Barton had paused in the doorway. A moment ticked past, then he continued on without looking back.
Christian rounded the chaise. He reached for Letitia’s hand; as the door clicked shut, he drew her to her feet. “At last we have two specific names to pursue—although I don’t know either. Do you know Trowbridge or Swithin?”
She had to think to answer—had to put aside her rising temper to do so; it took her a moment of blinking up at him before she succeeded, and frowned. “No, I don’t—at least not in the sense of having any real acquaintance. I know nothing of Swithin—I’ve never heard of him—but I’ve heard of Trowbridge.”
“It’s lunchtime. Let’s go into the dining room and put together what we know, so this afternoon, when we meet the others at the club, we’ll have a concise report.”
Frown easing, she nodded, her mind having switched, as he’d intended, to a topic that held more interest than railing over Barton. “Yes. All right.” She glanced at Agnes. “Aunt, are you ready to eat?”
Agnes nodded. “An excellent idea.” Her gaze was on Christian. He stepped around Letitia and helped Agnes up.
Nodding her thanks, Agnes shook out her gray skirts, then headed for the door. “You’re very good, Dearne.”
Christian hid his smile and offered Letitia his arm. Already engrossed in assembling all she knew of Trowbridge, she absentmindedly placed her hand on his sleeve and let him steer her to the door.
In mid-afternoon Christian escorted Letitia down the steps of Randall’s house and into a hackney. Ordering the jarvey to drive them to the park, he climbed in, shut the door, and sat beside her.
He watched, but as the hackney drove off, Barton made no move to quit his position opposite the house. As the hackney turned the corner, Christian saw him settling back against the area railings, arms folded, his gaze locked on Randall’s door.
“He’s staying there?” Letitia asked.
“It looks like it. Nevertheless, we won’t take any chances.” He glanced at her. “A short walk will do us good.”
They left the hackney at the corner of Hyde Park, then crossed the street and ambled a short way down Grosvenor Place. They’d passed Grosvenor Crescent when Christian halted, scanning the street behind them. “No sign. He didn’t follow us.”
“Good.” Letitia set off at a brisker pace. “It’s this way, isn’t it?”
They reached the club shortly before three o’clock. Admitted by Gasthorpe, who confirmed he was housing a visitor, they went up to the library, Letitia all but taking the stairs two at a time.
There, they found Justin, at his ease, sharing a tale with Tristan. Both rose as Letitia swept in.
Her gaze raked her brother. She nodded. “Good. You managed to get yourself here without breaking your neck.”
Justin grinned. “Good afternoon, sister dear.” He leaned down to buss her cheek.
Christian offered his hand. “How was the drive down?”
“Utterly uneventful,” Justin replied, with all a Vaux’s contempt for such a happenstance. “It’s bad enough in daylight—at night it’s dead boring.”
Sinking into a chair, Letitia rolled her eyes.
The men had barely reclaimed their seats when a knock sounded on the front door. A minute later Dalziel entered.
His gaze swept the room, locating, and remaining on, Justin’s face.
Justin’s eyes went wide—he clearly recognized Dalziel—Royce Whoever-he-was—even though there had to be a good ten years between them. Justin slowly got to his feet. “Ah…you must be Dalziel.” He held out a hand.
With a nod of approval, Dalziel grasped it. “You’ll be staying with me, out of sight. I’ll come for you later tonight—no need to take any chances whatever, given the authorities’ current bent.”
“I should thank you—”
Dalziel silenced him with an upraised hand. “Time enough for that later. For now”—he surveyed their small company—“what have we learned?”
“Randall’s will was read this morning,” Letitia stated. “Dearne has the details.”
Extracting his notebook, Christian ran through both Randall’s estate and the bequests. The latter, unsurprisingly, became the focus of discussion.
Tristan in particular pounced on the names. “Trowbridge and Swithin—those are the only two gentlemen I turned up who anyone even suggested might know Randall as more than a nodding acquaintance.” He glanced at Christian. “I covered virtually every male haunt of tonnish gentlemen—at least those where we go to meet with friends. Many knew Randall by sight, yet none admitted to friendship, nor did I find anyone who could name any of his friends. Trowbridge and Swithin were mentioned solely as gentlemen my sources had seen Randall talking to on more than one occasion. That was the sum of it—interesting that they weren’t known as his friends, yet he names them as longtime friends in his will.”