As he neared, she saw that Roscoe was as tall as Christian, but not quite as large, as heavy, his build more rangy, but in no way less lethal for that.
Christian extended his hand.
Roscoe quirked a brow—apparently at being accorded the courtesy—but gripped and shook nonetheless. “Good evening.”
It was after ten o’clock.
Christian inclined his head. “Thank you for coming.” He turned to her. “Allow me to present Lady Letitia.” He left out the Randall, she was quite sure deliberately.
Letitia gave Roscoe her hand, smiled as she looked into his face…and barely felt his fingers close about hers.
Barely heard his proper, “Lady Randall,” barely registered the rumble of his deep voice or his perfectly executed bow.
She knew, looking into his eyes, that she’d met him before—long ago, when they’d been in their tee
ns.
She let her smile widen, and sensed his wariness grow. “I believe we’ve met before, Mr. Roscoe, although I can’t at the moment recall where. But then I expect you would rather I didn’t recall at all, so perhaps”—retrieving her hand from his suddenly slack grasp, she waved to the armchair opposite the chaise—“we should get down to business before I do.”
Roscoe cast Christian a look, then moved to comply.
Still smiling delightedly, Letitia sat and promptly took charge of the negotiations.
Much to Roscoe’s disquiet.
Realizing that the threat of her knowledge of his identity, plus the inherent difficulty a man like Roscoe faced in negotiating business with a female of Letitia’s class, played heavily into her hands—and that she was supremely well-qualified to capitalize on the fact—Christian sat back and left her to it.
She did well, extracting both a higher price and more favorable payment terms than Roscoe had expected to have to concede; that much was clear from the irritation that briefly shone in his dark eyes.
But he took it well.
When, all the details thrashed out and agreed upon, the written agreements from Trowbridge and Mrs. Swithin tendered and accepted, they all rose and Roscoe shook Letitia’s hand, there was a reluctantly admiring glint in his eyes. “I’ll have my man of business draw up the contract in conjunction with…” Roscoe cocked a brow at Christian. “…Montague?”
Christian nodded. “He’s under instruction to take over the management of Lady Letitia’s affairs.”
Roscoe’s lips quirked. “Naturally.” He looked at Letitia, hesitated, then said, “I understand felicitations are in order.” He bowed, inherently graceful. “Please accept mine.”
Letitia glowed. “Thank you.”
Straightening, Roscoe met her eyes. “And don’t try too hard to remember our previous meeting.”
She waved airily. “I doubt I’ll have time, what with all else that’s going on.”
“Good.” With that dry comment, Roscoe turned to Christian; this time he spontaneously held out his hand. “Dearne.”
Christian gripped his hand, entirely content with how the meeting had gone. “Come—I’ll walk you out.”
Roscoe bowed again to Letitia, then fell into step beside Christian as he headed for the door. While Christian opened it, Roscoe glanced back—at Letitia settling on the chaise to await Christian’s return.
Then he turned and went through the door.
As they passed down the corridors and into the front hall, Christian was aware of Roscoe glancing about—not so much taking note as breathing in the ambience. “Do you ever think you’ll return to”—he gestured about them—“tonnish life?”
Roscoe didn’t immediately reply. When they reached the front door, he turned and faced Christian. “Much as I might envy you the life you now have, I long ago realized it wasn’t in the cards for me.”
There was a finality in his tone that closed the subject.
Roscoe accepted his cane from Percival, then, when that worthy opened the door, nodded to Christian and went out into the night.