He was perfectly aware of her less-than-admirable traits, yet for some unfathomable reason, that part of him that she and only she had tempted forth insisted on seeing them as, not even anything so mild as a challenge—more a declaration of war. As if she was an opponent blatantly defying him. All nonsense, he knew, yet the conviction ran deep.
It had, in part, dictated his latest tack. He had agreed to her request to accompany him to Somerset House; he would have suggested it if she hadn’t—there would be no danger there.
While with him, she was safe; if out of his sight, left to her own devices, she would undoubtedly try to come at the problem—her problem as she’d so trenchantly declared—from some other angle. Ordering her to cease investigating on her own, forcing her to do so, was beyond his present powers. Keeping her with him as much as possible was unquestionably the safest course.
Tacking down the Strand, he mentally winced. His rational arguments sounded so logical. The compulsion behind them—the compulsion he used such arguments to excuse—was novel and distinctly unsettling. Disconcerting. The sudden realization that the well-being of a lady of mature years and independent mind was now critical to his equanimity was just a tad shocking.
They arrived at Somerset House; leaving the curricle in the care of his tiger, they entered the building, footsteps echoing on the cold stone. An assistant peered at them from behind a counter; Tristan made his request and they were directed down a corridor to a cavernous hall. Regimented rows of wooden cabinets filled the space; each cabinet possessed multiple drawers.
Another assistant, advised of their search, pointed to a particular set of cabinets. The letters “MOU” were inscribed in gold on the polished wooden fronts. “I would suggest you start there.”
Leonora walked briskly to the cabinets; he followed rather more slowly, thinking of what the drawers must contain, estimating how many certificates might be found in each drawer…
His conjecture was borne out when Leonora pulled open the first drawer. “Good Lord!” She stared at the mass of paper crammed into the space. “This could take days!”
He pulled open the drawer beside her. “Just as well you invited yourself along.”
She made a sound suspiciously like a suppressed snort and started checking the names. It wasn’t as bad as they’d feared; in short order they located the first Mountford, but the number of people born in England with that surname was depressingly large. They persevered, and ultimately discovered that yes, indeed, there was a Montgomery Mountford.
“But”—Leonora stared at the birth certificate—“this means he’s seventy-three!”
She frowned, then pushed the certificate back, looked at the next, and the next. And the next.
“Six of them,” she muttered, her exasperated tone confirming what he’d expected. “And not one of them could possibly be him. The first five are too old, and this one is thirteen.”
He put a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Check carefully on either side in case a certificate’s been misfiled. I’ll check with the assistant.”
Leaving her frowning, flicking through the certificates, he walked to the supervisor’s desk. A quiet word and the supervisor sent one of his assistants scurrying. Three minutes later a dapper individual in the sober garb of a government functionary arrived.
Tristan explained what he was looking for.
Mr. Crosby bowed. “Indeed, my lord. However, I do not believe that name is one of those protected. If you’ll allow me to verify?”
Tristan waved, and Crosby walked down the room.
Dispirited, Leonora shut the drawers. She returned to his side, and they waited until Crosby reappeared.
He bowed to Leonora, then looked at Tristan. “It is as you suspected, my lord. Unless there’s a certificate missing—which I very much doubt—then there is no Montgomery Mountford of the age you’re searching for.”
Tristan thanked him and steered Leonora outside. They paused on the steps and she turned to him.
Met his gaze. “Why would someone use an assumed name?”
“Because,” he pulled on his driving gloves, felt his jaw set, “he’s up to no good.” Retaking her elbow, he urged her down the steps. “Come—let’s go for a drive.”
* * *
He took her into Surrey, to Mallingham Manor, now his home. He did so impulsively, he supposed to distract her, something he felt was increasingly necessary. A felon using an assumed name boded no good at all.
From the Strand, he headed across the river, immediately alerting her to the change in direction. But when he explained he needed to attend to business at his estate so he could return to town free to pursue the question of Montgomery Mountford, phantom burglar, she accepted the arrangement readily.
The road was direct and in excellent condition; the greys were fresh and eager to stretch their legs. He turned the curricle in between the elegant wrought-iron gates in good time for luncheon. Setting the pair pacing up the drive, he noted Leonora’s attention was fixed on the huge house ahead, standing amid manicured lawns and formal parterres. The gravel drive swept up to a circular forecourt before the imposing front doors.
He followed her gaze; he suspected he saw the house as she did, for he’d yet to grow used to the idea that this was now his, his home. A manor house had stood on the spot for centuries, but his great-uncle had renovated and refurbished with zeal. What now faced them was a Palladian mansion built of creamy sandstone with pediments over every long window and mock battlements above the long line of the facade.
The greys swept into the forecourt. Leonora exhaled. “It’s beautiful. So elegant.”
He nodded, allowing himself to acknowledge it, permitting himself to admit that his great-uncle had got something right.