Christian blinked.
Cordelia saw and smiled intently. “Just so. You’re not the only gentleman of your age and relative standing hunting for a mature and capable bride.”
True, but he was the only one sharing Letitia’s bed.
Christian inclined his head. “Thank you, Aunt. I’ll…er, take your suggestion under advisement.”
Cordelia looked disgusted. “See you do. Heaven knows you need a woman like Letitia Vaux to show you what passion is.” With a curt nod, she swept around. “I’ll leave you to it.”
With more fondness than he’d allowed her to see, Christian watched her march out of the room.
When the door closed behind her, he returned to his letters, but while he sorted through communications from his various agents and stewards, his mind continued to dwell on Cordelia’s words, wrestling with what she’d come to tell him, and, more importantly, why.
Cordelia was very well anchored within the ton. She’d been born and bred within it; she knew it and its ways, understood both as instinctively as breathing. Her words were, indeed, a warning.
It didn’t take much thinking to concede she was right.
Once Letitia came out of mourning—and given she was a Vaux and not inclined to sit quietly at home, even before then—she would all but instantly become a gazetted prize; she was the sort of woman men fought over.
Although he was sharing her bed, he was well aware he had no guarantee she would, in the end, agree to marry him. To be his again, unreservedly.
A letter opened but unread in his hand, he considered what his life would be like if she decided against him.
Cordelia had also been right in that he needed Letitia to show him what passion was. In that respect, only she would do—only she had ever succeeded.
If he didn’t have her…
Hearing a crinkling sound, he glanced down. He’d crushed the letter he was holding. Opening his fist, he smoothed the sheet out and laid it on the blotter.
His aunt had been right in all respects.
Tie her up fast.
Wise advice, he felt sure.
Chapter 14
They gathered at the Bastion Club later that afternoon. Christian met Letitia at the gate; they climbed the porch steps to find Gasthorpe receiving a packet from a messenger.
“Ah—here he is.” The majordomo bowed to Christian and Letitia, then extended the packet to Christian. “From Mr. Montague, my lord.”
“Excellent.” Christian took the packet, handed it to Letitia, and hunted in his waistcoat pocket. He tipped the messenger and dismissed him. The boy clattered down the steps just as Dalziel came walking up the path.
Dalziel exchanged nods with them, then waved Letitia and Christian into the house. After a few murmured words with Gasthorpe, he followed them up the stairs and into the library.
Tony, Jack, and Tristan were already there. They got to their feet as Letitia swept in; she smiled and waved them back to their chairs. Appropriating one of the armchairs by the hearth, she sank into it, laying the packet, which she’d retained, on her lap.
Entirely unexpectedly, the door opened again and Justin sauntered in. Although partly disguised in a heavy, nondescript overcoat with a cap pulled low over his face, with his height, build, outrageously handsome features, and distinctive coloring, he remained readily identifiable.
Christian sensed his fellow club members come alert. They exchanged glances with each other and with him; they were all dying to ask Justin where he’d been staying—and more to the point, who his host really was.
Justin flashed a smile around the room, then seeing Letitia’s surprise give way to ire, he held up his hands placatingly. “I came in through the back alley—no one saw me.”
She humphed, cast him, and then Dalziel, a darkling look, and subsided. She looked down at the package in her lap.
Christian was about to suggest she open it when Dalziel, sinking into one of the deeply padded wing chairs, stated, “I heard from my Hexham contact.”
All attention swung his way. He smiled, all teeth. “As we suspected, Swithin was indeed a peer of Randall and Trowbridge at Hexham Grammar School. They entered the school in the same year, and all three were governors’ scholars—the only three that year. They banded together from the first, no doubt to ward off the inevitable bullying. Randall as we know was a farmer’s son. Trowbridge’s father was a goldsmith—quite a talented one by all accounts—and his mother was a potter. His liking for artwork presumably grew from that. Trowbridge’s parents are still alive—he visits them occasionally, although the more he’s gone up in the world, the more awkward that’s become. However, the elder Trowbridges are proud of their son, if a trifle in awe. He’s risen far from his humble beginnings—in many ways his life is now beyond their comprehension.”