He was referring to a traitor buried deep within the ton; their group of ex-spies had run across his tracks several times over the last year, but despite their—and Dalziel’s—best efforts, he’d managed to evade them, twice by committing murder.
Dalziel shook his head. “Not a whisper.” He looked around the room. “I need to be here for a few weeks more.” His lips twisted as he turned back to Christian. “This latest start of the Vaux should help fill in the time.”
Christian saluted. “I’ll let Trentham know about the meeting. He’ll be there.”
Dalziel nodded. “I’ll see you then.”
He resat at his desk; Christian headed for the door.
Following Letitia into the anteroom, Christian shut the door behind him. He was, he realized, on the cusp of solving a mystery that had plagued the Bastion Club members for years. Dalziel wasn’t Dalziel’s real name. His identity had always tantalized them; although they’d discovered any number of people who knew it, they’d never been able to persuade any to divulge it. Now, although Dalziel—Royce Whoever-he-was—had avoided any mention of his address, presumably where he intended to hide Justin, obviously Justin would shortly learn it, and thus learn his identity.
Even more obviously, Letitia already knew it.
He smiled benignly at the clerk, and rather more delightedly at her. “Come.” He waved her to the outer door. “Let’s find a hackney to take us back to Mayfair.”
“No, I will not tell you his real name.” Letitia shook her head and stubbornly set her lips.
Exasperated, Christian slumped back against the hackney’s seat. “Why, for heaven’s sake? It’s patently obvious you know it—that you know him, Royce Whoever-he-is. That quite a few ladies of the ton know who he is. Why can’t we know?”
“It’s not a matter of keeping his name a secret. That’s not the point.”
He cast her a saber-edged glance. “What is the point?”
She heaved a huge sigh. “The point is that mentioning his name, whether to his face or otherwise, anywhere in the ton and, I suspect, even beyond, is forbidden. Absolutely not done.”
He stared at her. “Why?”
“Because it was so decreed years ago—even before my come-out. It was one of those things my aunts instructed me in before I came to town. I don’t know exactly how long the edict has been in place, but there
you have it—anyone caught breaking the rule can be assured of instant ejection from the ton.”
He frowned. “Is this one of the Almack’s patronesses’ rules?”
“No, although they certainly support it. It was a rule—an edict—laid down by all the most powerful ladies of the ton, and, as I heard it, many of the gentlemen agreed. It’s been in force for…well, it must be something like fifteen years.”
He couldn’t fathom it. After a few minutes of slow rocking through the traffic, he asked—begged rather plaintively, “Can’t you just whisper it to me?”
“No!” She frowned at him severely. “No one speaks his name—that’s the rule. Aside from anything else, he would know.”
She wasn’t going to change her mind.
He heaved a huge sigh. He’d got so close.
The carriage slowed. They’d reached South Audley Street.
Letitia glanced at him. “I can’t see why you’re so exercised—you’ll learn the truth soon enough.”
Before he could question her further, the carriage halted and she leaned forward and opened the door. “I’ll meet you in Montrose Place at three. Until then…” A footman had come down the steps to assist her; she gave him her hand and alighted. On the pavement, she looked back at Christian. “I’m going to circulate and do my best to play down the rumors of Justin’s guilt.”
He hesitated, then nodded and saluted in farewell. Dalziel’s news about the warrant had shaken her; she no doubt wished to ascertain how widely known that development was.
With a nod she swung away—then halted, stared along the street. All but hissed. “That damned runner! Did I mention I found him in the library this morning? I’ve given orders he’s not to be admitted without my express permission, or unless he has a warrant, or both. If he wants to keep watch on the scene of the crime, he can damn well do it from outside.”
With another fulminating glare, she swung away, forged up the steps and swept through the door Mellon was holding open.
Christian watched the door close, then smiled. “St. James,” he called to the jarvey on the box. It was time to do a little social scouting of his own.
They met as arranged, delighting Gasthorpe and his staff, who were feeling rather redundant with so little to do.