When he was carried, still babbling, into the drawing room, Christian, who had more experience of gunshot wounds than the others, took one look at his injuries and ordered the butler to summon a doctor, then examined the wounds more closely. The bullet lodged in Swithin’s right shoulder he attributed to Justin; at twenty-six and unbloodied in war, he still possessed the naïveté to shoot to incapacitate rather than kill. The other bullet—just a fraction too high to put an end to Swithin’s life—would have come from Dalziel, a man far too experienced to court the slightest risk.
As it transpired, they were all soon sorry Dalziel’s bullet hadn’t found its mark; it would have saved everyone a great deal of bother, and freed Swithin from a life of misery as well.
Luckily, Mrs. Swithin proved to have rather more backbone and nous than her meek demeanor had suggested. She accepted the tale of her husband’s villainy without protest or argument. “He’s always been quiet and strangely secretive for as long as I’ve known him, but over the last weeks he’s been acting most peculiarly.”
Swithin’s continued bleating in the background, fragments of sentences jumbling together in an incomprehensible ramble, verified that he’d deteriorated even further.
Tristan exchanged a look with Christian and Dalziel, then turned back to Mrs. Swithin and gently suggested, “Given the circumstances, it might be best for everyone concerned if we apply to have Swithin certified.”
Mrs. Swithin frowned. “What circumstances, and what would having him certified entail?”
Christian listed the number of people who would be harmed if Swithin and his secrets were put on public show via a sensational murder trial. Mrs. Swithin herself was at the top of the list; she nodded her understanding as he added Trowbridge, Honeywell, the elder Trowbridges, Letitia, Justin, the Earl of Nunchance, and the Vaux family in general.
When he fell silent, she stated, “There’s surely no need for all of us to suffer more.”
“No.” Tristan looked at Barton, who was frowning. “And if we manage it carefully, no one but the authorities needs to know the full story.”
Barton brightened considerably; he hadn’t wanted to end with no quarry to show his superiors.
“If everyone agrees?” Tristan looked around. Most nodded. No one protested. He looked at the butler, who had returned after sending for the doctor. “Who’s the nearest magistrate?”
As it turned out, Tristan, a magistrate himself in the neighboring area, knew Lord Keating well. His lordship arrived promptly; shown into the drawing room where they’d all remained, he was at first shocked by the bare bones of the story Tristan related, but then quickly got down to business.
Settling in a chair with a traveling writing desk balanced on his knees, his lordship decreed, “I’ll want statements—perhaps from the representative of Bow Street first, and then you, Trentham”—he inclined his head to Tristan—“and perhaps one of you others?” He cast a vague glance at Tony, Christian, and Dalziel, then beckoned Barton forward. “Now, then.”
Under cover of Barton explaining what he knew, Tony glanced at Christian and Dalziel, and grinned. “One of you outranks me, and I suspect the other does, too. It should be one of you two.”
So saying, he wandered off to join Justin, who was sitting beside Swithin, listening, curiously intent, to his ramblings.
Christian glanced at Dalziel. He’d always wondered…
Dalziel’s lips lifted slightly. “No, I don’t outrank you. We could toss a coin, but all things considered, I suspect it had better be you Keating speaks with.”
Christian raised his brows but nodded. “All right.”
Dalziel drifted away to settle in a chair by the windows, attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not an easy task, especially as Lord Keating, regardless of that earlier vague look, was very aware of his presence.
Letitia noted the exchange between Dalziel and Christian. While Tristan, and then Christian, gave their version of the affair and answered Keating’s questions, riveting the attention of most in the room, she patted Mrs. Swithin’s hand, rose, and glided to the windows. She sank into the chair alongside the one Dalziel occupied.
He acknowledged her presence with a sound suspiciously like a grunt. “At least,” he said, his gaze fixed across the room, “I now know why you married that upstart. I never could understand it—I’d always regarded you as one of the saner of our females. Nice to know my judgment wasn’t at fault.”
Letitia smiled, not the least offended. That was a typical enough comment from him.
They chatted—bantered—for some minutes, about the likely reaction of the ton once they learned it was Swithin who’d killed Randall, not Justin.
“He’ll have to be extra careful.” She considered her brother, still listening, a frown on his face, to Swithin’s all but continual blather. “He’ll not only be eligible again, he’ll be famous to boot.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about him,” Dalziel dryly replied. “Not unless the matchmaking mamas and their charges have taken to hunting in libraries. He’s barely stirred from mine except in pursuit of our investigation.”
Letitia smiled fondly. After a moment she more quietly said, “Speaking of hiding, your time for hiding—for being in exile, as it were—will soon be at an end.”
She glanced at Royce, but he didn’t meet her gaze; his remained fixed broodingly on the tableau before them, although she would have sworn it wasn’t Christian and the others he was seeing.
A long moment ticked past, then he softly sighed. “If you want to know the truth, I’m not sure it will ever end.”
“It will. It must. You are, after all, his only son.”
“That, if you’ll recall”—Dalziel straightened in his seat—“didn’t stop him before.”