“But—” She stared at him. After a moment she asked, “Don’t you know where he lives?”
Her impatience had resurfaced. “No.” Then he added, “And even if I did, I wouldn’t use the knowledge. There’s nothing he could accomplish tonight.”
Slumping back against the seat, she grumped, “He could think.”
Leaning back, he smiled, caught her hand and held it. “We’ll go and see him first thing in the morning. Until then, you’ll simply have to possess your soul in patience.”
Patience was not a Vaux trait. Letitia wasn’t sure she had a patient bone in her body. However…she did have other matters to attend to—even if she hadn’t yet divined just how she was supposed to eradicate the assumption that appeared to have lodged with quite ridiculous firmness in the majority of the grande dames’ minds.
That evening she stood in the middle of the Marchioness of Huntly’s drawing room, and wondered where—and how—to start. While she’d assumed Christian’s appearance beside her in her carriage in the park the previous afternoon would engender a certain amount of speculation, she hadn’t anticipated just how rabid and deep-rooted that speculation would be.
Her initial intention—to simply ignore all comments—had been rendered ineligible when her hostess, one of the most influential females in the ton, had commented, in her calm, collected, commanding voice, on how pleased she was to see Letitia and Christian together again.
Huh! They were together in the sense he’d escorted her there—but together in the wider, long-term sense, in the sense of having a future together…as to that, she still didn’t know.
And the last thing she wanted was to get hemmed into a corner by the ton’s expectations. To have her decision effectively taken out of her hands—she was perfectly aware that could happen if the ton’s assumptions were allowed to grow unchecked. Admittedly, as a Vaux she could ultimately do whatever she pleased and the ton be damned—something the ton, perversely, would accept as perfectly normal for a Vaux—but she currently had enough scandal in her life; she didn’t need to court more.
And she would infinitely prefer that the grande dames stopped watching her and Christian like beady-eyed eagles.
Or was that gossipy vultures?
Regardless, the conclusion was obvious—she needed to pour ice-cold water all over the ideas blossoming beneath the various coiffures bobbing about the room.
Around her, the guests at the extremely select soiree filled the elegant room with a multitude of murmuring voices. With Randall so recently dead, soirees of this nature were the only “entertainments” she felt it was permissable for her to attend. Of course, ever since Randall’s sensational demise, the flow of invitations had dramatically increased, ladies she barely knew inviting her to afternoon teas and the like.
Much good would it do them. She’d chosen to attend the marchioness’s event because she’d known all the most influential ladies—those whose thoughts she most needed to monitor—would be present. Beyond managing the opinions society held of her, Justin, and her family in general, she had little interest in social affairs, not with Justin in hiding and Randall’s killer as yet unmasked.
And Randall proving even more peculiarly secretive in death than he had in life.
She’d left Christian with a bevy of gentlemen discussing political affairs; neither he nor she needed support in this arena.
Surveying the company, she wondered which grande dame she ought to approach first.
A sharp rap on her arm—not from a hand but the head of a cane—answered her question. Summoning a delighted smile—perfectly genuine; she knew who her accoster was, and no lady was more relevant to her task—she turned and met a pair of obsidian eyes. “Lady Osbaldestone! How lovely.”
She didn’t curtsy—Lady Osbaldestone’s title was inferior to her own; instead she grasped her ladyship’s beringed fingers, squeezed gently as she leaned in to touch cheeks.
“Well, miss.” Lady Osbaldestone transfixed her with an incisive gaze. “So you’re a miss again, after a fashion, and not a moment too soon in my opinion. You wasted enough years with that man—I can’t say I view his demise as any great loss. And I see Dearne’s come to his senses, which is exactly as it should be.”
“Dearne’s been a great support in tracking down Randall’s murderer.” Letitia knew she had to adhere firmly to that line; her ladyship had one of the shrewdest brains in the ton. “I fear I wouldn’t have known where to start.”
Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes regarded her unblinkingly. A second ticked past, then her ladyship said, “To be blunt, my dear, I’d heard that the authorities had your brother firmly at the top of their list.”
Letitia waved dismissively. “You know what the authorities are like—they have to have some name on their list, so they put Justin’s on it. As his is the only name they have, ergo he’s at the top, but that will change once they have the correct suspect.”
“And Dearne is helping you locate this suspect?”
“Indeed. He was kind enough to agree to assist. With his background, he’s the perfect gentleman for the job.”
Her ladyship’s lips quirked. “Indubitably.” A subtle smile curved her lips. “I doubt, my dear, that you’ll find many who will argue that point.”
Letitia blinked, replayed her words—and inwardly cursed. She hadn’t been referring to Christian’s past with her. She quickly said, “His experience in…er, covert operations, as I believe they’re termed, has proved very valuable—”
She broke off; from the amusement glowing in Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes, she wasn’t advancing her cause. Where were the right words? Ones that weren’t ambiguous?
“I quite understand, dear.” Lady Osbaldestone patted her hand in a way that suggested she truly did. “And here comes Helena—you must tell her precisely what you told me. She won’t have been so entertained in years.”
Letitia had to fight to keep her eyes from narrowing as they both turned to greet the shorter, slighter—but no less powerful—Duchess of St. Ives, or Dowager Duchess as she preferred to be styled in a very public attempt to spur her only son, now the duke, into marrying.