Authors: Stephanie Laurens
“I believe so. And he doesn’t want us to know.”
“What are we looking for?”
Leonora followed Tristan into the bedchamber Miss Timmins had used. They’d returned to Number 14 and broken the news to Humphrey, then gone to the kitchen to confirm for Daisy that her employer was indeed dead. Tristan had asked after relatives; Daisy hadn’t known of any. None had called in the six years she’d worked in Montrose Place.
Jeremy had taken on the task of making the necessary
arrangements; together with Tristan, Leonora had returned to Number 16 to try to identify any relative.
“Letters, a will, notes from a solicitor—anything that might lead to a connection.” He pulled open the small drawer of the table by the bed. “It would be most unusual if she has absolutely no kin.”
“She never mentioned any.”
“Be that as it may.”
They settled to search. She noticed he did things—looked in places—she’d never have thought of. Like the backs and undersides of drawers, the upper surface above a top drawer. Behind paintings.
After a while, she sat on a chair before the escritoire and applied herself to all the notes and letters therein. There was no sign of any recent or promising correspondence. When he glanced at her, she waved him on. “You’re much better at that than I.”
But it was she who found the connection, in an old, very faded and much creased letter lying at the back of the tiniest drawer.
“The Reverend Mr. Henry Timmins, of Shacklegate Lane, Strawberry Hills.” Triumphant, she read the address to Tristan, who had paused in the doorway.
He frowned. “Where’s that?”
“I think it’s out past Twickenham.”
He crossed the room, lifted the letter from her hand, scanned it. Humphed. “Eight years old. Well, we can but try.” He glanced at the window, then pulled out his watch and checked it. “If we take my curricle…”
She rose, smiled, linked her arm in his. Very definitely approved of that “we.” “I’ll have to fetch my pelisse. Let’s go.”
The Reverend Henry Timmins was a relatively young man, with a wife and four daughters and a busy parish.
“Oh, dear!” He abruptly sat down in a chair in the small parlor to which he’d conducted them. Then he realized and started up.
Tristan waved him back, handed Leonora to the chaise, and sat beside her. “So you were acquainted with Miss Timmins?”
“Oh, yes—she was my great-aunt.” Pale, he glanced from one to the other. “We weren’t at all close—indeed, she always seemed most nervous when I called. I did write a few times, but she never replied…” He blushed. “And then I got my preferment…and married…that sounds so unfeeling, yet she wasn’t at all encouraging, you know.”
Tristan squeezed Leonora’s hand, warning her to silence; he inclined his head impassively. “Miss Timmins passed away last night, but not, I fear, easily. She fell down the stairs sometime very early in the morning. While we have no evidence she was directly attacked, we believe that she came upon a thief in her house—her front parlor was ransacked—and because of the shock, fainted and fell.”
Reverend Timmins’s face was a study in horror. “Good gracious me! How dreadful!”
“Indeed. We have reason to believe that the burglar responsible is the same man intent on gaining entry into Number 14.” Tristan glanced at Leonora. “The Carlings live there, and Miss Carling herself has been subject to several attacks, we presume intended to frighten the household into leaving. There have also been a number of attempts to break into Number 14, and also into Number 12, the house of which I am part owner.”
Reverend Timmins blinked. Tristan calmly continued, explaining their reasoning that the burglar they knew as Mountford was attempting to gain access to something hidden in Number 14, and that his forays into Number 12
and last night into Number 16 were by way of seeking entry via the basement walls.
“I see.” Frowning, Henry Timmins nodded. “I’ve lived in terraces like that—you’re quite right. The basement walls are often a series of arches filled in. Quite easy to break through the archways.”
“Indeed.” Tristan paused, then continued, in the same, authoritative tone, “Which is why we’ve been so set on finding you, why we’ve been speaking to you so frankly.” He leaned forward; clasping his hands between his knees, he captured Henry Timmins’s pale blue gaze. “Your great-aunt’s death was deeply regrettable, and if Mountford is responsible, he deserves to be caught and brought to book. In the circumstances, I feel it would be poetic justice to use the situation as it now stands—the situation that has arisen because of Miss Timmins’s demise—to set a trap for him.”
“Trap?”
Leonora didn’t need to hear the word to know that Henry Timmins was caught, hooked. So was she. She edged forward so she could watch Tristan’s face.
“There’s no reason for anyone beyond those who already know to imagine Miss Timmins died other than by natural causes. She’ll be mourned by those who knew her, then…if I may suggest, you, as heir, should put Number 16 Montrose Place up for rent.” With a gesture, Tristan indicated the house about them. “You’re clearly not in any need of a house in town at present. On the other hand, being a prudent man, you will not wish to sell precipitously. Renting the property is the sensible course, and no one will wonder at it.”
Henry was nodding. “True, true.”
“If you’re agreeable, I’ll arrange for a friend to pose as a house agent and handle the rental for you. Of course, we won’t be renting to just anyone.”
“You think Mountford will come forward and rent the house?”
“Not Mountford himself—Miss Carling and I have seen him. He’ll use an intermediary, but it will be he who wants access to the house. Once he has it, and enters…” Tristan sat back; a smile that was no smile curved his lips. “Suffice to say that I have the right connections to ensure he won’t escape.”
Henry Timmins, eyes rather wide, continued to nod.
Leonora was less susceptible. “Do you really believe that after all this, Mountford will dare show his face?”
Tristan turned to her; his eyes were cold, hard. “Given the lengths to which he’s already gone, I’m prepared to wager he won’t be able to resist.”
They returned to Montrose Place that evening with Henry Timmins’s blessings, and, more importantly, a letter to the family solicitor from Henry instructing said solicitor to act on Tristan’s directions regarding Miss Timmins’s house.
There were lights burning in the rooms on the first floor of the Bastion Club; handing Leonora to the pavement, Tristan saw them, wondered…
Leonora shook out her skirts, then slipped her hand in his arm.
He looked down at her, refrained from mentioning how much he liked the little gesture of feminine acceptance. He was learning that she often did small revealing things instinctively, without noticing; he saw no reason to bring such transparency to her attention.
They headed up the path of Number 14.
“Who will you get to play the part of house agent?” Leonora glanced at him. “You can’t—he knows what you look like.” She ran her gaze over his features. “Even with one of your disguises…there’s no way of being sure he wouldn’t see through it.”
“Indeed.” Tristan glanced across at the Bastion Club as
they climbed the porch steps. “I’ll see you in, speak with Humphrey and Jeremy, then I’m going next door.” He met her gaze as the front door opened. “It’s possible some of my associates are in town. If so…”
She arched a brow at him. “Your ex-colleagues?”
He nodded, following her into the hall. “I can’t think of any gentlemen more suited to aid us in this.”
Charles, predictably, was delighted.
“Excellent! I always knew this notion of a club was a brilliant idea.”
It was nearly ten o’clock; having consumed a superb dinner in the elegant dining room downstairs, they—Tristan, Charles, and Deverell—were now seated, sprawled and comfortable, in the library, each cradling a balloon liberally supplied with fine brandy.
“Indeed.” Despite his more reserved manner, Deverell looked equally interested. He eyed Charles. “I think I should be the house agent—you’ve already played one part in this drama.”
Charles looked aggrieved. “But I could always play another.”
“I think Deverell’s right.” Tristan firmly took charge. “He can be the house agent—this is only his second visit to Montrose Place, so chances are Mountford and his cronies won’t have spotted him. Even if they have, there’s no reason he can’t play totally vague and say he’s handling the matter for a friend.” Tristan glanced at Charles. “Meanwhile, there’s something else I think you and I should take care of.”
Charles instantly looked hopeful. “What?”
“I told you of this solicitor’s clerk who inherited from Carruthers.” He’d told them the entire story, all the pertinent facts, over dinner.
“The one who came to London and disappeared into the teeming throng?”
“Indeed. I believe I mentioned he’d originally planned to come to town? While searching for information in York, my operative learned that this Martinbury had earlier arranged to meet with a friend, another clerk from his office, here, in town; before he left unexpectedly, he confirmed the meeting.”
Charles raised his brows high. “When, and where?”
“Noon tomorrow, at the Red Lion in Gracechurch Street.”
Charles nodded. “So we nab him after the meeting—I assume you have descriptions?”
“Yes, but the friend has agreed to introduce me, so all we need do is be there, and then we’ll see what we can learn from Mr. Martinbury.”
“He couldn’t be Mountford, could he?” Deverell asked.
Tristan shook his head. “Martinbury was in York for much of the time Mountford’s been active down here.”
“Hmm.” Deverell sat back, rolled the brandy in his balloon. “If it won’t be Mountford who approaches me—and I agree that’s unlikely—then who do you think will try to rent the house?”
“My guess,” Tristan said, “would be a scrawny, weasel-faced specimen, short to medium height. Leonora—Miss Carling—has seen him twice. He seems certain to be an associate of Mountford’s.”
Charles opened his eyes wide. “Leonora, is it?” Swiveling in his chair, he fixed Tristan with his dark gaze. “So tell us—how sits the wind in that quarter, hmm?”
Impassive, Tristan studied Charles’s devilish face, and wondered what fiendish devilment Charles might concoct if he didn’t tell them…“As it happens, the notice of our engagement will appear in the
Gazette
tomorrow morning.”
“Oh-ho!”
“I see!”
“Well, that was quick work!” Rising, Charles grabbed the decanter and replenished their glasses. “We have to toast this. Let’s see.” He struck a pose before the fireplace, his glass held high. “Here’s to you and your lady, the delightful Miss Carling. Let’s drink in acknowledgment of your success in determining your own fate—to your victory over the meddlers—and to the inspiration and encouragement this victory will provide to your fellow Bastion Club members!”
“Hear! Hear!”
Charles and Deverell both drank. Tristan saluted them with his glass, then drank, too.
“So when’s the wedding?” Deverell asked.
Tristan studied the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “As soon as we lay Mountford by the heels.”
Charles pursed his lips. “And if that takes longer than expected?”
Tristan raised his eyes, met Charles’s dark gaze. Smiled. “Trust me. It won’t.”
Early the next morning, Tristan visited Number 14 Montrose Place; he left before Leonora or any of the family came downstairs, confident he’d solved the riddle of how Mountford had got into Number 16.
As Jeremy had, at his direction, already had the locks on Number 16 changed, Mountford must have suffered another disappointment. All the better for driving him into their snare. He now had no option other than to rent the house.
Leaving Number 14 by the front gate, Tristan saw a workman busy setting up a sign atop the low front wall of Number 16. The sign announced that the house was for rent and gave details for contacting the agent. Deverell had wasted no time.
He returned to Green Street for breakfast, manfully waited until all six of the resident old dears were present
before making his announcement. They were more than delighted.
“She’s just the sort of wife we wished for you,” Millicent told him.
“Indeed,” Ethelreda confirmed. “She’s such a sensible young woman—we were awfully afraid you might land us with some flibbertigibbet. One of those empty-headed gels who giggle all the time. The good Lord only knows how we would have coped then.”
In fervent agreement, he excused himself and took refuge in the study. Ruthlessly blocking out the obvious distraction, he spent an hour dealing with the more urgent matters awaiting his attention, remembering to pen a brief letter to his great-aunts informing them of his impending nuptials. When the clock chimed eleven, he put down his pen, rose, and quietly left the house.
He met Charles at the corner of Grosvenor Square. They hailed a hackney; at ten minutes before noon, they pushed through the door of the Red Lion. It was a popular public house catering to a mixture of trades—merchants, agents, shippers, and clerks of every description. The main room was crowded, yet after one glance, most moved out of Tristan’s and Charles’s way. They went to the bar, were served immediately, then, ale mugs in hand, turned and surveyed the room.
After a moment, Tristan took a sip of his ale. “He’s over there, one table from the corner. The one that keeps looking around like an eager pup.”
“That’s the friend?”
“Fits the description to a tee. The cap’s hard to miss.” A tweed cap was sitting on the table at which the young man in question waited.
Tristan considered, then said, “He won’t recognize us. Why don’t we just take the table next to him, and wait for the right moment to introduce ourselves?”
“Good idea.”
Once again the crowd parted like the Red Sea; they installed themselves at the small table in the corner without attracting more than a quick glance and a polite smile from the young man.
He seemed terribly young to Tristan.
The young man continued to wait. So did they. They discussed various points—difficulties they’d both faced on taking up the reins of large estates. There was more than enough there to provide believable cover had the young man been listening. He wasn’t; like a spaniel, he kept his eyes on the door, ready to leap up and wave when his friend entered.