She groaned. She’d known there’d be a price for sleeping in his bed, but the bother of having to get up, dressed, and out before the tweenies were about hadn’t registered. “Damn!”
Wrestling aside the covers, she glanced at the window, and groaned again. She was torn, but…
He chuckled, then sat up, throwing off the covers. “Come on—I’ll walk you home.”
He helped her lace up her gown, then led her silently down the stairs and out of the front door—just in time; they could hear the maids’ voices approaching from behind the green baize door as they slipped outside. He drew the front door closed, then took her arm, wound it with his, and they set off to walk the short distance to…the house where she was staying.
That’s how she’d always thought of Randall’s house; it had never been hers.
She glanced at Christian, strolling beside her. When he’d joined her in his bed last night, the very first thing she’d done was run her hands over him, confirming he wasn’t in any way hurt. Even half asleep, some part of her mind had been on full alert on that score, ready to take charge if it had proved necessary. Scanning his face in the pale morning light—devoid of even the faintest hint of a bruise, as was the hand—his right—that lay over hers on his sleeve, she concluded that his meeting with Gallagher had passed civilly enough.
Looking ahead, she asked, “So what did you learn from your excursion last night?”
Christian told her, seeing no reason to hold anything back. Unsurprisingly, she asked about Roscoe; he related what he knew of the man; he’d run into him a few times in his professional capacity in his early years of working for Dalziel.
“So,” Letitia said, as they neared Randall’s house, “I take it our next move is to go and see this Roscoe person and find out what he knows.”
“Indeed.” Christian halted before the steps. “I’ll go and see him as soon as we can arrange a meeting.”
“I’ll come, too.” Letitia halted beside him.
As she faced him, he took in the determined light in her eyes, the stubborn set of her chin. Inwardly sighed. “Unfortunately, in the same way you couldn’t go with me to speak with Gallagher, you can’t come with me when I visit Roscoe.”
She narrowed her eyes on his. “Nonsense. Gallagher’s an underworld czar—a known criminal—but you told me yourself Roscoe’s another Randall.”
“I meant in terms of his business interests. Otherwise, Roscoe’s nothing like Randall. He’s ten times—a hundred times—more dangerous.”
Her lips thinned; her eyes couldn’t get any narrower…then her expression cleared and she smiled. Too sweetly. “If Roscoe’s as clever and as canny as you say”—turning, she started up the steps—“then he’s not going to tell you the details of a business agreement he struck with Randall.”
Halting on the top step, she plied the knocker, then faced him as he joined her. She smiled again, this time more assured. “Roscoe won’t divulge those details to anyone but me—the one who, businesswise, now stands in Randall’s shoes.”
She waited a heartbeat—no doubt to allow him to grasp the incontestability of her reasoning—then briskly said, “I’ve an at-home I must attend, then a luncheon. I assume we’re all to meet later at the club?”
When, after a moment’s hesitation, his face expressionless, he nodded curtly, she informed him, “I’ll join you there.”
With a regal inclination of her head, she moved forward as Mellon opened the door.
Raising a hand in mute farewell, Christian turned and walked down the steps. Gaining the pavement, he paused, then set off, striding back to his house.
While she was spending her day swanning around the ton, he would spend at least a part of his arranging to ensure she didn’t accompany him to see Neville Roscoe.
She would understand once she’d thought it through; she knew him—understood men like him. She couldn’t possibly expect to spend the night in his bed, to acknowledge him—them—at least that far, and then expect him to take her, to stand back and allow her, to do something so reckless as to visit Neville Roscoe.
Letitia arrived at the Bastion Club a minute before Dalziel—two minutes before Justin slipped in via the back lane. She frowned at her brother as he sank into a chair in the library, but he merely smiled back.
She inwardly sniffed, and gave her attention to Christian as, for Dalziel’s and Justin’s benefit, he recounted what he’d learned from Gallagher.
“Roscoe.” Dalziel shook his head. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but our list of suspects already includes Trowbridge, Swithin, fourteen hell managers, countless possible disgruntled staff, business rivals—and to that we must now add all those who might have very good reasons to stop the deal with Roscoe going ahead. As that last crew include many who would consider murder an acceptable deterrent in such circumstances, we can’t discount them.”
“Actually,” Christian said, “Gallagher thought that last scenario unlikely. It seems everyone in that group is resigned to Roscoe growing more powerful. And as he keeps very much to himself and takes care not to impinge on their turf, then their motivation for not wanting to exchange Roscoe-plus-Randall for just Roscoe is hard to see.”
He paused, then added, “From my own observations, if Randall’s chosen buyer was Roscoe, then I’m inclined to think Gallagher is right—the others will back away and let him have that bone.”
Dalziel looked steadily at Christian for a long moment, then nodded. “That’s your area of expertise—if you think it unlikely, then by all means let’s erase them from our list. Even then, the list is too long, and we’ve made precious little headway in defining which of the available suspects we should pursue. Apropos of that, I’ll go with you to see Roscoe. I’ve heard about the man for years, but we’ve never met. See if you can set the meeting for tomorrow morning. I’ve other appointments, but for that I’ll make time.”
Christian nodded. He glanced at Letitia.
Before he could lay his tongue to adequate words with which to broach the subject, Dalziel did.