Excitement, an insidious thrill, slid slowly through her, a subtle flick, a temptation to illicit delight. Heat blossomed; her lungs slowly seized.
Their eyes remained locked. Neither moved.
It was she who broke the spell. Shifted her gaze to the flames in the hearth. Breathed in. Reminded herself not to be ridiculous; they were in his house, in his library—he would hardly seduce her under his own roof with his servants and elderly cousins standing by.
He stirred and sat up. “How did you get here?”
“I walked through the park.” She glanced at him. “It seemed the safest way.”
He nodded, rose. “I’ll drive you home. I need to look in at Number 12.”
She watched while he tugged the bellpull, gave orders to his butler when that worthy arrived. When he turned back to her, she asked, “Have you learned anything?”
Tristan shook his head. “I’ve been investigating various avenues. Searching for any whispers of men seeking something from Montrose Place.”
“And did you hear anything?”
“No.” He met her gaze. “I didn’t expect to—that would be too easy.”
She grimaced, then rose as Havers returned to say his curricle was being brought around.
While she donned her pelisse and he shrugged into his greatcoat and dispatched a footman to fetch his driving gloves, Tristan racked his brains for any avenue he’d left unexplored, any door open to him he hadn’t been through. He’d tapped any number of ex-servicemen, and some who were still serving in various capacities, for information; he was now certain that what they were dealing with was something peculiar to Montrose Place. There had been no whispers of gangs or individuals behaving in like manner anywhere else in the capital.
Which only added weight to their supposition that there was something in Number 14 the mystery burglar wanted.
As they bowled around the park in his curricle, he explained his deductions.
Leonora frowned. “I’ve asked the servants.” Lifting her head, she tucked back a strand of hair whipping in the breeze. “No one has any idea of anything that might be particularly valuable.” She glanced at him. “Beyond the obvious answer of something in the library.”
He caught her glance, then looked to his horses. After a moment, asked, “Is it possible your uncle and brother would hide something important—for instance if they made a discovery and wanted to keep it secret for a time?”
She shook her head. “I often act as hostess for their learned dinners. There’s a great deal of competition and rivalry in their field, but far from being secretive about any discoveries, the usual approach is to shout any new finding, no matter how minor, from the rooftops, and that as soon as possible. By way of claiming rights, if you take my meaning.”
He nodded. “So that’s unlikely.”
“Yes, but…if you were to suggest that Humphrey or Jeremy might have stumbled across something quite valuable, and simply not seen it for what it was—or rather they would recognize it but not attribute an accurate value to it”—she looked at him—“I’d have to agree.”
“Very well.” They’d reached Montrose Place; he drew rein outside Number 12. “We’ll have to assume something of the sort is at the heart of this.”
Tossing the reins to his tiger who’d jumped from the back and come running, he climbed down to the pavement, then handed her down.
Linking their arms, he walked her to the gate of Number 14.
At the gate, she drew back and faced him. “What do you think we should do?”
He met her gaze directly, without any hint of his usual mask. An instant passed, then he said, softly, “I don’t know.”
His hard gaze held hers; his hand found hers, his fingers twined with hers.
Her pulse leapt at his touch.
He raised her hand, brushed his lips across her fingers.
Held her gaze over them.
Then, lingeringly, touched his lips to her skin again, blatantly savoring.
Dizziness threatened.