The Lady Chosen by Stephanie Laurens

houses?”
    “So it seems.”
    “But what would a gentleman be after?” Frowning, Jeremy met Tristan’s gaze. “It seems quite nonsensical to me.”
    Jeremy’s tone was dismissive; Tristan squelched his exasperation. “Indeed. Even more amazing is that a burglarwould bother breaking into a completely empty house.” He looked at Humphrey, then Jeremy. “There’s literally nothing in Number 12, and given the builders’ paraphernalia and presence throughout the day, that fact must be patently obvious.”
    Both Humphrey and Jeremy only looked more puzzled, as if the entire subject was completely beyond them. Tristan knew all about deceptiveness; he was starting to suspect he was watching a practiced performance. His voice hardened. “It occurred to me that the attempt to gain access to Number 12 might be linked to the two attempted burglaries here.”
    Both faces turned to him remained blank and vague. Too blank and vague. They understood everything, but were steadfastly refusing to react.
    He deliberately let the silence grow awkward. Eventually, Jeremy cleared his throat. “How so?”
    He nearly gave up; only a trenchant determination fueled by something very like anger that they shouldn’t be allowed so easily to abdicate their responsibilities and retreat into their long-dead world, leaving Leonora to cope by herself in this one, had him leaning forward, with his gaze capturing theirs. “What if the burglar isn’t your usual run of thief, and all evidence suggests that’s so, but instead he’s after something specific—some item that has value to him. If that item is here, in this house, then—”
    The door opened.
    Leonora swept in. Her eyes found him; she beamed. “My lord! How delightful to see you again.”
    Rising, Tristan met her eyes. She wasn’t delighted—she was in a flat panic. She glided up; inwardly disgusted with how poorly things had gone, he seized the inherent advantage and held out his hand.
    She blinked at it, but after only the slightest hesitation surrendered her fingers. He bowed; she curtsied. Her fingers quivered in his.
    The courtesies satisfied, he drew her to sit beside him on the chaise. She had no option but to do so. As, tense and on edge, she sank onto the damask, Humphrey said, “Trentham’s just told us there was a burglary next door—just last night. Blackguard escaped, unfortunately.”
    “Indeed?” Eyes wide, she turned to Tristan as he sat again, angling herself so she could watch his face.
    He caught her eye. “Just so.” His dry tone wasn’t wasted on her. “I was just suggesting that the attempt to gain access to Number 12 might be connected to the previous attempts to gain entry here.”
    She, he knew, had arrived at the same conclusion, and that sometime ago.
    “I still don’t see any real link.” Jeremy leaned on his book and fixed Tristan with a steady but still dismissive gaze. “I mean, burglars try their hand wherever they might, don’t they?”
    Tristan nodded. “Which is why it seems odd that this ‘burglar’—and I think we can safely assume all the attempts have been by the same party—continues to push his luck in Montrose Place despite his failures to date.”
    “Hmm, yes, well, perhaps he’ll take the hint and go away, given he couldn’t get into either of our houses?” Humphrey raised his brows hopefully.
    Tristan hung on to his temper. “The very fact he’s tried three times suggests he won’t go away—that whatever he’s after he’s driven to get.”
    “Yes, but that’s just it, don’t you see.” Sitting back, Jeremy spread his hands wide. “What on earth could he want here?”
    “That,” Tristan retorted, “is the question.”
    Yet every suggestion that the “burglar” might be after something contained in their researches, some information, concealed or otherwise, or some unexpectedly valuable tome, met with denials and incomprehension. Other than speculating that the villain might be after