“Do call again, dear.”

They beamed and bobbed; Leonora smiled her thanks, then let him place her hand on his sleeve and lead her away.

Side by side they climbed the steps to the corridor; he didn’t need to glance back to know six pairs of eyes were still avidly watching.

As they passed into the front hall, Leonora glanced at him. “I didn’t realize you had such a large family.”

“I haven’t.” He opened the library door and ushered her in. “That’s the problem. There’s just me, and them. And the rest.”

Drawing her hand from his sleeve, she turned to look at him. “Rest?”

He waved her to the chairs angled to the blaze roaring in the hearth. “There’s eight more at Mallingham Manor, my house in Surrey.”

Her lips twitched; she turned and sat.

His smile faded. He dropped into the opposite chair. “Now cut line. Why are you here?”

Leonora lifted her gaze to his face, saw within it all she’d come to find—reassurance, strength, ability. Drawing breath, she leaned back in the chair, and told him.

He didn’t interrupt; when she’d finished he asked questions, clarifying where and when it was she’d felt under observation. At no point did he seek to dismiss her intuitive certainty; he treated all she reported as fact, not fancy.

“And you’re sure it was the same man?”

“Positive. I caught only a glimpse as he moved, but he had that same loose-limbed motion.” She held his gaze. “I’m sure it was he.”

He nodded. His gaze drifted from her as he considered all she’d said. Eventually, he glanced at her. “I don’t suppose you told your uncle or brother about any of this?”

She raised her brows, mock-haughtily. “I did, as it happens.”

When she said nothing more, he prompted, “And?”

Her smile wasn’t as lighthearted as she would have liked. “When I mentioned the feeling of being watched, they smiled and told me I was overreacting to the recent troubling events. Humphrey patted my shoulder and told me I shouldn’t worry my head about such things, that there really was no need—it would all blow over soon enough.

“As for the man at the bottom of the garden, they were sure I was mistaken. A trick of the light, the shifting shadows. An overactive imagination. I really shouldn’t read so many of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. Besides, as Jeremy pointed out—in the manner of one stating an absolute proof—the back gate is always kept locked.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” She met Trentham’s hazel eyes. “But the wall is covered on both sides with ancient ivy. Any reasonably agile man would have no difficulty climbing over.”

“Which would account for the thud you heard.”

“Precisely.”

He sat back. Elbow on one chair arm, chin propped on that fist, one long finger idly tapping his lips, he looked past her. His eyes glinted, hard, almost crystalline sharp beneath his heavy lids. He knew she was there, wasn’t ignoring her, but was, at present, absorbed.

She hadn’t before had such a chance to study him, to take in the reality of the strength in his large body, appreciate the width of his shoulders disguised though they were by the superbly tailored coat—Shultz, of course—or the long, lean legs, muscles delineated by tightly fitted buckskins that disappeared into glossy Hessians. He had very large feet.

He was always elegantly dressed, yet it was a quiet elegance; he did not need or wish to draw attention to himself—indeed, eschewed all opportunity to do so. Even his hands—she might dub them his best feature—were adorned only by a plain gold signet ring.

He’d spoken of his style; she felt confident in defining it as quiet, elegant strength. Like an aura it hung about him, not something der

ived from clothes or manner, but something inherent, innate, that showed through.

She found such quiet strength unexpectedly attractive. Comforting, too.

Her lips had eased into a gentle smile when his gaze shifted back to her. He raised a brow, but she shook her head, remained silent. Their gazes held; relaxed in the chairs in the quiet of his library, they studied each other.

And something changed.

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