It was all Letitia could do not to leap on the suggestion, but mindful of Christian’s eye on her, aware of his fingers braceleting her wrist, she arched her brows regally and prevaricated. “Having only recently learned what my late husband’s business entailed, I’ll need to take stock and consult with others before making any decision.”
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Trowbridge smiled easily. “Of course. You must take whatever time you need. Swithin doesn’t seem fussed either way, and neither am I. We’ll accept whatever decision you make—that was, in some ways, part of our motto, you know—all for one and one for all.”
Letitia found herself smiling back. Trowbridge was engaging, yet utterly unthreatening; she could see why so many ladies vied for his time.
“My dear, you’ve failed to offer your guests some refreshments. It is after eleven.”
The drawl from the door drew all eyes. A gentleman—he was undoubtedly that despite his rather unusual attire—well-cut breeches and a soft shirt topped by a long, dun-colored coat that hung straight from his shoulders to brush his highly polished boots—stood in the doorway idly observing them through heavy-lidded dark eyes.
Letitia glanced at Trowbridge. His smile had grown warmer.
He made an elegant gesture toward the newcomer. “Allow me to present Lord Rupert Honeywell. Lady Letitia Randall and Lord Dearne.”
Honeywell’s eyes passed over Letitia and Christian, lingered for an instant on Christian, then he bowed elegantly. “Charmed, my lady.” Straightening, he nodded to Christian. “Dearne.”
“Be a dear, Rupert, and ring for Cuthbert. Tell him to bring tea.” Trowbridge looked back at Letitia. “You will stay and take a cup, won’t you?”
Letitia smiled back. “I’d be delighted. Thank you.”
Cuthbert was summoned; tea, in an exquisite service, was duly delivered. At Trowbridge’s invitation, Letitia poured. When she complimented him on the china, Trowbridge insisted on showing her some of his treasures.
A half hour passed pleasantly. Although initially standoffish, when neither she nor Christian made any comment on what was plainly a ménage, Honeywell thawed. At Trowbridge’s suggestion, he took Letitia to view his canvases, set out in a little room off the front hall. As they were of excellent quality, she found no difficulty enthusiastically complimenting him.
At which he thawed even more.
Christian stood in the doorway to the small room. The instant Letitia turned from Honeywell’s last painting, he caught her eye. “We need to leave, I’m afraid.”
She smiled and made her farewells. He did the same, but with greater reserve.
As he took his leave of Trowbridge, he handed him a card—one inscribed with the Bastion Club’s address. “If you think or hear of anything that might bear on Randall’s murder, or on the sale of the company, please send word. I’m acting for Lady Randall in this matter.”
Trowbridge took the card, cast a questioning glance at Letitia. When she nodded, he smiled and put the card in his pocket. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
Outside, Honeywell handed Letitia up. Christian climbed up and took the reins. With a flourish of his whip, he set his horses trotting. Letitia waved, then sat back with a sigh.
After a moment she said, “That was a great deal more entertaining than I’d expected.”
He glanced down at her face. “There’s one thing you shouldn’t forget.”
She met his eyes, arched her brows. “What’s that?”
He had to look forward to manage his horses. “Trowbridge is an excellent candidate for Randall’s murderer.”
He took her back to Allardyce House for a late luncheon. He was getting very tired of Randall’s house, and of Barton hovering outside.
When he mentioned the man, Letitia snorted. “He has a one-track mind.”
“Which, now that I think of it,” Christian said, ushering her down his front hall, “does have its benefits—he’s stuck to the South Audley Street house like a leech and hasn’t been following us.”
“True. I suppose that’s something in him one can give thanks for.”
Percival sat her at the dining table in the chair beside Christian’s. As he took his seat, Christian glanced at her and decided that when—when, not if—she sat at this table on a permanent basis, whenever they were alone she would sit beside him, not at the far end of the long table as custom decreed.
Custom was often overrated.
As the dishes appeared, whisked in and out by the ever-efficient Percival and his minions, they discussed all they’d gleaned from their visit to Chelsea. As Hermione wasn’t present, they could speak freely. Letitia commented on the bond between Trowbridge and Honeywell.