One key operated the lock on the door to the small yard. Unlocking it again, she opened the door and silently crossed to the laneway door. The second key locked it.
Relieved, she returned to the secret ro
om, locked the outer door, then tossed the keys to Dalziel, now sitting in the chair behind the desk. “Leave them with Hermione if you leave before we get back.”
He sent her a look—he didn’t take orders at all well—but then saluted her and gave his attention to another ledger.
She turned to Christian. “Now we can go.” She headed for the steps to the study. “Come on, or Trowbridge will have left before we get there.”
After exchanging a resigned look with Dalziel, Christian turned, nodded to Hermione, and followed Letitia back into the house.
Throughout the journey to Chelsea, Letitia was uncharacteristically quiet, her silence punctuated by an occasional muttered, “I still can’t believe it.”
Christian understood her difficulty, and her consternation. If it ever became common knowledge that she, Lady Letitia Vaux, an earl’s daughter, had married a farmer’s son, she, and the Vaux in general, would never live it down. Despite Randall having deceived the entire ton, she, even more than her family, would bear the opprobrium. As dangerous secrets went, that certainly qualified.
She, of course, realized that; as the carriage rattled into Chelsea she fixed him with a tense look. “Who else might know of Randall’s background? What about the alumni of Hexham Grammar School?” A hint of hysteria colored the words.
“I doubt they’d know,” he answered evenly. “The school wouldn’t advertise the social standing of their governors’ scholars—the other boys would have imagined them impoverished gentry.” He paused, then added, “If any had known, you would have heard of it long since.”
She nodded tersely. “True. So!” She drew in a tight breath. “Who else needs to know the details?”
He’d anticipated that question, too. “The others who are helping us—Trentham, and Jack Hendon, if he’s here. Without knowing that, they won’t understand what we’re dealing with. But you needn’t worry about their discretion. They won’t say a word—I guarantee it.”
She searched his eyes. “You know each other’s secrets, I suppose.”
He nodded.
She softly humphed, and looked out of the window. “I’ll have to tell Agnes—she’ll need to know. But I’m not going to tell Amarantha or Constance. They’d have the vapors, and that would be just the start of it.”
“There’s no need to tell anyone who’s not helping us unravel this mystery.”
After a moment she said, “I’ll have to tell Justin.”
Given Justin’s feelings over Randall and her marriage, her reluctance was understandable, but…“Yes, he has to know.”
When she said nothing more, he added, “And at some point, you’ll have to tell your father.”
A moment went by, then, still looking out of the window, she murmured, “He already feels so guilty over me having to marry Randall…we’ll see.”
He left it at that, not least because they’d reached Lady Hemming’s; the carriage slowed, joining the line of vehicles drawing up before her ladyship’s front steps to disgorge their fair burdens. A survey of those alighting confirmed that this was another highly select event. To his relief, Christian noted a smattering of gentlemen among the female throng.
Lady Hemming greeted them effusively, thrilled to have Letitia grace her event. Randall’s death was still a point of interest for the ton’s avid gossips, and having Christian appear as Letitia’s escort only heightened expectations.
Yet as they strolled into the crowd—a sea of color constantly shifting about the sculptures set up on her ladyship’s lawn—Letitia’s cool grace proved sufficient to keep the curious, if not at bay, then at least within bounds. They nodded and exchanged greetings, eyed Christian with open curiosity, but did not try to detain them or engage them in discussion of the “distressing events surrounding her husband’s death.”
Christian overheard the phrase more than once during their perambulation, whispered behind hands, eyes following Letitia and himself. Like her, he ignored both the whispers and the eyes.
“That’s Trowbridge.” Letitia halted by a bronze of a scantily clad nymph. She pretended to study the statue, but with a tip of her head indicated a gentleman standing before the next sculpture along. He was surrounded by a bevy of ladies, both young and old, who hung on his every word as he passed judgment on the piece.
Letitia continued to study the nymph, allowing Christian the opportunity to feign boredom and idly survey the group before the next statue.
Trowbridge was on the tall side of average, his hair an artful tangle of mousy brown locks, one of which fell artistically across his forehead. His features, while pleasant enough, were undistinguished, lacking the sharp angles and planes common among the aristocracy, but it was his dress that caused Christian to mentally raise his brows.
Trowbridge had elected to wear a coat of bold green, ivory, and black checks. His waistcoat was a perfectly matched spring green, the buttons on both coat and waistcoat large gold disks; his trousers were black. Instead of a cravat, he wore a floppy ivory silk scarf knotted about his throat.
Together with his gestures as he discoursed on the sculpture to the assembled ladies, the vision he presented made Christian wonder….
“I seriously doubt he has the slightest interest in any lady—other than the statue, of course.”