The Edge of Desire

Chapter 11

Mr. Meecham arrived in South Audley Street at eleven o’clock the next morning. Letitia had elected to receive him in the drawing room, reasoning, Christian suspected, that the greater formality would provide a better stage for the occasion.

When Meecham was shown in, she was seated on the chaise, gowned in her most severe bombazine, flanked by Agnes, equally austere in a dark slate gray gown.

From his position behind the chaise at Letitia’s shoulder, Christian watched as, having been announced by Mellon, Meecham, a short, rotund individual dressed somberly in his best black, bowed low, then came forward with a tripping gait.

Features arranged in a patronizingly compassionate expression, Meecham halted a yard away, bowed again, and declaimed, “If you would permit me, my lady, to convey our most sincere condolences on the passing of your late husband.” Without waiting for any acknowledgment, Meecham continued, “Mr. Randall-”

“Was murdered.”

The blunt statement-and the tone in which Letitia uttered it-threw Meecham entirely off his stride.

He all but goggled at her. “Ah…yes. So I was given to understand.”

“Indeed. That being so, I’m sure you can understand that we wish to hear the details of my late husband’s will without delay.” Imperiously she waved Meecham to a straight-backed chair positioned for the purpose a few yards before the chaise, a small table beside it. “If you would sit, perhaps we might proceed.”

Her tone was so cold, Christian was surprised Meecham didn’t shiver. With one last glance at her, then at Christian, who met it blandly, he crossed to the chair and sat down. Pulling his briefcase into his lap, he opened it and drew out a thin sheaf. He regarded it, then with appropriate gravity laid it on the small table. “The last will and testament of Mr. George Martin Randall.”

He glanced at Letitia. “As you are the sole principal beneficiary, my lady, we may proceed without further ado.”

The words had barely left Meecham’s lips when a heavy knock fell on the door.

Letitia shifted her gaze to the door. Not Mellon was her first thought; no butler knocked like that. Before she could decide whether to bid whoever it was to enter, the door opened-and Barton walked in.

Halting, he nodded to her, then to Christian. “If you’ll pardon the intrusion, my lady, I humbly request to be present when the will of the late Mr. Randall is read. It’s imperative we-the authorities-know what’s what with the inheritance.”

Letitia narrowed her eyes on the runner. “Humbly request” her left foot. She was about to remind him he was forbidden the house when Christian’s hand closed on her shoulder.

She turned her head and looked up at him. He leaned down, head bent to whisper, “He’ll be able to get the details when the will is lodged with the courts-probably later today. Letting him stay and listen now isn’t going to change anything, but it might mean he mellows and becomes less intrusive, less of a bother to you.”

A powerful consideration. She raised her brows fleetingly, then, smoothing her expression into one of haughty indifference, she turned back to Barton. “You may stay.” She pointed to a straight-backed chair against the wall. “Provided you sit there and keep silent.”

Barton frowned, but accepted with good enough grace.

Once he’d sat rather gingerly on the chair, Letitia looked again at Meecham. “You may proceed.”

Meecham had recognized Barton, presumably from his partners’ description; his expression suggested he’d anticipated an ugly scene and was relieved to have been spared. He’d fished a pair of pince-nez from his waistcoat pocket; perching them on his nose, he held up the will, and read.

Once he got past the verbose preamble, matters became more interesting. Letitia saw Barton pull a notebook from his pocket, open it, lick his pencil, and start scribbling. Glancing back, she saw Christian, too, had pulled a small black book from his pocket; he and Barton took notes as Meecham detailed Randall’s estate, all of which had been left to her.

Meecham paused after that section, casting his eye back over the list he’d just read. Randall’s property had been described not in value but in kind-the house in South Audley Street, his investments in the funds, in various other bonds, and a third share in the Orient Trading Company, which had as its address another legal firm on Chancery Lane. “A very tidy fortune,” Meecham opined.

Letitia glanced up and back at Christian. He quietly said, “Montague will be able to tell us more.”

Meecham cleared his throat, drawing all attention back to him. He fixed his gaze on Letitia. “That’s what will come to you, my lady, plus any and all residuals after the following bequests.”

Letitia had to force herself not to lean forward. Barton, she noted, didn’t seem interested in the bequests; frowningly studying what he’d written, he’d stopped taking notes.

“The first bequest,” Meecham intoned, “is to a Mr. Trowbridge, of Cheyne Walk in Chelsea-‘the Glockstein clock that resides in the study, in recognition of our long friendship.’ The second bequest, also in recognition of long friendship, is of the Stuart crystal pen and inkwell set, also from the study, to a Mr. Swithin, of Curzon Street, London.” Meecham paused, then went on, “Those are the only two bequests beyond the household. The other bequests…”

While Meecham worked his way through the usual long list of small bequests to household staff-Mellon, the two footmen, Randall’s long-serving cook among them-Letitia turned and looked inquiringly at Christian.

He nodded, spoke quietly. “At last we’ve some names-some people we can ask.”

“Perhaps they’re away, and so missed his funeral.”

“We’ll see.” With his head, Christian directed her attention back to Meecham, who was summing up.

“So the bulk of the estate passes to Mr. Randall’s relict-Lady Letitia Randall-outright, no covenants and no restrictions bar the customary one.” Meecham looked at Letitia and colored faintly. “That is to say, if you were to bear Mr. Randall a child after his death, then the estate is held in trust-”

“You need not concern yourself with that eventuality.”

Letitia’s tone-colder and more final than any grave-gave Meecham pause, but then he gathered his courage and with an attempt at delicacy suggested, “Your pardon, my lady, but it is possible-”

“No, Mr. Meecham. No child of Randall’s is possible, at least not by me. My late husband and I have not been…close for some years.”

Meecham’s color deepened to an unbecoming purple. “Yes, well.” He fell to shuffling his papers. “If that’s the case, then the estate passes to you unreservedly.”

“Very well.” After a moment Letitia asked, “Is there anything more?”

Meecham assured her there was not; he went on to outline his role in registering the will with the courts.

Christian let the words roll past him; his mind had snagged on Letitia’s “some years.” He didn’t doubt she was speaking the literal truth, even possibly understating it; “some years” explained a number of things-her short fuse when he pulled her into his arms, for one.

For a woman of her passions, “some years” must have seemed a lifetime. Just as it had for him over the years he’d been celibate, expecting to return to her.

He wasn’t sure if it was the notion of tit for tat-that she’d been as deprived as he-or the more fundamental realization that Randall and she hadn’t been intimate for years that so buoyed him.

Regardless, when Meecham rose, bowed, and took his leave, he was feeling distinctly mellow.

Barton rose as Meecham turned for the door. “Just one thing I wanted to check with you, Mr. Meecham.”

Meecham halted. “Yes?”

“This estate of Mr. Randall’s-it’s quite a fortune if I understood correctly?”

“I don’t know the precise value-you’d need to consult a financial expert for that-but I would venture to say that taken together the properties and funds I listed would amount to quite a considerable sum.”

“And,” Barton pressed, “all that considerable sum passes to Lady Randall here?”

“Yes, that’s right. Hers to do with as she pleases.”

Barton thanked Meecham and let him go. He made a note in his book, then, closing it, turned to Letitia, still seated in state on the chaise. “A considerable sum makes a very good motive for murder, I’ve always found.”

Letitia didn’t shift a muscle; her voice dripped icicles as she said, “You can’t seriously be suggesting I murdered Randall.”

“No-but I would suggest you’re very fond of your brother, and if he’d needed money, then killing Randall would, through you, serve him just as well.”

A long silence ensued. Christian considered stepping around the chaise to get between Barton and Letitia, but then she spoke, her voice dreadful in its calmness, “I believe you know your way to the door.”

Barton hesitated; Christian prayed he had enough nous not to further prod her. Then Barton bowed stiffly and turned away.

Just as he reached the door, Letitia spoke again, and there could be no doubt whatever of her feelings. “Incidentally, Barton, should you enter this house again without a warrant, rest assured I’ll have the watch summoned and see you thrown out on your ear.”

Barton had paused in the doorway. A moment ticked past, then he continued on without looking back.

Christian rounded the chaise. He reached for Letitia’s hand; as the door clicked shut, he drew her to her feet. “At last we have two specific names to pursue-although I don’t know either. Do you know Trowbridge or Swithin?”

She had to think to answer-had to put aside her rising temper to do so; it took her a moment of blinking up at him before she succeeded, and frowned. “No, I don’t-at least not in the sense of having any real acquaintance. I know nothing of Swithin-I’ve never heard of him-but I’ve heard of Trowbridge.”

“It’s lunchtime. Let’s go into the dining room and put together what we know, so this afternoon, when we meet the others at the club, we’ll have a concise report.”

Frown easing, she nodded, her mind having switched, as he’d intended, to a topic that held more interest than railing over Barton. “Yes. All right.” She glanced at Agnes. “Aunt, are you ready to eat?”

Agnes nodded. “An excellent idea.” Her gaze was on Christian. He stepped around Letitia and helped Agnes up.

Nodding her thanks, Agnes shook out her gray skirts, then headed for the door. “You’re very good, Dearne.”

Christian hid his smile and offered Letitia his arm. Already engrossed in assembling all she knew of Trowbridge, she absentmindedly placed her hand on his sleeve and let him steer her to the door.

In mid-afternoon Christian escorted Letitia down the steps of Randall’s house and into a hackney. Ordering the jarvey to drive them to the park, he climbed in, shut the door, and sat beside her.

He watched, but as the hackney drove off, Barton made no move to quit his position opposite the house. As the hackney turned the corner, Christian saw him settling back against the area railings, arms folded, his gaze locked on Randall’s door.

“He’s staying there?” Letitia asked.

“It looks like it. Nevertheless, we won’t take any chances.” He glanced at her. “A short walk will do us good.”

They left the hackney at the corner of Hyde Park, then crossed the street and ambled a short way down Grosvenor Place. They’d passed Grosvenor Crescent when Christian halted, scanning the street behind them. “No sign. He didn’t follow us.”

“Good.” Letitia set off at a brisker pace. “It’s this way, isn’t it?”

They reached the club shortly before three o’clock. Admitted by Gasthorpe, who confirmed he was housing a visitor, they went up to the library, Letitia all but taking the stairs two at a time.

There, they found Justin, at his ease, sharing a tale with Tristan. Both rose as Letitia swept in.

Her gaze raked her brother. She nodded. “Good. You managed to get yourself here without breaking your neck.”

Justin grinned. “Good afternoon, sister dear.” He leaned down to buss her cheek.

Christian offered his hand. “How was the drive down?”

“Utterly uneventful,” Justin replied, with all a Vaux’s contempt for such a happenstance. “It’s bad enough in daylight-at night it’s dead boring.”

Sinking into a chair, Letitia rolled her eyes.

The men had barely reclaimed their seats when a knock sounded on the front door. A minute later Dalziel entered.

His gaze swept the room, locating, and remaining on, Justin’s face.

Justin’s eyes went wide-he clearly recognized Dalziel-Royce Whoever-he-was-even though there had to be a good ten years between them. Justin slowly got to his feet. “Ah…you must be Dalziel.” He held out a hand.

With a nod of approval, Dalziel grasped it. “You’ll be staying with me, out of sight. I’ll come for you later tonight-no need to take any chances whatever, given the authorities’ current bent.”

“I should thank you-”

Dalziel silenced him with an upraised hand. “Time enough for that later. For now”-he surveyed their small company-“what have we learned?”

“Randall’s will was read this morning,” Letitia stated. “Dearne has the details.”

Extracting his notebook, Christian ran through both Randall’s estate and the bequests. The latter, unsurprisingly, became the focus of discussion.

Tristan in particular pounced on the names. “Trowbridge and Swithin-those are the only two gentlemen I turned up who anyone even suggested might know Randall as more than a nodding acquaintance.” He glanced at Christian. “I covered virtually every male haunt of tonnish gentlemen-at least those where we go to meet with friends. Many knew Randall by sight, yet none admitted to friendship, nor did I find anyone who could name any of his friends. Trowbridge and Swithin were mentioned solely as gentlemen my sources had seen Randall talking to on more than one occasion. That was the sum of it-interesting that they weren’t known as his friends, yet he names them as longtime friends in his will.”

“Indeed.” Christian frowned. “Especially as it seems he has met them in recent times, and all live more or less in London, Swithin within a few blocks.”

“Was the will recent?” Dalziel asked.

“Two years old,” Christian replied. “Recent enough.” He looked at Justin. “Any ideas?”

Justin grimaced. “I’ve seen Randall speak with Trowbridge, and Swithin, too-I only know their names because he mentioned them in passing. On different occasions, each stopped him to have a word when he was with me-although they stepped aside, I got the impression it was simply that-a word or two. Nothing of deep import. But…” He grimaced again, and looked at Letitia. “If one goes by how people stand-how close, how relaxed they are-then it did seem as if he knew them well.”

“It sounds as if Swithin and Trowbridge go on our list of potential friends-cum-murderers.” Dalziel raised a brow at Justin. “Can you think of anyone else-anyone Randall classed as friend, whether by word or deed?”

“I’ve spent the last days racking my brains, but other than Trowbridge and Swithin, who I did recall, there’s no one else I can name, or even point to. Looking back, it’s really quite bizarre, but Randall simply didn’t appear to have the usual circle of male acquaintances all other gentlemen do.”

Frowning, as they all were, Tristan asked, “How did he spend his evenings? Surely he must have had some social circle of sorts?”

It was Letitia who answered. “He spent a lot of his evenings in his study. Often to all hours. Business, he said, although I never knew what.” She grimaced. “I had no interest in knowing, so never asked.” She paused, then added, “And I’m not sure even if I had asked, that he would have told me. He was rather secretive about his financial affairs.”

“That’s true.” Justin looked at Tristan. “He probably spent half his evenings out-sometimes with Letitia at dinners, and sometimes trawling the clubs, but at least in the latter case, on the times I went with him or saw him out and about, it always seemed that he was there to see and be seen, not to do anything specific like meet someone or play cards or dice. He’d walk through the rooms, stopping and chatting with whoever was there. If you watched him long enough, you’d see him just keep walking until he’d passed everyone, and then just walk out again. Most never noticed, but I did because I watched-it always struck me as deuced strange.”

A moment passed, then Dalziel said, “So we have Swithin and Trowbridge as possibilities, and no one else. What do we know of them?”

Letitia shook her head. “I never encountered them with Randall-I never heard him mention them, nor heard that they’d called at the house. Swithin I’ve never met at all-I know nothing about him. Trowbridge I have met socially-we’ve been introduced.” She glanced around. “He’s something of an authority on paintings and sculpture, and as the latter is currently very popular with the ladies of the ton, Trowbridge is in demand. When I met him it was at a private exhibition of figurines-he was one of the critics the hostess had invited. But that’s all I know of him, although courtesy of Randall’s will, we now know he lives in Chelsea.”

“That’s more or less all that I managed to learn about Trowbridge,” Tristan put in. “As his and Swithin’s were the only names I turned up, I asked around very quietly. Trowbridge seems well established within the ton. All I heard about Swithin, however, was that he was known as a canny and very private investor.”

“Clearly we need to learn more about Trowbridge and Swithin.” Having stolen his thunder, Letitia turned to Dalziel. “I presume you haven’t heard anything from Hexham yet?”

Dalziel shook his head. “I’ve sent word to contacts I have there-they’ll visit the grammar school and see what they can find, but it’ll be a day or two yet before they send anything back. However, I also made inquiries through other, closer sources, hoping to turn up something on Randall. Unfortunately, all I turned up were negatives-he’s never been in any of the services, never attached to any government department or embassy, never had a position in any ministry, royal house, or parliamentary enterprise. Nor was he ever connected with the church-as deacon, sexton, or any such capacity.”

Letitia wrinkled her nose. “So my late husband remains an enigma.”

No one argued.

Christian broke the silence. “Have any of you heard of the Orient Trading Company?” When they all shook their heads, he went on, “Randall owned a third of the company-we should find out who the other owners are. It’s possible that company affairs provided someone with a motive for murder.” He looked down at his notebook. “Letitia and I have to visit Montague anyway, to ask what he’s learned regarding the original source of Randall’s wealth, and now also to give him the details of Randall’s estate so he can give us an estimate of its worth. As part of that, he’ll need to assess the Orient Trading Company-I’ll ask him to ferret out the other owners, and whether the company is profitable, too.”

“Do.” Dalziel looked around. “It seems we all have clues to pursue. I’ll continue to see what I can uncover regarding Randall’s background. I’ll also see what I can learn about the company.”

Tristan nodded. “The Orient Trading Company sounds like an import-export business-I’ll see what I can learn of them around the docks and through the shipping companies. Alongside that, I’ll keep pursuing Swithin-we know far too little about him.”

“Indeed.” Letitia glanced at Christian. “I’m sure I can arrange to come up with Trowbridge socially-that might be the best way to approach him about his connection with Randall. I could mention the bequest.”

Christian nodded. “Good idea. I’ll go with you. We’ll concentrate on Trowbridge. Otherwise, for the company and Randall’s finances, it’s Montague we most need to alert-we’ll do that as soon as we can.”

They all rose, pleased to have something to sink their teeth into. All except Justin, who clearly felt left out.

“You’ll just have to grin and bear it,” Letitia informed him, “for I’ll never forgive you if you give that weasel Barton the satisfaction of taking you up.” She hugged him. “Stay…where you’re told to stay, and don’t be a nuisance.”

Justin rolled his eyes but settled back into a chair to read a book readily enough. Dalziel had already departed, having ordered Justin to be ready to leave the club at two the next morning.

Letitia followed Christian down the stairs. “Dalziel at least is taking the threat of the authorities seriously.”

Christian snorted. “He should know-he’s one of the authorities’ ultimate threats.”

Gasthorpe, as ever efficient, had a hackney waiting. Letitia climbed in; Christian told the jarvey to take them to South Audley Street, then joined her.

To find her frowning at him. “What about going to see Montague?”

He shook his head. “It’s nearly five o’clock. We’d never make it in time-he’ll have left his office before we reach it.”

“But-” She stared at him. After a moment she asked, “Don’t you know where he lives?”

Her impatience had resurfaced. “No.” Then he added, “And even if I did, I wouldn’t use the knowledge. There’s nothing he could accomplish tonight.”

Slumping back against the seat, she grumped, “He could think.”

Leaning back, he smiled, caught her hand and held it. “We’ll go and see him first thing in the morning. Until then, you’ll simply have to possess your soul in patience.”

Patience was not a Vaux trait. Letitia wasn’t sure she had a patient bone in her body. However…she did have other matters to attend to-even if she hadn’t yet divined just how she was supposed to eradicate the assumption that appeared to have lodged with quite ridiculous firmness in the majority of the grande dames’ minds.

That evening she stood in the middle of the Marchioness of Huntly’s drawing room, and wondered where-and how-to start. While she’d assumed Christian’s appearance beside her in her carriage in the park the previous afternoon would engender a certain amount of speculation, she hadn’t anticipated just how rabid and deep-rooted that speculation would be.

Her initial intention-to simply ignore all comments-had been rendered ineligible when her hostess, one of the most influential females in the ton, had commented, in her calm, collected, commanding voice, on how pleased she was to see Letitia and Christian together again.

Huh! They were together in the sense he’d escorted her there-but together in the wider, long-term sense, in the sense of having a future together…as to that, she still didn’t know.

And the last thing she wanted was to get hemmed into a corner by the ton’s expectations. To have her decision effectively taken out of her hands-she was perfectly aware that could happen if the ton’s assumptions were allowed to grow unchecked. Admittedly, as a Vaux she could ultimately do whatever she pleased and the ton be damned-something the ton, perversely, would accept as perfectly normal for a Vaux-but she currently had enough scandal in her life; she didn’t need to court more.

And she would infinitely prefer that the grande dames stopped watching her and Christian like beady-eyed eagles.

Or was that gossipy vultures?

Regardless, the conclusion was obvious-she needed to pour ice-cold water all over the ideas blossoming beneath the various coiffures bobbing about the room.

Around her, the guests at the extremely select soiree filled the elegant room with a multitude of murmuring voices. With Randall so recently dead, soirees of this nature were the only “entertainments” she felt it was permissable for her to attend. Of course, ever since Randall’s sensational demise, the flow of invitations had dramatically increased, ladies she barely knew inviting her to afternoon teas and the like.

Much good would it do them. She’d chosen to attend the marchioness’s event because she’d known all the most influential ladies-those whose thoughts she most needed to monitor-would be present. Beyond managing the opinions society held of her, Justin, and her family in general, she had little interest in social affairs, not with Justin in hiding and Randall’s killer as yet unmasked.

And Randall proving even more peculiarly secretive in death than he had in life.

She’d left Christian with a bevy of gentlemen discussing political affairs; neither he nor she needed support in this arena.

Surveying the company, she wondered which grande dame she ought to approach first.

A sharp rap on her arm-not from a hand but the head of a cane-answered her question. Summoning a delighted smile-perfectly genuine; she knew who her accoster was, and no lady was more relevant to her task-she turned and met a pair of obsidian eyes. “Lady Osbaldestone! How lovely.”

She didn’t curtsy-Lady Osbaldestone’s title was inferior to her own; instead she grasped her ladyship’s beringed fingers, squeezed gently as she leaned in to touch cheeks.

“Well, miss.” Lady Osbaldestone transfixed her with an incisive gaze. “So you’re a miss again, after a fashion, and not a moment too soon in my opinion. You wasted enough years with that man-I can’t say I view his demise as any great loss. And I see Dearne’s come to his senses, which is exactly as it should be.”

“Dearne’s been a great support in tracking down Randall’s murderer.” Letitia knew she had to adhere firmly to that line; her ladyship had one of the shrewdest brains in the ton. “I fear I wouldn’t have known where to start.”

Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes regarded her unblinkingly. A second ticked past, then her ladyship said, “To be blunt, my dear, I’d heard that the authorities had your brother firmly at the top of their list.”

Letitia waved dismissively. “You know what the authorities are like-they have to have some name on their list, so they put Justin’s on it. As his is the only name they have, ergo he’s at the top, but that will change once they have the correct suspect.”

“And Dearne is helping you locate this suspect?”

“Indeed. He was kind enough to agree to assist. With his background, he’s the perfect gentleman for the job.”

Her ladyship’s lips quirked. “Indubitably.” A subtle smile curved her lips. “I doubt, my dear, that you’ll find many who will argue that point.”

Letitia blinked, replayed her words-and inwardly cursed. She hadn’t been referring to Christian’s past with her. She quickly said, “His experience in…er, covert operations, as I believe they’re termed, has proved very valuable-”

She broke off; from the amusement glowing in Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes, she wasn’t advancing her cause. Where were the right words? Ones that weren’t ambiguous?

“I quite understand, dear.” Lady Osbaldestone patted her hand in a way that suggested she truly did. “And here comes Helena-you must tell her precisely what you told me. She won’t have been so entertained in years.”

Letitia had to fight to keep her eyes from narrowing as they both turned to greet the shorter, slighter-but no less powerful-Duchess of St. Ives, or Dowager Duchess as she preferred to be styled in a very public attempt to spur her only son, now the duke, into marrying.

“My dear Letitia!” The duchess enveloped her in an exuberant, scented embrace, touching first one cheek, then the other, to hers. “Such a happening! I would offer my condolences, but then again, while I did not know your late husband well, one cannot imagine that his absence is devastating.”

The duchess was French. Outrageous was her middle name. She could give-and over the years had at times given-the Vaux a run for their money.

“Letitia was just telling me that Dearne’s been helping her find Randall’s murderer.” Lady Osbaldestone leaned on her cane.

“Excellent!” The duchess opened her lovely pale green eyes wide. “So useful to have a gentleman about who has more than one string to his bow, nein?” She beamed at Letitia.

Who inwardly sighed. If she decided to break with Christian, she would simply have to weather the scandal.

Nevertheless, while she chatted with Lady Osbaldestone and the duchess, then after parting from them, with various others, she continued to adhere to her story that he was merely helping with the investigation into Randall’s death. Nothing more.

Much good did it do her. Her aunts Amarantha and Constance were a case in point; they cornered her, literally, and demanded to be told all.

“Such a wonderful thing-well, I know one is not supposed to say that over a death,” Constance quickly amended, “but really it’s very hard to mourn Randall. I’ve tried to think of him, but it seems we hardly knew him.”

It seemed no one had, Letitia thought.

“And anyway,” Amarantha declared, “he’s dead-and you and Dearne aren’t.” She fixed her intent hazel gaze on Letitia. “So what’s afoot? Randall murdered, Justin vanished, and Dearne hovering protectively-you can’t tell me that’s not going to be the story of the season.”

Letitia set her jaw. “I don’t wish to feature as the story of the season.”

“Pshaw!” Amarantha waved aside the comment. “You’re a Vaux-you can’t simply suspend your heritage. The haut ton expect us to entertain them-and I have to say that currently you and Justin are doing a fine job of it.”

“Indeed-I haven’t had so much attention in years,” Constance stated. “I vow I’m mobbed wherever I go, with ladies-and gentlemen-wishing to know ‘the Truth.’” Constance edged closer; Letitia all but had her back to the wall. “So what should we say?”

Letitia told them precisely what she wished them to say.

Much to their disappointment.

Constance picked at her spangled shawl. “I can’t imagine why you think people are going to swallow such a tale-that the only thing between you and Dearne is this investigation.”

“And anyway,” Amarantha informed her, “the investigation’s not what they want to hear about. Randall being murdered and Justin having to disappear until the real murderer is caught and the authorities get themselves straightened out is all very well, but it’s the romance everyone really wants to know of.”

“Indeed?” Letitia arched one brow. In her haughtiest manner-not all that effective against her aunts-she stated, “If and when-and I do stress that if-there is anything to report on the romance front, rest assured I will let you know.” She inclined her head to them both. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I must find the withdrawing room.”

Grudgingly, they stepped aside and let her go; she retreated to lick her wounds-or more specifically, to soothe her aggravation.

On the opposite side of the room, Christian found himself in his aunt Cordelia’s sights. Ermina had fluttered about him earlier but hadn’t settled; Cordelia, in contrast, looked determined on an interrogation.

She trapped his gaze, her own unflinching. “Is Justin Vaux guilty or not?”

That one was easy. “Not.”

“Indeed?” One brow arching, Cordelia turned and pointedly looked across the room.

Following her gaze, he had no difficulty locating Letitia as she glided through the guests; her height, combined with the fabulous richness of her dark red hair, made her easy to spot.

“If that’s the case, then I suggest you move smartly to establish that point. More, to prove his innocence. Otherwise…suffice it to say you might well find yourself facing a hurdle you won’t wish to front.”

He let his lips curve although there was no real amusement in the gesture. “Thank you, Aunt.” On a murmur he added, “What would I do without your sage counsel?”

Cordelia snorted. “Indeed. While I’m sure you’ve seen the point yourself, in your usual arrogant fashion you won’t let it bother you. But if you’re anything like your father, you’ll have forgotten that it’s not just you involved-you might be perfectly willing to stare down the ton, but will she let you?”

Christian blinked.

“Exactly. Think about that-and then, if you’re serious about claiming her, you’d better get cracking on proving to all the world that Justin Vaux is utterly blameless in the matter of his brother-in-law’s murder.”

Having said her piece, with a regal nod, Cordelia swanned off.

Leaving Christian with the uncomfortable realization that she was right. He knew the ton would be shocked beyond measure if he-Dearne-married the sister of a convicted murderer. But as Justin wasn’t guilty…and, moreover, as Letitia was so keen to clear Justin’s name-to ensure he was known to be innocent rather than simply not proven to be guilty-there had seemed no problem, no hurdle in his path.

The problem, the hurdle, would however eventuate if they weren’t successful, and Randall’s killer slipped through their fingers.

If that happened, then even if Justin was no longer suspected of the murder, he would still, in the ton’s eyes, be assumed to be guilty.

And his sister…

“Damn!” He muttered the word beneath his breath. Much as it pained him to admit it, Cordelia was entirely correct. While he wouldn’t let society dictate whom he married, the plain fact was, in such circumstances, Letitia wouldn’t marry him.

She would refuse to fill the position of his marchioness. She would not-he knew beyond question that she would not-allow him to bring disgrace to his family in that way-through her.

He looked for her, searched the crowd, but couldn’t see her. She must have stepped out; he wasn’t worried-she’d be back. He’d used his town carriage to bring them there; the butler knew him and her, and would send word if she tried to leave on her own, which she knew.

So she’d be back soon-and then they would leave.

He would take her back to South Audley Street. Although he’d much rather take her to Grosvenor Square, he doubted he could win that argument yet. One night soon he would, but not tonight.

Tonight he would stay with her in Randall’s house, no matter how much that irked him. Regardless, he would be spending every night henceforth with her, the better to wear down any resistance she might have to accepting her future as his wife.

He was perfectly prepared for any battles on that front, perfectly confident of winning them, but as his aunt had reminded him, there were other aspects to this engagement.

Cordelia was right-he needed to prove Justin innocent.

He needed to find Randall’s killer-soon.