She hadn’t seen his study before; it had previously been his father’s domain. She found herself curious; she didn’t lack for distraction while he sat behind the large desk and steadily worked through a stack of letters.
Tea arrived. She poured, sipped, and sampled the scones that had arrived with the pot. They were delicious. As Christian had his head down, tea cup in one hand, she finished three scones, then took pity and called his attention to the last one.
By the time she finished her second cup of tea, he’d polished off the scone and finished with his correspondence.
He rose. “Come—we’ll walk back to the house.”
Not her house or “Randall’s house.” She’d noted he rarely uttered Randall’s name if he could avoid it, most especially in relation to her.
In the front hall, she reclaimed her bonnet. While securing it, she glanced at Percival, saw he was regarding her with a smile. “Please tell the cook that the scones were superb.”
Percival’s smile widened as he bowed. “Indeed, my lady. She’ll be thrilled to hear you enjoyed them.”
She suppressed the impulse to arch one brow. Had Christian said something to his staff? She glanced at his face, as arrogantly austere as ever, and doubted it.
They walked briskly to South Audley Street through the fading day.
Reaching the front steps, she paused—and glared across the street. “He’s still there!”
Christian grasped her elbow and turned her up the steps. “I warned you he’d be dogged.”
“But it’s Sunday!” On principle she glowered at Mellon when he opened the door.
Christian followed her in. And stayed.
For dinner, then through a long game of loo with Hermione and Agnes. When at last they were packing up the board and counters, he glanced at Letitia, and was satisfied. She might have thought about their appointment at the banks tomorrow, but at least she hadn’t had time to obsess. Like her, he couldn’t imagine anything good lying beneath the cloak of Randall’s secrecy, yet regardless, they had to lift it off and look.
She was, for the moment, relaxed and at peace. Over the last days, while he’d been intent on distracting her, he’d also been consciously wooing her—for the first time. Before, when they’d first known each other
, he hadn’t had to exert himself; their mutual attraction had drawn them inexorably together, without any extra effort from him.
Now, however, while he might be sharing her bed, that mutual attraction wouldn’t serve to convince her he truly wanted more from her. He hoped the past day had opened her eyes, at least a little, that she’d seen he wanted to share not just a bed but a life, with all the simple pleasures that entailed.
The following morning, they were at the doors of the Piccadilly branch of Rothchild’s Bank when it opened at ten o’clock. Christian requested to see the manager; they were shown into an oak-paneled office almost immediately.
Letitia sat back, from behind her veil watched as Christian shamelessly used his rank and title to bend the manager, a Mr. Hambury, to his will.
She wasn’t at all surprised that Hambury bent very quickly.
“Indeed, my lord! Of course—I’ll instruct the teller to…er, look your way and nod when the deposit in question is made.”
“While the deposit is in progress would be best.”
Letitia gave thanks for her veil; it hid her amusement. Christian’s drawl was outrageous, his arrogant pose as he lounged in the chair beside hers the epitome of the powerful, bored aristocrat.
She couldn’t complain; the ploy gained them what they wanted.
On returning to the main chamber of the bank and taking up positions along one wall from where they could keep the two tellers in full view, they saw Hambury exit his office by another door and move among the clerks. He spoke first to one teller, then the other—in both cases the tellers looked across at them, then back at Hambury and nodded.
A harassed looking underclerk came hurrying out with a chair for her. He set it down, bowing low; she smiled, murmured her thanks, and sat.
Two minutes later Hambury, who’d disappeared into the depths of the bank, came out again and headed their way, another older clerk with a visor shading his eyes following at his heels.
Frowning slightly, Hambury bowed. “Ah…Mr. Wilkes here, our head teller, has some information which might prove useful.”
Unlike his master, Wilkes seemed much less obsequious, although he bobbed his head respectfully.
He addressed himself to Christian. “That deposit Mr. Hambury says you’re waiting for, my lord. The large one. It always comes in just after one o’clock.” He tipped his head back toward the nether regions from which he’d emerged. “I’m back there, counting the money as it comes in, and with a sum like that, the clerks always bring it straight to me. That’s how I know—the party who pays that sum in will be here at one o’clock, give or take ten minutes.”