Barely breathing, Stolemore very slowly withdrew a ledger from the drawer.
The tension eased a fraction; the agent placed the book on the desk and opened it. He fumbled, hurriedly shuffling pages, then he ran his finger down one, and stopped.
“Write it down,” Tristan said.
Stolemore obliged.
Tristan had already read the entry, committed it to memory. When Stolemore finished and pushed the slip of paper with the address across the desk, he smiled—charmingly, this time—and picked it up.
“This way”—he held Stolemore’s gaze as he tucked the paper into his inner coat pocket—“if anyone should ask, you can swear with a clear conscience that you told no one his name or address. Now—what did he look like? There was just one man, I take it?”
Stolemore nodded in the direction in which the slip of paper had disappeared. “Just him. Nasty piece of work. Looks gentlemanly enough—black hair, pale skin, brown eyes. Well dressed but not Mayfair quality. I took him for a nob from the country; he behaved arrogantly enough. Youngish, but he’s got a mean streak and a hasty temper.” Stolemore raised a hand to the bruises about one eye. “If I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.”
Tristan inclined his head. “We’ll see what we can do to arrange it.”
Turning, he walked to the door. Charles followed on his heels.
Outside on the pavement, they paused.
Charles grimaced. “Much as I would love to come and cast an eye over our stronghold”—his devilish grin dawned—“and over our delectable neighbor, I have to hie back to Cornwall.”
“My thanks.” Tristan held out his hand.
Charles grasped it. “Anytime.” A hint of self-deprecation tinged his smile. “Truth to tell, I enjoyed it, minor though it was. I feel like I’m literally rusting in the country.”
“The adjustment was never going to be easy, even less so for us than for others.”
“At least you’ve got something to keep you occupied. All I have is sheep and cows and sisters.”
Tristan laughed at Charles’s patent disgust. He clapped him on the shoulder, and they parted, Charles heading back to Mayfair while Tristan headed in the opposite direction.
To Montrose Place. It was not quite ten o’clock. He would check with Gasthorpe, the ex–sergeant major they’d hired as the Bastion Club’s majordomo who was overseeing the final stages of preparing the club for its patrons, then he’d call on Leonora as he’d promised.
As he’d promised, discuss how to go on.
At eleven o’clock, he knocked on the door of Number 14. The butler showed him to the parlor; Leonora rose from the chaise as he entered.
“Good morning.” She bobbed a curtsy as he bowed over her hand.
The sun had managed to struggle free of the clouds; the beams of sunshine playing over the foliage in the back garden drew Tristan’s gaze.
“Walk with me in the garden.” He retained possession of her hand. “I’d like to see this back wall of yours.”
She hesitated, then inclined her head; she would have led the way, but he didn’t free her fingers. Instead, he curved his hand more definitely about hers. She threw him a brief glance as side by side they walked to the French doors. Opening them, they passed through; as they went down the steps, he drew her hand through his arm.
Aware of the skittering of her pulse, the way it quivered beneath his fingers.
She lifted her head. “We need to go through that arch in the hedges.” She pointed. “The wall is at the back of the kitchen gardens.”
Which gardens were extensive. With Henrietta ambling behind, they strolled down the central path, past rows of cabbages followed by endless rows lying fallow, long mounds covered with leaves and other debris waiting, slumbering, until spring returned.
He halted. “Where was he standing when you saw him?”
Leonora glanced around, then pointed to a spot just a little way ahead, about twenty feet inside the back wall. “It must have been about there.”
He released her, turning to look back up the path, through the archway to the lawn. “You said he whisked out of your sight. In which direction did he go? Did he turn and walk back toward the wall?”
“No—he went sideways. If he’d turned and run back down the path, I would have been able to see him for longer.”