That gave them all something to think about. Leaving them to it, Justin slipped away. There was something he needed to do.
He knew the corridors like the back of his hand; avoiding the guests—so many of them female—flitting about, he made his way into the other wing, to the library.
In the wake of Swithin’s babbling revelations, Justin had visited Trowbridge, who had confirmed that the huge investment loss incurred by the earl eight years before, leading to Letitia’s marriage to Randall, had indeed been arranged by Randall, the schem
e itself engineered by Swithin.
There was no proof to be had, or ever likely to be found, yet the simple knowledge had cured the malaise that had for years eaten at Justin’s heart.
He entered the library on silent feet. As he’d expected, his father was there, seated in his favorite armchair, a book open on his lap.
The earl had dutifully walked Letitia down the aisle, given her away, then attended the wedding breakfast and made a short speech—surprising everyone by being no more than mildly blunt. Then he’d disappeared.
Justin quietly walked to the chair opposite the earl’s. Halting beside it, he looked down on his sire. “It wasn’t your fault.”
The earl grunted; he didn’t look up. “I know. I just couldn’t prove it. And you…you and Letitia both seemed so ready to believe I’d risk such a lot—your lives, in effect.” One long finger marking his place, the earl lifted his gaze, staring across the room. “But I didn’t. I never would have.”
“No,” Justin said. “We know that now.”
The earl finally looked up, through shrewd hazel eyes scanned his son’s features, then he nodded. “Good.”
With that, he returned to his book.
Justin looked down on his sire’s white head, then his lips curved in a slow smile.
Surveying the nearby shelves, he crossed to one, pulled out a book, glanced inside it.
Then returning to the armchair opposite his father’s, he sat, opened the book on his knee, and started to read.
Back in the ballroom, Letitia swept up to Christian’s side where he stood with his fellow Bastion Club members. They were toasting the last man to fall into wedlock—Christian; she linked her arm with his, smiled graciously, and allowed them to toast her as well.
Christian looked down at her. “One point you can clarify—Dalziel, Royce Whoever-he-is, isn’t married, is he?”
She looked at him, then at them all, eagerly waiting on her answer; she clearly debated whether that information could be shared, then said, “No. He’s not.”
“But,” Charles put in, “he’s the sort of gentleman who has to marry, isn’t he? If he’s a marquess, then that follows as night follows day.”
“So,” Tony suggested, “there’s really one more wedding to come.” He caught Letitia’s eye. “Isn’t there?”
She returned Tony’s gaze; anticipation bloomed, then grew until it gleamed in her eyes. “Yes, indeed.” She smiled ecstatically. “He’ll have to marry. And quite soon—at least if he wants any peace.”
“Once he ends his commission…?” Jack Warnefleet prompted.
She nodded. “Once he goes back to being who he really is, there won’t be a matchmaking mama in London, or indeed the country, who won’t have him squarely in her sights.”
The members of the Bastion Club exchanged a communal glance.
“Now that,” Tristan said, “is a toast we can make with alacrity.”
“Indeed.” Charles, their unofficial toastmaster, raised his glass high. “To the end of Dalziel’s commission. It can’t come too soon.”
With a cheer, they all raised their glasses high and drank.
“And to Dalziel’s bride,” Christian added. “Whoever and wherever she might be.”
Epilogue
Two days later