“Very perceptive,” Tristan growled. “Now what brought you here? Have you discovered something?”
She shook her head. “I wanted to see your conservatory. You said you’d show it to me.”
The tension—the apprehension—that had flashed through him on seeing her there leached away. He looked down at himself, and grimaced. “You’ve called at a bad time.”
She frowned, her gaze once more on his disreputable attire. “But what have you been doing? Where have you been, dressed like that?”
“As you so perceptively guessed, the docks.” Searching for any clue, any hint, any whisper of one Montgomery Mountford.
“You’re a trifle old to be indulging in larks.” She looked up and caught his gaze. “Do you frequently do such things?”
“No.” Not anymore. He had never expected to don these clothes again, but on doing so that morning, had felt peculiarly justified in his refusal to throw them out. “I’ve been visiting the sort of dens that would-be burglars haunt.”
“Oh. I see.” She looked up at him with now openly eager interest. “Did you learn anything?”
“Not directly, but I’ve passed the word—”
“Oh, is she in here, then, Havers?”
Ethelreda. Tristan swore beneath his breath.
“We’ll just keep her company until dear Tristan arrives.”
“No need for her to mope about all alone.”
“Miss Carling? Are you there?”
He swore again. They were all there—coming this way. “For God’s sake!” he muttered. He went to grab Leonora, then remembered his hands were filthy. He kept his palms away from her. “You’ll have to distract them.”
It was an outright plea; he met her eyes, infused every ounce of beseeching candor of which he was capable into his expression.
She looked at him. “They don’t know you go out masquerading as a lout, do they?”
“No. And they’ll have fits if they see me like this.”
Fits would be the least of it; Ethelreda had a horrible tendency to swoon.
They were casting about along the paths, drawing inexorably nearer.
He held out his hands, begging. “Please.”
She smiled. Slowly. “All right. I’ll save you.” She turned and started toward the source of feminine twittering, then glanced back over her shoulder. Caught his eye. “But you owe me a favor.”
“Anything.” He sighed with relief. “Just get them out of here. Take them to the drawing room.”
Her smile deepening, Leonora turned and went on. Anything, he’d said. An excellent outcome from an otherwise useless exercise.
Chapter Eight
Arranging to be seduced, Leonora was perfectly sure, wasn’t supposed to be this difficult. The next day, while sitting in the parlor copying her letter, copy after copy, doggedly working through Cedric’s correspondents, she reevaluated her position and considered all avenues for advance.
The previous afternoon she’d dutifully deflected Trentham’s cousins to the drawing room; he’d joined them fifteen minutes later, clean, spotless, his usual debonair self. Having used her interest in conservatories to explain her visit to the ladies, she’d duly asked him various questions to which he’d denied all knowledge, instead suggesting he have his gardener call on her.
Asking him to conduct her on a tour would have been fruitless; his cousins would have accompanied them.
Regretfully, she’d crossed his conservatory off her mental list of suitable venues for seduction; an appropriate time could be managed, and the window seat provided an excellent location, but their privacy could never be assured.
Trentham had summoned his carriage, helped her into it, and sent her home. Unfulfilled. Even hungrier than when she’d left.