Loving Rose by Stephanie Laurens

Author:Stephanie Laurens
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2014-07-28T14:00:00+00:00

Chapter

9

Four days later, Thomas leaned against the railings of a town house in Albemarle Street and studied the house across the street and two doors down.

Idly twirling his cane as if he was waiting for some friend to join him, he reviewed, yet again, the events, or rather the lack of any significant achievement, over the past days. Despite Drayton’s best efforts, nothing he’d uncovered in Richard Percival’s finances could remotely be construed as providing sufficient motive for murder. The only thing Thomas, himself, had been able to confirm was that, if one inquired in the right quarters, it was common knowledge that Percival was, and had been for years, pushing hard to have his nephew hunted down.

That much was definitely true, which meant that the threat to William was very much an ongoing one.

Thomas hadn’t been in any position to further pursue who Richard Percival had hired to do his hunting; there was a limit to how far he could press without alerting those he was seeking—and that he was in no hurry to do. As matters stood, if anyone grew suspicious enough to follow him, he would, ultimately, lead them to William. Of course, he routinely took steps to ensure he wasn’t followed, but errors could be made, even by him.

There had been no advance on the legal side, either, although Marwell was holding himself ready to act in whatever manner Thomas wished.

Thomas wished . . . that it hadn’t come to this, but in accepting the need to come to London, he had always suspected that it would.

Pushing away from the railing, he looked right and left, then strolled across the street. Climbing the steps of Number 24, he halted before the town house’s door, composed his mind, then rang the bell.

A shortish, slightly rotund—Thomas’s gaze flicked over the man’s attire—not butler but majordomo opened the door. The man looked at him in polite query. “Yes, sir?”

“Is Mr. Adair at home?”

The man didn’t miss a beat. “I’m not sure, sir, but I can ask. Who shall I say is calling?”

Thomas had timed his call for ten o’clock, the earliest possible time for a polite call and sufficiently early that it was unlikely the gentleman of the house had as yet stepped out. Reaching into his pocket, Thomas drew out a calling card. “He’ll know me.”

The majordomo took the card; he frowned slightly when he noticed the second name Thomas had scrawled across one corner. But then the man stepped back, holding the door wide. “If you would like to wait in the hall, sir, I will inquire.”

An “Honorable” on a calling card usually sufficed to get one at least into the front hall. With an inclination of his head, Thomas crossed the threshold and stood to one side of the elegant chamber. With a bow, the majordomo went off, disappearing down a corridor that led to the rear of the house.

Hands clasped over the head of his cane, Thomas glanced idly around, noting not just the elegance of the decor but also the little touches that, no doubt, had been contributed by Adair’s wife.

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