rationalize his actions, certainly, but were his logical reasons the whole truth? The real truth?
He watched the hound press close to Leonora’s side, saw her look down, lift a hand to stroke the dog’s huge head, lifted in canine adoration.
With a snort, he turned away; with a last glance around, he headed downstairs.
* * *
“Good morning.” He turned his most beguiling smile on the old butler, adding just a hint of masculine commiseration in the face of feminine waywardness. “I wish to speak with Miss Carling. She’s walking in the back garden at present—I’ll join her there.”
Title, bearing, and the excellent cut of his coat—and his bald-faced boldness—won through; after only the slightest hesitation, the butler inclined his head. “Indeed, my lord. If you’ll step this way?”
He followed the old man down the hall and into a cosy parlor. A fire crackled in the grate; a piece of embroidery, barely started, lay on a small sidetable.
The butler gestured to a pair of French doors standing ajar. “If you’d like to go through?”
With a nod, Tristan did, emerging onto a small paved terrace that gave onto the lawns. Descending the steps, he strolled around the corner of the house and sighted Leonora examining blooms on the opposite side of the main lawn. She was looking the other way. He headed toward her; as he approached, the hound scented him and turned, alert but waiting to judge his intentions.
Courtesy of the lawn, Leonora didn’t hear him. He was still a few yards away when he spoke. “Good morning, Miss Carling.”
She whirled. She stared at him, then glanced—almost accusingly—at the house.
He hid a smile. “Your butler showed me through.”
“Indeed? And to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Before answering the cool and distinctly prickly greeting, he held out a hand to the hound; she inspected, accepted, nudging her head under his palm, inviting him to pat. He did, then turned to the less tractable female. “Am I right in thinking that your uncle and brother see no continuing threat arising from the attempted burglaries?”
She hesitated. A frown formed in her eyes.
He slid his hands into his greatcoat pockets; she hadn’t offered her hand, and he wasn’t fool enough to push his luck. He studied her face; when she remained silent, he murmured, “Your loyalty does you credit, but in this instance, might not be your wisest choice. As I see it, there’s something—some action—which the two attempts to break in here are part of. They’re not finite acts in themselves, but incidents in a continuing whole.”
That description hit the mark; he saw the flare of connection in her eyes.
“I suspect there are incidents which already have followed, and there will almost certainly be incidents to come.” He hadn’t forgotten there was more, something in addition to the burglaries she’d yet to tell him. But that was the closest he dared come to pressing her; she was not the sort he could browbeat or bully. He was accomplished in both roles, but with some, neither worked. And he wanted her cooperation, her trust.
Without both, he might not learn all he needed to know. Might not succeed in lifting the threat he sensed hanging over her.
Leonora held his gaze, and reminded herself she knew better than to trust military men. Even ex-military; they were assuredly the same. One couldn’t rely on them, on anything they said let alone anything they promised. Yet why was he here? What had prompted him to return? She tilted her head, watching him closely. “Nothing has happened recently. Maybe whatever”—she gestured—“whole the burglaries were part of is no longer centered here.”
He let a moment elapse, then murmured, “That doesn’t appear to be the case.”
Turning, he faced the house, scanned its bulk. It was the oldest house in the street, built on a grander scale than the terrace houses that in later years had been constructed on either side, walls
He watched the hound press close to Leonora’s side, saw her look down, lift a hand to stroke the dog’s huge head, lifted in canine adoration.
With a snort, he turned away; with a last glance around, he headed downstairs.
* * *
“Good morning.” He turned his most beguiling smile on the old butler, adding just a hint of masculine commiseration in the face of feminine waywardness. “I wish to speak with Miss Carling. She’s walking in the back garden at present—I’ll join her there.”
Title, bearing, and the excellent cut of his coat—and his bald-faced boldness—won through; after only the slightest hesitation, the butler inclined his head. “Indeed, my lord. If you’ll step this way?”
He followed the old man down the hall and into a cosy parlor. A fire crackled in the grate; a piece of embroidery, barely started, lay on a small sidetable.
The butler gestured to a pair of French doors standing ajar. “If you’d like to go through?”
With a nod, Tristan did, emerging onto a small paved terrace that gave onto the lawns. Descending the steps, he strolled around the corner of the house and sighted Leonora examining blooms on the opposite side of the main lawn. She was looking the other way. He headed toward her; as he approached, the hound scented him and turned, alert but waiting to judge his intentions.
Courtesy of the lawn, Leonora didn’t hear him. He was still a few yards away when he spoke. “Good morning, Miss Carling.”
She whirled. She stared at him, then glanced—almost accusingly—at the house.
He hid a smile. “Your butler showed me through.”
“Indeed? And to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Before answering the cool and distinctly prickly greeting, he held out a hand to the hound; she inspected, accepted, nudging her head under his palm, inviting him to pat. He did, then turned to the less tractable female. “Am I right in thinking that your uncle and brother see no continuing threat arising from the attempted burglaries?”
She hesitated. A frown formed in her eyes.
He slid his hands into his greatcoat pockets; she hadn’t offered her hand, and he wasn’t fool enough to push his luck. He studied her face; when she remained silent, he murmured, “Your loyalty does you credit, but in this instance, might not be your wisest choice. As I see it, there’s something—some action—which the two attempts to break in here are part of. They’re not finite acts in themselves, but incidents in a continuing whole.”
That description hit the mark; he saw the flare of connection in her eyes.
“I suspect there are incidents which already have followed, and there will almost certainly be incidents to come.” He hadn’t forgotten there was more, something in addition to the burglaries she’d yet to tell him. But that was the closest he dared come to pressing her; she was not the sort he could browbeat or bully. He was accomplished in both roles, but with some, neither worked. And he wanted her cooperation, her trust.
Without both, he might not learn all he needed to know. Might not succeed in lifting the threat he sensed hanging over her.
Leonora held his gaze, and reminded herself she knew better than to trust military men. Even ex-military; they were assuredly the same. One couldn’t rely on them, on anything they said let alone anything they promised. Yet why was he here? What had prompted him to return? She tilted her head, watching him closely. “Nothing has happened recently. Maybe whatever”—she gestured—“whole the burglaries were part of is no longer centered here.”
He let a moment elapse, then murmured, “That doesn’t appear to be the case.”
Turning, he faced the house, scanned its bulk. It was the oldest house in the street, built on a grander scale than the terrace houses that in later years had been constructed on either side, walls
Similar Books
