The library window overlooked the back garden, and also the back garden of the larger house next door, Number 14, in which the lady lived.
Billings, the carpenter in charge of the renovations, stood in the doorway studying a battered list.
“I think as we’ve about done all the new work, ’cepting for this set of cupboards in the office.” Billings looked up. “If you could take a look and see if we’ve got the idea right, we’ll get it done, then we’ll start the painting, polishing, and cleaning up, so’s your people can settle in.”
“Very good.” Tristan stirred. “I’ll come now.” He cast a last glance at the garden next door, and saw a tow-headed boy racing across the lawn toward the lady. Saw her turn, see, wait expectantly…clearly the news she’d been anticipating.
Quite why he found her fascinating he had no idea; he preferred blonds of more buxom charms and despite his desperate need of a wife, the lady was too old to be still on the marriage mart; she would certainly already be wed.
He drew his gaze from her. “How long do you think it will be before the house is habitable?”
“Few more days, p’raps a week. Belowstairs is close to done.”
Waving Billings ahead, Tristan followed him out of the door.
“Miss, miss! The gentl’man’s here!”
At last! Leonora Carling drew in a breath. She straightened, spine stiffening in anticipation, then unbent to smile at the bootboy. “Thank you, Toby. Is it the same gentleman as before?”
Toby nodded. “The one as Quiggs said is one of the owners.”
Quiggs was a journeyman-carpenter working on the house next door; Toby, always curious, had befriended him. Through that route Leonora had learned enough of the gentlemen-owners’ plans for next door to decide she needed to learn more. A lot more.
Toby, tousle-haired, bright color in his cheeks where the wind had nipped, jigged from foot to foot. “You’ll need to look sharpish if’n you want to catch ’im though—Quiggs said as Billings was having a last word, and then the gentl’man’d likely leave.”
“Thank you.” Leonora patted Toby’s shoulder, drawing him with her as she walked quickly toward the back door. Henrietta, her wolfhound, loped at their heels. “I’ll go around right now. You’ve been most helpful—let’s see if we can persuade Cook that you deserve a jam tart.”
“Cor!” Toby’s eyes grew round; Cook’s jam tarts were legendary.
Harriet, Leonora’s maid, who’d been with the household for many years, a comfortable but shrewd female with a mass of curling red hair, was waiting in the hall just inside the back door. Leonora sent Toby to request his reward; Harriet waited only until the boy was out of earshot before demanding, “You’re not going to do anything rash, are you?”
“Of course not.” Leonora glanced down at her gown; she tweaked the bodice. “But I must learn whether the gentlemen next door were those who previously wanted this house.”
“And if they are?”
“If they are, then either they were behind the incidents, in which case the incidents will cease, or alternatively they know nothing of our attempted burglaries, or the other happenings, in which case…” She frowned, then pushed past Harriet. “I must go. Toby said the man would be leaving soon.”
Ignoring Harriet’s worried look, Leonora hurried through the kitchen. Waving aside the usual household queries from Cook, Mrs. Wantage, their housekeeper, and Castor, her uncle’s ancient butler, promising to return shortly and deal with everything, she pushed through the swinging baize-covered door into the front hall.
Castor followed. “Shall I summon a hackney, miss? Or do you wish for a footman…?”
“No, no.” Grabbing her cloak, she swung it about her shoulders and quickly tied the strings. “I’m just stepping into the street for a minute—I’ll be back directly.”
Snatching her bonnet from the hall stand, she plonked it on her head; looking into the hall mirror, she swiftly tied the ribbons. She spared a glance for her appearance. Not perfect, but it would do. Interrogating unknown gentlemen was not something she often did; regardless, she wasn’t about to quail or quake. The situation was all too serious.
She turned to the door.
Castor stood before it, a vague frown creasing his brow. “Where shall I say you’ve gone if Sir Humphrey or Mr. Jeremy should ask?”
“They won’t. If they do, just tell them I’ve gone to call next door.” They’d think she’d gone to visit at Number 16, not Number 12.
Henrietta sat beside the door, bright eyes locked on her, canine jaws parted, tongue lo
lling, hoping against hope…
“Stay here.”
With a whine, the hound flopped to the flags and, in patent disgust, laid her huge head on her paws.