She was a Vaux—love was, for her, a grand, burning passion. She needed proof that he loved her in the same way—to the depths of his conqueror’s soul—before she again surrendered her heart and gave it into his keeping.
Sleep rolled over her and dragged her down, but the essence of that moment of clarity remained, lodged very firmly in her brain.
Chapter 16
Christian considered it one of life’s great ironies that he couldn’t take Randall’s place as Letitia’s husband until he’d uncovered the man’s murderer.
He could be her lover—her only lover—but he couldn’t press her to accept his suit until she was free of the tangled web of Randall’s life. Not because there was any social stricture preventing her from accepting him, but because—he knew her—she wouldn’t.
Until they succeeded in divesting her of any association with gaming hells, and freed Justin from all suspicion of Randall’s murder by exposing the real culprit, his chances of getting her to agree to a wedding were slim to none.
As he tooled his curricle along the embankment, he hoped that interviewing Trowbridge would advance his cause.
Letitia usually found the river distracting, but not today. When Christian checked his pair and turned into Cheyne Walk, she scanned the houses, then pointed. “That’s it.”
A short gravel drive led to a set of white-porticoed steps; Christian drew his horses to a halt before them. Leaving the reins with his groom, he descended and rounded the carriage. Handing her down, he arched a brow at her. “Do you think, this time, that I might lead the questioning?”
He was asking in all sincerity. She wrinkled her nose at him. “As interrogation is more your forte than mine, yes, all right. You can do the talking.”
She’d already lectured herself on the wisdom of keeping her twin objectives—to rid herself of the gambling hells and clear Justin of suspicion by finding Randall’s killer—firmly in the forefront of her mind, to not let herself be distracted by either Christian’s agenda or her own sometimes overly dramatic nature. She’d reminded herself that no matter how insistent the compulsion to dwell on Christian and the possibilities he’d placed before her, and on the ultimate question of whether he truly loved her as she loved him, nothing could be decided until her twin objectives had been met and the detritus of her marriage to Randall cleared away.
Placing her hand on Christian’s sleeve, she let him lead her up the steps to a lovingly polished wooden door, where a kindly looking butler stood waiting.
Christian smiled his easy social smile. “Lord Dearne and Lady Letitia Randall to see Mr. Trowbridge, if he’s in.” As it was barely eleven o’clock; chances were that Trowbridge hadn’t yet stirred beyond his doors.
The butler bowed low. “Indeed, my lord. If you and Lady Randall will follow me, I’ll inform Mr. Trowbridge of your arrival.”
He showed them into an airy room, full of light and color. Letitia immediately felt herself relaxing, and reminded herself of their purpose. Still, it was difficult not to respond to the pale lemon-on-white decor, the perfectly balanced arrangement of furniture, art, and beautiful flowers.
The room wasn’t overtly sumptuous but seductively comfortable, a haven for the senses.
Noting a painting of the river above the mantelpiece, Letitia crossed to examine it. Deciphering the signature reminded her; she looked at Christian. “Rupert Honeywell’s a painter. Why did Dalziel warn you he might be here?”
Christian held her gaze for a moment, then said, “Honeywell was in my year at Eton.”
She raised her brows. “How did Dalziel…oh, of course. He must have been two years or so ahead of you.”
“So I’ve always assumed, but, of course, I didn’t know him then—I can’t recall him. He, however, has a memory that’s impossible to overestimate.”
She laughed, then turned to the doorway as footsteps approached.
Trowbridge appeared, dressed in much the same fashion as the first time they’d seen him, yet it was instantly apparent that in his own home he was much more at ease.
With a ready smile, he crossed to take Letitia’s hand. “Lady Randall.” He exchanged nods with Christian. “Dearne.” Then he waved. “Please, sit.”
Letitia chose the sofa. Christian sat beside her, while Trowbridge sank into one of two armchairs facing them.
Crossing one leg over the other, he regarded them with gentle interest. “Now, how may I help you? I take it this visit isn’t about art.”
Letitia found herself returning his smile. She was about to reply when Christian’s hand closed about hers.
“No,” he said, his voice uninflected, “it’s not. In the wake of Randall’s death, Lady Randall discovered that as Randall’s principal heir, she has become part owner of the Orient Trading Company, along with you and Mr. Swithin. We’ve subsequently learned that you, Randall, and Swithin all attended Hexham Grammar School, in the same year, all as governors’ scholars. Presumably the friendship you formed at that time survived through the years, to your arrival in London and the establishment of the company.”
Christian paused, reassessing how much of their knowledge to reveal. He’d initially intended to keep a great deal back, but, as before, when Letitia had first approached him, Trowbridge appeared encouraging, almost as if he were eager to talk and was only waiting for the proper, polite moment to do so. “We have, of course, now learned what the business of the Orient Trading Company is, but in the interests of gaining a better understanding, so Lady Randall might decide what to do with her share, we thought to approach you and ask if you would tell us about the company’s origins, and how it operates.”
Trowbridge beamed. He gestured expansively. “You perceive me only too ready to do so.” He looked at Letitia, then at Christian. “I hope you understand that I wasn’t prepared to speak the other day, not about Randall and our association, not until I knew you’d learned about the company.”
“If I might ask,” Christian said, “why was that?”