She was defending Justin. Letitia didn’t need to hear Hermione’s words to know that was so.
Swallowing a curse, she immediately developed a headache. Excusing herself to Lady Cowper and the other three ladies with whom she’d been speaking, she dispatched the footman to fetch Hermione with a message that she was needed immediately at the carriage.
Her sister broke off in mid-tirade, and ignoring those around her, came hurrying over. She gripped the carriage’s side. “What’s happened?”
Supremely aware of curious eyes, and even more curious ears, Letitia gestured weakly. “I have the most dreadful headache—we need to return to the house.”
Hermione frowned, surprised by the headache, something she knew Letitia rarely suffered from. “All right.” The footman opened the door and she climbed into the carriage.
Letitia gave the order to return to South Audley Street in a suitably faint tone.
Both footman and coachman were Randall’s people. While she could have spoken quietly enough to leave the coachman unaware, the footman, perched directly behind the seat on which they sat, was another matter. She resigned herself to holding her tongue—and her temper—until they reached the house.
Nevertheless, as they turned out of the park and into Park Lane, she couldn’t resist asking, “What were you talking so animatedly about?”
Hermione’s face took on a mulish cast. “Justin. I was telling them all that he couldn’t possibly have murdered Randall.”
As Letitia had feared. Behind her veil, she pressed her lips tight and said no more.
She reined her ire in while they traveled through light traffic back to the house, then waited some more as they descended from the carriage and climbed the steps. When they entered the front hall, with Mellon hovering, with entirely assumed calm she dispensed with her veil, leaving it with her gloves and reticule on the hall table, then, her movements invested with increasing tension, she swept into the front parlor. “Hermione, I’d like to speak with you. Now.”
Her sister blinked, then followed. Looking back at Mellon, Letitia instructed, “Please shut the door.”
Reluctantly, Mellon did. After eight years he knew the signs of a storm brewing, but with the door shut, he wouldn’t be able to hear clearly, not unless she screamed.
Not certain that she wouldn’t, once the door was shut she swung on her heel and stalked into the library.
Mystified, starting to frown, Hermione followed more slowly in her wake.
Letitia’s irate stride carried her to the fireplace. Dragging in a huge breath, she swung around and pinned her sister with a furious gaze as she paused in the archway. “What in heaven’s name did you think you were doing?”
Hermione’s mulish look returned. “I was defending Justin. Someone needs to, and I didn’t hear you saying much at all when those ladies came up to the carriage.”
Letitia struggled to find calm enough to form a coherent reply. She hauled in another breath, held it for an instant, then flung up her hands. “I know you’ve only limited experience of the ton, but you have to pay attention! You cannot—absolutely must not—defend Justin. Not with words. All that does—all it will have done—is confirm in everyone’s mind that he is in fact guilty.”
Hermione frowned. “Why? I was telling them specifically that he isn’t.”
“And why is that?” Letitia looked pointedly at her sister and answered the question, “Because you think he did indeed kill Randall.”
She started pacing before the hearth; when Hermione’s frown deepened to a scowl, she went on, “That’s how all those around you in the park will interpret your words. To the ton, a verbal denial is second best to an admission. A heated denial—and I saw how strongly you were speaking—is tantamount to outright confirmation.”
The belligerence in Hermione’s face slowly faded. “Oh.” After a moment, in a small voice, she asked, “Have I made things much worse?”
Still pacing, still trying to work off her temper, Letitia waved her hands. “More difficult, perhaps, but I don’t believe our position is irretrievable. I’ll just have to work harder to steer perceptions in the right direction.”
Hermione watched her for a minute, then asked, “How will you do that? Steer perceptions?”
“By seeding doubt. For instance, when those ladies mentioned Justin’s guilt, I was slightly startled, then puzzled that they’d come to such a conclusion. I didn’t try to argue them around, but instead left them with the suspicion that perhaps what they’d heard wasn’t what really happened.” She waved again, pacing further. “To manipulate the ton, you have to use guile and subtlety, not direct words.”
Hermione’s lips formed an O of comprehension.
Letitia’s pacing—now fueled more by burgeoning concern that contrary to what she’d told Hermione, her sister’s misguided efforts might just have sunk their cause—led her deeper into the shadowed library—far enough that she noticed a pair of highly polished Hessian boots.
The boots encased a pair of long legs. Halting, she whisked her gaze upward to Christian’s eyes; he was sitting in an armchair in the shadows, watching her. “What are you doing here?”
Her greeting was in no way encouraging, but he smiled nevertheless. The smile of a man who knew her well—well enough to know her temper was largely spent.
“I came to ask for information with which to pursue your errant brother, and”—his gaze switched to Hermione—“to again ask your sister what she knows.”