“And?”
“I explained how the property came to be for rent, and that, in the circumstances, I had to warn his master that the house may only be available for a few months, as the owner might decide to sell.”
“And he wasn’t put off?”
“Not in the least. He assured me his master was only interested in a short let, and didn’t want to know what had happened to the last owner.”
Tristan smiled, grim, wolfish. “It sounds like our quarry.”
“Indeed. But I don’t think Mountford’s going to show himself to me. The weasel asked for a copy of the lease agreement and took it away with him. Said his master would want to study it. If Mountford signs it and sends it back with the first month’s rent—well, what house agent would quibble?”
Tristan nodded; his eyes narrowed. “We’ll let the game play out, but that certainly sounds promising.”
Deverell drained his glass. “With luck, we’ll have him within a few days.”
Tristan’s evening started badly and grew progressively worse.
He arrived in Montrose Place early; he was standing in the hall when Leonora came down the stairs. He turned, saw, froze; the vision she presented in a watered-silk gown of deep blue, her shoulders and throat rising like fine porcelain from the wide neckline, her hair glossy, garnet-shot, piled on her head, ripped his breath away. A gauzy shawl concealed and revealed her arms and shoulders, shifting and sliding over the svelte curves; his palms tingled.
Then she saw him, met his eyes, and smiled.
Blood drained from his head; he felt dizzy.
She crossed the hall toward him, the periwinkle blue hue of her eyes lit by that welcoming expression she seemed to save just for him. She gave him her hands. “Mildred and Gertie should be here any minute.”
A commotion at the door proved to be her aunts; their advent saved him from having to formulate any intelligent response. Her aunts were full of congratulations and myriad social instructions; he nodded, trying to take them all in, trying to orient himself in this battlefield, all the while conscious of Leonora and that, very soon, she would be all his.
The prize was definitely worth the battle.
He escorted them out to the carriage. Lady Hartington’s house wasn’t far. Her ladyship, of course, was beyond thrilled to receive them. She exclaimed, twittered, gushed, and archly asked after their wedding plans; impassive, he stood beside Leonora, and listened while she calmly deflected all her ladyship’s queries without answering any of them. From her ladyship’s expression, Leonora’s responses were perfectly acceptable; it was all a mystery to him.
Then Gertie stepped in and ended the inquisition. At a nudge from Leonora, he led her away. As usual, he made for a chaise by the wall. Her fingertips sank into his arm. “No. No point. Tonight we’d be better served by taking center stage.”
With a nod, she directed him to a position almost in the center of the large drawing room. Inwardly frowning, he hesitated, then complied; his instincts were twitching—the spot was so open, they would be easily flanked, even surrounded….
He had to trust her judgment; in this theater, his own was severely underdeveloped. But even in this, being guided by another did not come easily.
Predictably, they were quickly surrounded by ladies young and old wanting to press their congratulations and hear their news. Some were sweet, pleasant, innocent of guile, ladies for whom he deployed his charm. Others set his back up; after one such encounter, brought to a close by Mildred cutting in and all but physically towing the old battle-ax away, Leonora glanced up at him, with her elbow surreptitiously jabbed him in the ribs.
He looked down at her, frowned with his eyes. She smiled serenely back. “Stop looking so grim.”
He realized his mask had slipped, quickly reinstalled his charming facade. Meanwhile, sotto voce, informed her, “That harridan made me feel murderous, so grim was a mild response.” He met her eyes. “I don’t know how you can stand such as she—they’re so patently insincere, and don’t even try to hide it.”
Her smile was both understanding and teasing; briefly she leaned more heavily on his arm. “You get used to it. When they become difficult, just let it wash over you, and remember that what they’re after is a reaction—deny them that, and you’ve won the exchange.”
He could see what she meant, tried to follow that line, but the situation itself abraded his temper. For the last decade, he’d eschewed any situation that focused attention on him; to stand there, in a ton drawing room, the cyno-sure of all eyes and at least half the conversations, ran directly counter to what had become ingrained habit.
The evening wore on, for him far too slowly; the number of ladies and gentlemen waiting to speak with them did not appreciably decrease. He continued to feel off-balance, exposed. And out of his depth in dealing with some of the more dangerous specimens.
Leonora took care of them with a sure touch he had to admire. Just the right amount of haughtiness, the right amount of confidence. Thank God he’d found her.
Then Ethelreda and Edith came up; they greeted Leonora as if she was already a member of the family, and she responded in kind. Mildred and Gertie touched fingers; he saw a brief question put by Edith, to which Gertie replied with a short word and a snort. Then glances were exchanged between the older ladies, succeeded by conspiratorial smiles.
Passing before them, Ethelreda tapped his arm. “Bear up, dear boy. We’re here, now.”
She and Edith moved on, but only as far as Leonora’s side. Over the next fifteen minutes, his other cousins—Millicent, Flora, Constance, and Helen—arrived, too. Like Ethelreda and Edith, they greeted Leonora, exchanged pleasantries with Mildred and Gertie, then joined Ethelreda and Edith in a loose gathering alongside Leonora.
And things changed.