Murder was not something that could be tolerated in a tonnish house; she was sure that was one of those maxims ladies such as she were brought up to revere.
Regardless, she meant to play an active role in the hunt.
They halted on the road for lunch, but didn’t dally. Once they were bowling along again, this time behind a pair of flighty blacks, she said, “You were speaking the literal truth, weren’t you—about us having to identify and catch whoever killed Randall in order to exonerate Justin?”
Christian held the horses in as a mail coach rumbled by, then let the reins flow again. “Unfortunately, your brother overlooked a number of factors in scripting his little drama. Clearing him of suspicion from the authorities will be straightforward enough—that we can do with evidence alone.”
“But clearing him of suspicion from the ton—clearing his name so he’ll be accepted in society again and be able to marry well—for that…”
“Indeed.” With a flick of his wrist, Christian sent the restive pair racing past a lumbering carriage. “To achieve that, we’ll need to produce not just factual proof, but the murderer himself. Nothing else will do.”
Letitia humphed. “If I know the gossips—and I do—we’ll even need to prove that the murderer, whoever he is, doesn’t know Justin. Or me. Or even Hermione.”
“As none of you know any of Randall’s friends, that, at least, shouldn’t be too hard.”
Letitia mulled over the issue of Randall’s friends—the odd circumstance that, after eight years of marriage, she had absolutely no idea who they were. She’d had no interest in her late husband’s life—no interest in him; their social paths had remained by her decree disconnected.
Not that Randall had minded.
As if following her train of thought, Christian asked, “Did Randall accompany you to the usual functions?”
“Yes, but only the major ones, or those where he knew certain other guests would be—those with whom he wanted to rub shoulders.” She thought back. “He wasn’t all that socially inclined, not in tonnish terms, but he did like to be seen, to claim his place, as it were, every now and then.”
Another mile swept by, then he asked, “I assumed that he married you for your social connections. Wasn’t that the case?”
She grimaced. “I assumed the same, but the answer was yes and no. I was more like…oh, a trophy. At least that’s how I felt. Not so much a person as an object, something to be acquired and put on a shelf to be admired, but otherwise…”
That, she realized, was a reasonably accurate summation of her marriage. There never had been any pretense, at least not between them, that Randall had married her for love, not even for desire.
Unprompted, she murmured, “Our marriage was more like a civil truce. I didn’t like him, I didn’t respect him, but we’d made an agreement and I stuck to it. And for all that I detested him, so did he.”
She wasn’t surprised when Christian asked no more, but she knew he had more questions—ones he couldn’t, had no right to, put to her. Such as how often Randall had shared her bed. The answer was far less than she’d expected, but Christian didn’t need to know that. Didn’t need to know that courtesy of her earlier association with him, she’d had the confidence and the ammunition to drive Randall away—and keep him away. He’d never asked her who her lover had been, so he’d never known to whom he was being compared. All he had known was that he didn’t measure up—not in any way.
With a younger brother and more male cousins than she could count, she’d known where the major chink in men’s armor was. Reducing Randall to a near impotent state, at least with respect to her, hadn’t been too difficult.
She’d gained control of that aspect of her marriage, and had otherwise largely lived a life apart from her husband. Unfortunately that meant…
As they rolled into London, she sighed. “I do hope you have some idea of where to search for Randall’s friends, for I freely admit I have none.”
Christian glanced at her. “No man is an island. Donne was correct. Randall will have had some connections somewhere.”
He looked up at the sky. They’d made good time, yet late afternoon was edging into evening. “It’s too late to call on that colleague I mentioned. I’ll take you back to the house.”
Letitia wrapped her shawl more tightly about her as the shadows of the buildings engulfed them. “Hermione and Agnes will be waiting to hear.”
They weren’t the only ones. After halting briefly in Grosvenor Square to pick up one of his grooms, Christian drove on to South Audley Street. Tossing the reins to his groom with instructions to walk the horses around to the mews behind Grosvenor Square, he alighted and handed Letitia down. As the curricle moved off, he glimpsed a familiar head ducking behind the area railings opposite. Inwardly shaking his head, he turned and climbed the steps to where Mellon, struggling to hide his disapproval, and failing, stood holding the door.
Shrugging off his heavy greatcoat, he left it with the butler, then walked into the front parlor. Letitia wasn’t, as he’d expected, seated on one of the sofas regaling Hermione and Agnes with their news. Instead, she stood poised by one of the front windows, peering—glaring—past the lace curtains. “That horrible little man is still there! Did you see?”
Lips quirking, he halted by the sofa opposite the one Agnes and Hermione occupied. “However reluctantly, one has to give him credit for unswerving devotion to his cause.” He nodded to Agnes and Hermione.
Letitia humphed, and turned back into the room. Joining him before the sofa, she sat, allowing him to sit, too.
“So Justin’s perfectly all right—you spoke with him?” Eyes bright, almost painfully eager, Hermione leaned forward.
Letitia nodded. “The idiot thought he was protecting me.” She described where Justin had been hiding and what they’d learned from him.
At the end of her recital, she glanced at Christian. “You may as well stay for dinner—if you haven’t any other pressing engagement?”