Leonora’spearls, something Tristan found difficult to believe—and from the look on her face, so did Leonora—neither Humphrey nor Jeremy had any ideas to advance.
It was patently clear they had no interest in solving the mystery of the burglar, and were both of the opinion that ignoring the matter entirely was the surest route to getting it to disappear.
At least for them.
Tristan didn’t approve, but he recognized their type. They were selfish, absorbed in their own interests to the exclusion of all else. Over the years, they’d learned to leave anything and everything to Leonora to deal with; because she always had, they now viewed her efforts as their right. She haggled with the real world while they remained engrossed in their academic one.
Admiration for Leonora—exceedingly reluctant for it was definitely something he didn’t want to feel—along with a deeper understanding and a niggling sense that she deserved better bloomed and slid through him.
He could make no headway with Humphrey or Jeremy; eventually he had to concede defeat. He did, however, exact a promise that they would bend their minds to the question and inform him immediately if they thought of any item that could be the burglar’s goal.
Catching Leonora’s eye, he rose. Throughout, he’d been conscious of her tension, of her watching him like a hawk ready to jump in and deflect or confuse any comment that might reveal her part in the previous night’s activities.
He held her gaze; she read his message and rose, too.
“I’ll see Lord Trentham out.”
With easy smiles, Humphrey and Jeremy bade him farewell. Following Leonora to the door, he paused on the threshold and looked back.
Both men were already head down, back in the past.
He looked at Leonora. Her expression stated she knewwhat he’d seen. One brow rose quizzically, as if she was wryly amused that he’d thought he could change things.
He felt his face harden. Waving her on, he followed, closing the door behind them.
She led him to the front hall. Drawing level with the door to the parlor, he touched her arm.
Met her gaze when she looked at him. “Let’s walk in the back garden.” When she didn’t immediately acquiesce, he added, “I want to talk to you.”
She hesitated, then inclined her head. She led him through the parlor—he noticed the piece of embroidery still precisely as it had been previously—out through the French doors and down onto the lawn.
Head high, she walked on; he fell in beside her. And said nothing. Waited for her to ask what he wished to talk about, grasping the moment to work on a strategy for convincing her to leave the matter of the mysterious burglar to him.
The lawn was lush and well tended, the beds circling it thick with odd plants he’d never seen before. The late Cedric Carling must have been a collector as well as an authority on herbal horticulture…“How long ago did your cousin Cedric die?”
She glanced at him. “Over two years ago.” She paused, then continued, “I can’t see that there’d be anything valuable in his papers, or we would have heard long ago.”
“Most likely.” After Humphrey and Jeremy, her open acuity was refreshing.
They’d walked across the width of the lawn; she halted where a sundial was set on a pedestal standing just within the boundary of a deep bed. He stopped beside and a little behind her. Watched as she put out a hand, with her fingertips traced the engraving in the bronze face.
“Thank you for not mentioning my presence in Number 12 last night.” Her voice was low but clear; she kept her gaze on the sundial. “Or what happened on the path.”
She drew breath, lifted her head.
Before she could say more—tell him the kiss hadn’t meant anything, had been a silly mistake, or some similar nonsense he’d feel forced to prove wrong—he raised his hand, set one fingertip to her nape, and traced slowly, deliberately, down her spine, all the way down to below her waist.
Her
It was patently clear they had no interest in solving the mystery of the burglar, and were both of the opinion that ignoring the matter entirely was the surest route to getting it to disappear.
At least for them.
Tristan didn’t approve, but he recognized their type. They were selfish, absorbed in their own interests to the exclusion of all else. Over the years, they’d learned to leave anything and everything to Leonora to deal with; because she always had, they now viewed her efforts as their right. She haggled with the real world while they remained engrossed in their academic one.
Admiration for Leonora—exceedingly reluctant for it was definitely something he didn’t want to feel—along with a deeper understanding and a niggling sense that she deserved better bloomed and slid through him.
He could make no headway with Humphrey or Jeremy; eventually he had to concede defeat. He did, however, exact a promise that they would bend their minds to the question and inform him immediately if they thought of any item that could be the burglar’s goal.
Catching Leonora’s eye, he rose. Throughout, he’d been conscious of her tension, of her watching him like a hawk ready to jump in and deflect or confuse any comment that might reveal her part in the previous night’s activities.
He held her gaze; she read his message and rose, too.
“I’ll see Lord Trentham out.”
With easy smiles, Humphrey and Jeremy bade him farewell. Following Leonora to the door, he paused on the threshold and looked back.
Both men were already head down, back in the past.
He looked at Leonora. Her expression stated she knewwhat he’d seen. One brow rose quizzically, as if she was wryly amused that he’d thought he could change things.
He felt his face harden. Waving her on, he followed, closing the door behind them.
She led him to the front hall. Drawing level with the door to the parlor, he touched her arm.
Met her gaze when she looked at him. “Let’s walk in the back garden.” When she didn’t immediately acquiesce, he added, “I want to talk to you.”
She hesitated, then inclined her head. She led him through the parlor—he noticed the piece of embroidery still precisely as it had been previously—out through the French doors and down onto the lawn.
Head high, she walked on; he fell in beside her. And said nothing. Waited for her to ask what he wished to talk about, grasping the moment to work on a strategy for convincing her to leave the matter of the mysterious burglar to him.
The lawn was lush and well tended, the beds circling it thick with odd plants he’d never seen before. The late Cedric Carling must have been a collector as well as an authority on herbal horticulture…“How long ago did your cousin Cedric die?”
She glanced at him. “Over two years ago.” She paused, then continued, “I can’t see that there’d be anything valuable in his papers, or we would have heard long ago.”
“Most likely.” After Humphrey and Jeremy, her open acuity was refreshing.
They’d walked across the width of the lawn; she halted where a sundial was set on a pedestal standing just within the boundary of a deep bed. He stopped beside and a little behind her. Watched as she put out a hand, with her fingertips traced the engraving in the bronze face.
“Thank you for not mentioning my presence in Number 12 last night.” Her voice was low but clear; she kept her gaze on the sundial. “Or what happened on the path.”
She drew breath, lifted her head.
Before she could say more—tell him the kiss hadn’t meant anything, had been a silly mistake, or some similar nonsense he’d feel forced to prove wrong—he raised his hand, set one fingertip to her nape, and traced slowly, deliberately, down her spine, all the way down to below her waist.
Her
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