The clerk cast a nervous glance at the closed doors around his station. “They could, ma’am—but they’ve declined.”
“Declined?”
Before matters grew too fraught, Christian stepped from behind Letitia to stand alongside her at the railing behind which the clerk was perched at his raised desk. “Waiting for Meecham’s return seems an unnecessary delay, given the will is unlikely to be complex. Randall was buried nearly a week ago.”
Again the clerk glanced around, then he leaned nearer and lowered his voice. “It was the runner that did it. All ready to come and read the will after the funeral, Mr. Tappit was, as was right and proper, until that red-breast turned up on the doorstep and demanded to see it.”
Letitia stiffened.
“Did he see it?” Christian quickly asked. He grasped Letitia’s elbow.
The clerk sniffed. “Of course not. Mr. Tappit and Mr. Griswade both told him no—and when he pushed and pestered, telling them it was a case of foul murder and all, well, they decided it would be better—more appropriate—to wait until Mr. Meecham got back and let him handle it, he being the one who knew the client and his affairs.”
Christian squeezed Letitia’s elbow in warning; it sounded as if Meecham was the one they needed to see anyway. “Very well.” He fixed the clerk with a hard gaze. “Please convey to your masters that once Meecham returns, the reading of Mr. Randall’s will cannot be further delayed. Its contents are, unsurprisingly, of pressing interest to Lady Randall, and her friends.”
He imbued the last words with quiet significance.
Beside him, Letitia, her spine ramrod straight, looked down her aristocratic nose at the clerk. “Please tell Mr. Meecham that I will expect to see him tomorrow morning. I, and Lord Dearne, will be expecting him.”
The clerk all but curtsied in his fluster. “Indeed, my lady. Of course, my lady. I’ll be sure to tell him.”
Christian caught the clerk’s eye as he stepped back from the rail and uttered just one word. “Do.”
Letitia swung around and he released her; he fell into step protectively behind her as, head high, she made her exit.
Chapter 10
Later that evening Christian sat in Letitia’s parlor, sipping brandy while she sipped tea. On the sofa opposite, Hermione sat idly dreaming, while beside her Agnes industriously knotted a fringe.
It was a quiet moment, one to savor at the end of a long day.
He glanced at Letitia beside him. Relaxed, she’d slipped off her slippers and drawn her feet up beneath her skirts. Agnes had primmed her lips at the informality, but hadn’t said anything. For himself, he was pleased that Letitia had patently reverted to her long-ago unconsciousness of him.
After considering those long, curled legs for several moments, he let his gaze travel slowly upward, to her face. As she sipped, he realized her mind was not as relaxed as her limbs; her gaze hard and sharp, her eyes were fixed unseeing on the rug. It wasn’t their previous interlude on said rug she was mentally reviewing; the evolving situation over Randall—the continuing revelations that underscored how little she’d known him—was seriously bothering her.
Understandably, yet there wasn’t anything she could do about it, which was what, he suspected, lay behind her suppressed ire.
Having to swallow the delay over the reading of Randall’s will, even if only for a day, and the further irritations of Mellon having—without her knowledge or consent—taken it upon himself to inform Randall’s solicitors, and Barton’s never-ending presence outside the house, had contributed to the pressure building within her.
That, in part, was why, instead of parting from her after their return from the city and going on to his clubs, he’d stayed by her side. She’d been stunned when he’d suggested accompanying her on her afternoon drive in the park.
As he’d expected, his presence beside her had effectively hauled the dowagers’ and sharp-eyed matrons’ minds from all interest in her brother. He hadn’t had to do anything, simply sit beside her and smile at those who nodded, and thoughts of marriage had replaced thoughts of murder in all the relevant female minds.
Except hers, of course.
Nevertheless, she was too experienced not to see what he’d done. To his surprise, the moment she’d realized, she’d grown a touch flustered; he’d glimpsed consternation in her eyes, an unexpected crack in her usually polished composure.
She’d seen him looking, noticing, had dragged in a breath, and the moment had passed. She’d continued dealing with her peers with her customary air—and had largely ignored him.
Yet even though she doubtless suspected he had other, ulterior motives—such as introducing the concept of he and she as a possible match to the pertinent part of the ton—she’d still been grateful for what he’d achieved. To her mind, any topic of gossip was better than the murder, even if that gossip was about her.
She’d been grateful enough to invite him to dine, albeit grudgingly.
He’d accepted, not solely because one night apart had, at least for him, proved separation enough, but also because he knew that it was at times like these that she—her temper—most needed distraction. That she most needed someone about who could distract her.
Agnes, shrewd as could be and a Vaux herself, seemed as aware as he of the brewing storm. She studied Letitia’s face, then said, “At least that solicitor will be here tomorrow, and we’ll have the matter of the will settled and done with. One thing out of the way.”
Letitia roused herself. “Indeed. Assuming he actually arrives.”