, I want to get someone in here as soon as possible.”
    Billings considered. “There’s not much more we need to do in the attic bedrooms. We could finish those up by evening tomorrow. Kitchen and belowstairs will take a day or two more.”
    His gaze on Leonora strolling the rear garden with her hound at her heels, Tristan nodded. “That will do admirably. I’ll send for our majordomo—he’ll be here late tomorrow. His name’s Gasthorpe.”
    “Mr. Billings!”
    The call floated up the stairs. Billings turned. “If there’s nothing else, m’lord, I should tend to that.”
    “Thank you, no. Everything appears most satisfactory. I’ll make my own way out.” Tristan nodded a dismissal; with a deferential nod in reply, Billings went.
    Minutes ticked by. Hands in his greatcoat pockets, Tristan remained before the window, staring down at the graceful figure drifting about the garden far below. And tried to decide why, what it was that was driving him to act as he was about to. He could