Authors: Stephanie Laurens
Regardless, to him, the situation was wrong, unbalanced. Not how things ought to be.
Minutes ticked by, stretched to half an hour.
It had to be close to midnight when he heard a metallic scrape—a key turning in the old lock belowstairs.
The wolfhound lifted her head.
Leonora straightened, alerted both by Henrietta’s sudden attention and the unfurling tension emanating from Trentham, until then apparently relaxed against the wall. She’d been conscious of his glances, of his irritation, his frowns, but had vowed to ignore them. Learning the burglar’s purpose was her aim, and with Trentham present they might even succeed in catching the villain.
Excitement gripped her, escalated as Trentham motioned her to stay where she was and restrain Henrietta, then flitted, wraithlike, through the door.
He moved so silently, if she hadn’t been watching, he’d have simply disappeared.
Instantly, she rose and followed, equally silent, grateful the builders had left drop sheets spread everywhere, muting the click of Henrietta’s claws as the wolfhound fell in at her heels.
Reaching the hall door, she peered out. Spied Trentham as he merged with the dense shadows at the top of the kitchen stairs. She squinted as she drew her cloak about her; the servants’ door seemed to be propped open.
“
Ow!
Ooof!”
A string of curses followed.
“Here! Get
orf!
”
“What the hell are you doing here, you crazy old fool?”
The voices came from below.
Trentham was gone down the kitchen stairs before she could blink. Grabbing up her skirts, she raced after him.
The stairs were a black void. She rushed down without thinking, heels clattering on the stone steps. Behind her, Henrietta woofed, then growled.
Reaching the landing midway down, Leonora gripped the banister and looked down into the kitchen. Saw two men—one tall and cloaked, the other large but squat and much older—wrestling in the middle of the flags where the kitchen table used to sit.
They’d frozen at Henrietta’s growl.
The taller man looked up.
In the same instant she did, he saw Trentham closing in.
With a huge effort, the taller man swung the older one around and shoved him at Trentham.
The old man lost his footing and went flying back.
Trentham had a choice; sidestep and let the old man fall to the stone flags, or catch him. Watching from above, Leonora saw the decision made, saw Trentham stand his ground and let the old man fall against him. He steadied him, would have set him on his feet and gone after the tall man, already racing toward a narrow corridor, but the old man grappled, struggling—
“Be still!”
The order was rapped out. The old man stiffened and obeyed.
Leaving him swaying on his feet, Trentham went after the tall man—
Too late.
A door slammed as Trentham disappeared down the corridor. An instant later, she heard him swear.
Hurrying down the stairs, she pushed past the old man and raced to the back of the kitchen, to the windows that looked down the path to the rear gate.
The tall man—he had to be their “burglar”—raced from the side of the house and plunged down the path. For one instant he was lit by a faint wash of moonlight; eyes wide, she drank in all she could, then he disappeared beyond the hedges bordering the kitchen garden. The gate to the alley lay beyond.
With an inward sigh, she drew back, replayed all she’d seen in her mind, committed it to memory.
A door banged, then Trentham appeared on the paving outside. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the garden.
She tapped on the window; when he looked her way, she pointed down the path. He turned, then went down the steps and loped toward the gate, no longer racing.
Their “burglar” had escaped.
Turning to the old man, now sitting at the bottom of the stairs, still wheezing and trying to catch his breath, she frowned. “What are you doing here?”
He talked, but didn’t answer, mumbling a great deal of fustian by way of excuses but failing to clarify the vital point. Clad in an ancient frieze coat, with equally ancient and worn boots and frayed mittens on his hands, he gave off an aroma of dirt and leaf mold readily detectable in the freshly painted kitchen.
She folded her arms, tapped her toe as she looked down at him. “Why did you break in?”
He shuffled, mumbled, and muttered some more.
She was at the limit of her patience when Trentham returned, entering via the door down the dark corridor.
He looked disgusted. “He had the foresight to take
both
keys.”
The comment wasn’t made to anyone in particular; Leonora understood that the fleeing man had locked the side door against Trentham. While he halted, hands in his pockets and studied the old man, she wondered how, key-less, he had managed to get through that locked door.
Henrietta had seated herself a yard from the old man; he eyed her warily.
Then Trentham commenced his interrogation.
With a few well-phrased questions elicited the information that the old man was a beggar who normally slept in the park. The night had turned so raw he’d searched for shelter; he’d known the house was empty, so he’d come there. Trying the back windows, he’d found one with a loose lock.
With Trentham standing like some vengeful deity on one side and Henrietta, spike-toothed jaws gaping, on the other, the old codger clearly felt he had no option but to make a clean breast of it. Leonora suppressed an indignant sniff; apparently she hadn’t appeared sufficiently intimidatory.
“I didn’t mean no harm, sir. Just wanted to get out of the cold.”
Trentham held the old man’s gaze, then nodded. “Very well. One more question. Where were you when the other man tripped over you?”
“In through there.” The old man pointed across the kitchen. “Farther from the windows is warmer. The bu—blighter hauled me out here. Think he was planning on throwing me out.”
He’d pointed to a small pantry.
Leonora glanced at Trentham. “The storerooms beyond share basement walls with Number 14.”
He nodded, turned back to the old man. “I’ve a proposition for you. It’s mid-February—the nights will be freezing for some weeks.” He glanced around. “There’s dust cloths and other coverings around for tonight. You’re welcome to find a place to sleep.” His gaze returned to the old man. “Gasthorpe, who’ll be majordomo here, will be taking up residence tomorrow. He’ll bring blankets and start to make this place habitable. However, all the servants’ bedrooms are in the attic.”
Tristan paused, then continued, “In light of our friend’s unwelcome interest in this place, I want someone sleeping down here. If you’re willing to act as our downstairs nightwatchman, you can sleep here every night legitimately. I’ll give orders you’re to be treated as one of the household. You can stay in and be warm. We’ll rig up a bell so all you need do if anyone tries to gain entry is ring it, and Gasthorpe and the footmen will deal with any intruder.”
The old man blinked as if he couldn’t quite take in the suggestion, wasn’t sure he wasn’t dreaming.
Without allowing any trace of compassion to show, Tristan asked, “Which regiment were you in?”
He watched as the old shoulders straightened, as the old man’s head lifted.
“Ninth. I was invalided out after Corunna.”
He nodded. “As were many others. Not one of our better engagements—we were lucky to get out at all.”
The rheumy old eyes widened. “You were there?”
“I was.”
“Aye.” The old man nodded. “Then you’ll know.”
Tristan waited a moment, then asked, “So will you do it?”
“Keep watch for ye every night?” The old man eyed
him, then nodded again. “Aye, I’ll do it.” He looked around. “Be strange after all these years, but…” He shrugged, and pushed himself up from the stairs.
He bobbed his head deferentially to Leonora, then moved past her, looking around the kitchen with new eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Biggs, sir. Joshua Biggs.”
Tristan reached for Leonora’s arm and propelled her onto the stairs. “We’ll leave you on duty, Biggs, but I doubt there’ll be any further disturbance tonight.”
The old man looked up, raised a hand in a salute. “Aye, sir. But I’ll be here if there is.”
Fascinated by the exchange, Leonora returned her attention to the present as they regained the front hall. “Do you think the man who fled was our burglar?”
“I seriously doubt we have more than one man, or group of men, intent on gaining access to your house.”
“Group of men?” She looked at Trentham, cursed the darkness that hid his face. “Do you really think so?”
He didn’t immediately answer; despite not being able to see, she was sure he was frowning.
They reached the front door; without releasing her, he opened it, met her gaze as they stepped out onto the front porch, Henrietta padding behind them. Faint moonlight reached them.
“You were watching—what did you see?”
When she hesitated, marshaling her thoughts, he instructed, “Describe him.”
Letting go of her elbow, he offered his arm; absentmindedly she laid her hand on his sleeve, and they went down the steps. Frowning in concentration, she walked beside him toward the front gate. “He was tall—you saw that. But I got the impression he was young.” She slanted a glance at him. “Younger than you.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“He was easily as tall as Jeremy, but not much taller, and leanish rather than stout. He moved with that sort of gangling grace younger men sometimes have—and he ran well.”
“Features?”
“Dark hair.” Again she glanced at him. “I’d say even darker than yours—possibly black. As to his face…” She looked ahead, seeing again in her mind’s eye the fleeting glimpse she’d caught. “Good features. Not aristocratic, but not common, either.”
She met Trentham’s gaze. “I’m perfectly sure he was a gentleman.”
He didn’t argue, indeed, didn’t seem surprised.
Emerging onto the pavement into the teeth of the wind slicing up the street, he drew her close, into the lee of his shoulders; they put their heads down and swiftly walked the few yards to the front gate of Number 14.
She should have made a stand and left him there, but he’d swung the gate open and whisked her in before the potential difficulties of his seeing her all the way to the front door occurred to her.
But the garden, as always, soothed her, convinced her that no problem would arise. Like inverted feather dusters, a profusion of lacy fronds lined the path, here and there an exotic-looking flower head held high on a slender stalk. Bushes shaped the beds; trees accented the graceful design. Even in this season, a few starry white blooms peeked from under the protective hoods of thick, dark green leaves.
Although the night sent chill fingers sneaking along the twisting path, the wind could only batter at the high stone wall, could whip only the topmost branches of the trees.
On the ground, all was still, quiet; as always the garden struck her as a place that was alive, patiently waiting, benign in the dark.
Rounding the last bend in the path, she looked ahead, through the bushes and waving branches saw light shining from the library windows. At the far end of the house, abutting Number 16, the library was distant enough for there to be no danger of Jeremy or Humphrey hearing their footsteps on the gravel and looking out.
They might, however, hear an altercation on the front porch.
Glancing at Trentham, she saw that his eyes, too, had been drawn to the lighted windows. Halting, she drew her hand from his arm and faced him. “I’ll leave you here.”
He looked down at her, but didn’t immediately reply.
As far as Tristan could see, he had three options. He could accept her dismissal, turn his back, and walk away; alternatively, he could take her arm, march her up to the front door, and, with suitable and pointed explanations, hand her into her uncle and brother’s keeping.
Both options were cowardly. The first in bowing to her refusal to accept the protection she needed and running away—something he’d never done in his life. The second because he knew neither her uncle nor her brother, no matter how outraged he managed to make them, was capable of controlling her, not for more than a day.
Which left him no option bar the third.
Holding her gaze, he let all he felt harden his tone. “Coming to wait for the burglar tonight was an incredibly foolhardy thing to do.”
Up went her head; her eyes flashed. “Be that as it may, if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t even know what he looks like. You didn’t see him—I did.”
“And what”—his voice had taken on the icy tone he would have used to dress down a wantonly reckless subaltern—“do you think would have happened had I not been there?”
Reaction, hard and sharp, speared through him; until
that moment, he hadn’t allowed himself to envisage that event. Eyes narrowing as real fury took hold, he stepped, deliberately intimidating, toward her. “Let me hypothesize—correct me if I’m wrong. On hearing the fight belowstairs you would have rushed down—into the teeth of things. Into the fray. And what then?” He took another step and she gave ground, but only fractionally. Then her spine locked; her head rose even higher. She met his gaze defiantly.
Lowering his head, bringing their faces close, his eyes locked with hers, he growled, “Regardless of what happened to Biggs, and having seen the villain’s efforts with Stolemore, it wouldn’t have been pretty, what—just
what
do you imagine would have happened to you?”
His voice had not risen but deepened, roughened, gained in power as his words brought the reality of what she had risked home to him.
Her spine stiff, her gaze as chill as the night about them, she opened her lips. “Nothing.”
He blinked. “Nothing?”
“I would have set Henrietta on him.”
The words stopped him. He glanced down at the wolfhound, who sighed heavily, then sat.
“As I said, these would-be intruders are
my
problem. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with any matters that arise myself.”
He shifted his gaze from the hound to her. “You hadn’t intended to bring Henrietta with you.”