“We now know Randall was killed between the time Letitia left him, and the time Justin went to the study to speak with him.” For Letitia’s benefit, Christian sketched the information from Justin and Pringle that had enabled him to establish that point.
Her frown deepened. “Mellon must know something.”
“Possibly. But equally, Randall might have been expecting someone and let them into the house himself. Mellon could well have been en route to his room at the time, and so not have heard the door.” Christian looked at Justin. “What do you know of Randall? I never met the man—describe what type of man he was as best you can.”
Justin thought as he finished off the last of his ham; pushing away his empty plate, he grimaced. “He was something of an enigma. You imagined he would fit the normal mold—he certainly seemed to outwardly—but the closer you got and the more you learned of him, he…just didn’t match expectations.”
“There were no friends at his funeral,” Christian said. “No male acquaintances of any degree.”
Justin’s brows rose; his gaze grew distant. “Now you mention it, I can’t recall ever meeting him with anyone he introduced as a friend. He knew others, of course, and was known by others, but it was all the usual passing acquaintances one has in the clubs. In his case…I can’t think of anyone I’d name as his friend.”
Refocusing on Christian, Justin went on, “That’s what I mean about him not meeting expectations. What gentleman of the ton has no friends?”
Christian inclined his head. “Regardless, it had to be a friend—at the very least an acquaintance he trusted—who murdered him, given the position of the body and the two glasses on the table near the hearth.”
Justin nodded. “So we need to look for Randall’s friends. Whoever and wherever they might be.”
“We need to return to London. That was Randall’s base—that’s where we’ll learn more.” Considering Justin, Christian frowned. “You, most unfortunately, are our best source of information on Randall. You might not know anything specific—like who his friends were—but you almost certainly have information tucked away in your head, the sort that if we learn a name, you might be able to tell us more.”
Justin shrugged. “So I’ll return to London with you.”
“You can’t!” Letitia told him. “Thanks to your earlier efforts, you’ve succeeded exceedingly well in casting yourself as the murderer.”
“Indeed.” Christian met Justin’s eyes. “And there’s a runner haunting Mayfair who’s determined to hunt you down.”
“So I’ll go to ground.”
Christian nodded. “The question is: Where?”
“Not at your lodgings—Barton, the runner, has already been there. And you mustn’t come near Randall’s house,” Letitia said. “The little weasel is keeping a watch in the belief the murderer—meaning you—will return to the scene of the crime.”
Justin’s brows quirked. “I suppose that cuts out my clubs, too.”
“And unfortunately Barton knows I’m helping, so Allardyce House won’t be safe, either, especially not with my aunts and sisters dropping by whenever the fancy takes them.” Christian met Justin’s eyes. “If either of my aunts see you, it’ll be all over the ton inside an hour.”
“Yes, well, that consideration eliminates our aunts, too.” Letitia frowned. “There must be somewhere safe you can go—somewhere we can easily reach you to pick your brains.”
They all fell silent, thinking.
Eventually Christian stirred. “As a stop-gap we can use my private club, the Bastion Club. It’s in Montrose Place,” he added for Justin’s benefit. “Ultimately that will come under Barton’s eye, too, but for a few days it’ll be safe enough. Meanwhile…there?
??s an ex-colleague who might agree to give you refuge. If he’s still in London and if he’s so inclined.”
Christian thought for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll need to return to London and ask him. If he agrees, I’ll send word. Until then, I suggest you remain here.” He glanced at Letitia. “As you doubtless counted on, everyone knows that Nunchance is the last place on earth you’ll be.”
Letitia pulled a face. Justin grinned.
Christian rose. “I’ll head back to town immediately.”
Letitia bounced up from her chair. “I’ll come with you. I need to get back to Hermione.” She swooped on Justin and bussed him on the cheek. “Thank you, brother mine, for trying to protect me, however misguided your efforts.”
Justin snorted, caught her hand and squeezed it. But he was looking at Christian as he said, “Just take care that in exonerating me, you don’t color yourself as the murderer instead.”
Christian’s lips curved in a wry smile. “As it happens, courtesy of your earlier sterling efforts to throw everyone off the scent, the only way we’ll succeed in exonerating you now is by identifying and producing whoever did, in fact, kill Randall.”
They left Nunchance within the hour, bowling south in Christian’s curricle, his powerful chestnuts between the shafts. A parasol shading her face, Letitia sat back and watched the scenery flash by. Esme would follow in the carriage with her luggage, but for herself…she was determined to stick by Christian’s side.
She knew him. If she let him, he’d plant her in a drawing room—or in her front parlor—and leave her there while he went out hunting Randall’s killer. It might be perverse of her, yet despite the contempt if not outright hatred she’d borne her husband, she felt a real need to see his murderer brought to justice—not solely on Justin’s account, but on hers, too. That murder had been committed within her household deeply offended her at some fundamental level.