He offered Letitia his hand. She took it and rose, too.
All the others came to their feet. Dalziel continued, “Trowbridge’s house is in Chelsea.” He caught Christian’s eye. “You might well find Rupert Honeywell in residence.”
Reading the message in Dalziel’s dark eyes, Christian raised his brows. “I see.”
Letitia, following the exchange, didn’t, but before she could ask for clarification, Christian appropriated her hand and anchored it on his sleeve “We’ll reconvene here, I presume?” he said.
“We’d better, I think.” Dalziel exchanged a glance with the others. “We’ll all need to hear what Trowbridge has to say. If we can learn anything else, especially about any suggestion of a sale, then by tomorrow we might have quite a few potential murderers to pursue.”
Dalziel’s last words set hares racing and chasing through Letitia’s mind. That evening, as she stood in Lady Henderson’s drawing room and pretended to attend to the conversations around her, all she could think about was what she’d subsequently badgered out of Christian.
The soiree was not one she would have chosen to attend, but there were some invitations that, mourning or not, one did not decline. A summons from Lady Henderson was one such; the old lady was getting on in years, yet remained an institution within the ton. As Letitia was widely viewed as the most senior Vaux lady—with Randall so undistinguished, society had continued to regard her as a Vaux, and as Justin had yet to marry, she was the only female representative of the principal line of age—it fell to her to carry the family flag. The matrons around her would have been thoroughly shocked had she failed to appear.
Not that anyone could conceivably view standing in an ill-lit salon sipping weak orgeat and listening to others, most of whom were twice her age, dwell on the shortcomings of their adult children as at all entertaining.
Which was no doubt why her mind found it much easier to dwell on what Christian had revealed. He’d explained that in the murky world of which gaming hells formed a part, the sale of a valuable set of properties like the company’s had the potential to stir all sorts of reactions, any of which might turn violent. Bidders who sensed they might not win and owners of similar establishments were only some of the possible reactees; Christian had hinted that there were other even more shadowy souls within London’s underworld who might be moved to take an interest.
The notion of being involved with such persons held absolutely no allure. She was nearly twenty-nine; she’d left unthinking wildness behind her long ago.
Smiling as Lady Washthorne concluded a story about her niece, she wondered how soon she could leave.
“Letitia.”
Just the sound of Christian’s deep voice sent relief washing through her. She turned to face him and gave him her hand. “My lord. What brings you here?”
He raised her hand; eyes locked with hers, he brushed his lips across the backs of her fingers. “You.” He smiled. Instead of releasing her hand, he set it on his sleeve.
The others in the group were delighted to welcome him. He shook hands, exchanged greetings, then, after a few minutes had elapsed, excused them both and drew her out of the circle.
He glanced down at her. “How’s your temper?”
“Holding up. Just.” She looked around the room. “You know everyone here, do you not?”
“All by name, most by sight, but a potted recent history of the more notable wouldn’t go astray.”
“I see. In that case, you’ll want to know that Lady Framlingham…”
Christian steered her around the room in a slow, ambling circuit. A few reckless souls were brave enough to stop them to exchange greetings, but as it was plain they were deep in converse, most simply smiled, nodded, and let them pass by.
Letitia frowned at a gentleman—an aging dandy—across the room. “Did you hear about Findlay-Robinson?”
“What about him?” Christian inwardly smiled as she told him the tale of the faded beau’s obsession with one of the more flighty young ladies recently out.
“It will never do, of course, but no one has the heart to tell him.”
As they promenaded, she filled his ears with a detailed, colorful, accurate, and often acerbic account of the company and their private lives, their personal foibles. She entertained him while imparting information that, now he was appearing in society again, he needed. While she was frequently cynical, she was never malicious, instead exhibiting an understanding of their world that was both remarkably mature and remarkably well-grounded.
Demonstrating on yet another level why she was the perfect wife for him, and always had been.
Not that he needed reminding, let alone convincing.
Deciding they’d both been present long enough to be deemed as having done their respective duties, he turned her toward their hostess. “Come—I’ll take you home.”
Letitia inclined her head and let him.
Let him take her back to South Audley Street, let him take her upstairs, let him take her to her bed.
Let him take her.