The Lady Chosen by Stephanie Laurens

Trentham motioned her to stay where she was and restrain Henrietta, then flitted, wraithlike, through the door.
    He moved so silently, if she hadn’t been watching, he’d have simply disappeared.
    Instantly, she rose and followed, equally silent, grateful the builders had left drop sheets spread everywhere, muting the click of Henrietta’s claws as the wolfhound fell in at her heels.
    Reaching the hall door, she peered out. Spied Trentham as he merged with the dense shadows at the top of the kitchen stairs. She squinted as she drew her cloak about her; the servants’ door seemed to be propped open.
    “ Ow! Ooof!”
    A string of curses followed.
    “Here! Get orf! ”
    “What the hell are you doing here, you crazy old fool?”
    The voices came from below.
    Trentham was gone down the kitchen stairs before she could blink. Grabbing up her skirts, she raced after him.
    The stairs were a black void. She rushed down without thinking, heels clattering on the stone steps. Behind her, Henrietta woofed, then growled.
    Reaching the landing midway down, Leonora gripped the banister and looked down into the kitchen. Saw two men—one tall and cloaked, the other large but squat and much older—wrestling in the middle of the flags where the kitchen table used to sit.
    They’d frozen at Henrietta’s growl.
    The taller man looked up.
    In the same instant she did, he saw Trentham closing in.
    With a huge effort, the taller man swung the older one around and shoved him at Trentham.
    The old man lost his footing and went flying back.
    Trentham had a choice; sidestep and let the old man fall to the stone flags, or catch him. Watching from above, Leonora saw the decision made, saw Trentham stand his ground and let the old man fall against him. He steadied him, would have set him on his feet and gone after the tall man, already racing toward a narrow corridor, but the old man grappled, struggling—
    “Be still!”
    The order was rapped out. The old man stiffened and obeyed.
    Leaving him swaying on his feet, Trentham went after the tall man—
    Too late.
    A door slammed as Trentham disappeared down the corridor. An instant later, she heard him swear.
    Hurrying down the stairs, she pushed past the old man and raced to the back of the kitchen, to the windows that looked down the path to the rear gate.
    The tall man—he had to be their “burglar”—raced from the side of the house and plunged down the path. For one instant he was lit by a faint wash of moonlight; eyes wide, she drank in all she could, then he disappeared beyond the hedges bordering the kitchen garden. The gate to the alley lay beyond.
    With an inward sigh, she drew back, replayed all she’d seen in her mind, committed it to memory.
    A door banged, then Trentham appeared on the paving outside. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the garden.
    She tapped on the window; when he looked her way, she pointed down the path. He turned, then went down the steps and loped toward the gate, no longer racing.
    Their “burglar” had escaped.
    Turning to the old man, now sitting at the bottom of the stairs, still wheezing and trying to catch his breath, she frowned. “What are you doing here?”
    He talked, but didn’t answer, mumbling a great deal of fustian by way of excuses but failing to clarify the vital point. Clad in an ancient frieze coat, with equally ancient and worn boots and frayed mittens on his hands, he gave off an aroma of dirt and leaf mold readily detectable in the freshly painted kitchen.
    She folded her arms, tapped her toe as she looked down at him. “Why did you break in?”
    He shuffled, mumbled, and muttered some more.
    She was at the limit of her patience when Trentham returned, entering via the door down the dark corridor.
    He looked disgusted. “He had the foresight to take both keys.”
    The comment wasn’t made to anyone in particular; Leonora understood that the fleeing man had locked the side door against Trentham. While he halted, hands in his pockets