The Edge of Desire

Chapter 9

It was just after ten the next morning when Christian ushered Letitia into the anteroom of an office buried in the labyrinthine depths of Whitehall. Sweeping in, head high, she noted the nondescript clerk who glanced up, then came to his feet in a rush.

“Ma’am-I think you must be l-” The clerk broke off as Christian followed her through the door. “Ah…Major Allardyce. I’ll…ah.” The clerk’s eyes went again to Letitia, then returned to Christian. “Shall I see if he’s in?”

Letitia found the clerk’s performance revealing, but she had an ace up her sleeve. “Kindly inform your master-I believe he calls himself Dalziel-that Lady Letitia Randall née Vaux is here to see him, together with Lord Dearne.”

The clerk all but goggled at her. She was aware of the sharp glance Christian shot her, but when the clerk sent him an imploring look, he endorsed her request with a nod.

“Ah…” Still the clerk hesitated. “If you’d like to take a seat…?” He gestured to three bare wooden chairs lined up along the wall opposite a plain wooden door.

She turned her head, examined the chairs. “I don’t believe that will prove necessary.” She looked back at the clerk, saw him still dithering and, exasperated, made a shooing motion with one hand. “Go.”

The clerk went.

Fascinated, Christian eyed Letitia, but her face gave nothing away. Could she really know…? He’d assumed he would have to introduce her, explain his connection to Dalziel…he recalled she’d known he’d been off spying. He hadn’t told her, but she’d mentioned a certain gentleman who’d crooked his finger…somehow she’d found out about Dalziel. He turned to look at his ex-commander’s door.

Just as it was yanked open.

Dalziel filled the doorway. He stared across the anteroom, not at Christian-at Letitia. Not a flicker of emotion disturbed his austere features, yet Christian could clearly hear his mental cursing.

Letitia regarded him with haughty calm. “There you are. I assume you have time to see us?”

Dalziel’s gaze flicked to Christian, then returned to Letitia’s face. “Of course. Pray come in.”

He stood back, holding the door. Letitia swept past him and entered the inner sanctum. Christian followed more slowly. When he drew level with Dalziel, his ex-commander met his eyes.

Dalziel’s eyes were a deep dark brown; reading them was never easy. In this case, however, Christian could see his exasperation-and his resignation-quite clearly.

Closing the door behind his clerk, who scurried out-a mouse escaping the presence of two lions and a lioness-Dalziel waved them to the chairs before his desk. As he sank into the chair behind it, he regarded them stonily. “This had better be serious.”

Letitia raised her brows, haughtily superior. “It is. Naturally. As you’ve no doubt heard, my husband was brutally murdered and my brother is suspected of the crime.”

Dalziel regarded her expressionlessly for a moment, then quietly corrected, “Stands accused of murder.”

Letitia frowned, not understanding the distinction.

Dalziel glanced at Christian. “I heard yesterday afternoon.” To Letitia, he said, “The authorities have sworn out a warrant for the arrest of Lord Justin Vaux. The charge is that he killed his brother-in-law, your husband, George Randall.”

Letitia looked exasperated. “Drat them! Couldn’t they wait?”

Glancing from one to the other, Dalziel raised his brows. “From which I take it you’re here to tell me Justin didn’t do it, and there’s some mystery over who did.”

Letitia nodded. “Yes. Precisely. Helpful of you to grasp the facts so quickly.”

There was a hint-just a hint-of sarcasm in her tone; Christian knew her well enough to know she’d intended it.

Dalziel had heard it; he hesitated, but-to Christian’s immense surprise-declined to respond.

Or declined to prod a thus far rational Vaux?

The notion that his ex-commander was well acquainted with the Vaux was confirmed by Dalziel himself. His gaze on Letitia, he said, “You may spare me the protestations regarding Justin’s innocence. I may not know him well, but I know enough of him to accept that it’s highly unlikely he committed the crime as I heard it described.”

He shifted his dark gaze to Christian. “Tell me what you know.”

Christian complied, chapter and verse. Dalziel was particularly interested in Pringle’s report.

“That,” he said, “isn’t common knowledge. Indeed, it weakens the authorities’ case considerably-they can’t have Justin bludgeoning Randall to death in a fit of manic temper on the one hand, only to say that he actually killed Randall first with a gentle, lucky tap on the head.”

“Exactly.” Letitia went on, “Given that, along with everything else, it seems patently obvious that Randall was killed by some mysterious friend who saw him that night between me and Justin.”

Dalziel regarded her, then glanced at Christian. “So who was this mysterious friend?”

“That,” Christian said, “is what we don’t know.” He related what little they’d learned from Justin, and his own observations thus far. “So finding who Randall called friend isn’t as simple as one might suppose.”

Dalziel was frowning. “That’s…very strange.”

“And if you add the suspicion that Randall was attempting to lure Justin into debt, it becomes even stranger.” Letitia regarded Dalziel severely. “But the principal point here is that in order to clear Justin’s name within the ton, we need to not just prove he didn’t do the deed, but, as matters now stand-and I assume the swearing of that warrant will only make things even worse-we need to produce Randall’s real killer.”

Still frowning, Dalziel looked at Christian. “We need to learn who else had reason to want Randall dead.”

Christian caught his gaze. “We?”

Dalziel’s lips twisted wryly. “The royal ‘we’-you, me, and anyone else we can call in. Who else is in town?”

“Trentham. I doubt anyone else will have come up yet.”

Dalziel nodded. “Enough to go on with.”

“We have another problem-Justin is our sole albeit poor source of reliable information on Randall. He’s been closest to him-indeed watching him-for the last several years.”

“Eight years,” Letitia supplied. “Since I married Randall.”

Christian inclined his head. “So we need Justin here, not at Nunchance-”

“But you have nowhere to hide him.” Dalziel held Christian’s gaze for an instant, then looked at Letitia, at her hopeful, expectant expression. He sighed. “Very well-I’ll undertake to house the whelp in secret.”

Letitia flashed him a brilliant smile. “Excellent.”

Dalziel looked back at Christian. “Tell him to come to your club-I’ll whisk him away from there. He’ll need to leave Nunchance in the evening so he’ll reach London in the small hours.” He glanced again at Letitia. “His description will have been circulated to the watch, and very likely to all the posting inns. He’ll need to be careful.”

Letitia nodded. “I’ll write and tell him.”

“As for the rest”-Dalziel transferred his attention to Christian-“I suggest we meet at the Bastion Club.” He glanced at a clock on a nearby cabinet. “Shall we say three o’clock? I’ll see what I can learn from the authorities, if they have any more information that might give us a clue as to who the real murderer might be.”

He rose. Letitia and Christian came to their feet.

“Until three, then.” Letitia gave Dalziel her hand.

He took it, bowed, then released her.

As she turned and swept to the door, Christian caught Dalziel’s eye. “No further sign of our old friend?”

He was referring to a traitor buried deep within the ton; their group of ex-spies had run across his tracks several times over the last year, but despite their-and Dalziel’s-best efforts, he’d managed to evade them, twice by committing murder.

Dalziel shook his head. “Not a whisper.” He looked around the room. “I need to be here for a few weeks more.” His lips twisted as he turned back to Christian. “This latest start of the Vaux should help fill in the time.”

Christian saluted. “I’ll let Trentham know about the meeting. He’ll be there.”

Dalziel nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

He resat at his desk; Christian headed for the door.

Following Letitia into the anteroom, Christian shut the door behind him. He was, he realized, on the cusp of solving a mystery that had plagued the Bastion Club members for years. Dalziel wasn’t Dalziel’s real name. His identity had always tantalized them; although they’d discovered any number of people who knew it, they’d never been able to persuade any to divulge it. Now, although Dalziel-Royce Whoever-he-was-had avoided any mention of his address, presumably where he intended to hide Justin, obviously Justin would shortly learn it, and thus learn his identity.

Even more obviously, Letitia already knew it.

He smiled benignly at the clerk, and rather more delightedly at her. “Come.” He waved her to the outer door. “Let’s find a hackney to take us back to Mayfair.”

“No, I will not tell you his real name.” Letitia shook her head and stubbornly set her lips.

Exasperated, Christian slumped back against the hackney’s seat. “Why, for heaven’s sake? It’s patently obvious you know it-that you know him, Royce Whoever-he-is. That quite a few ladies of the ton know who he is. Why can’t we know?”

“It’s not a matter of keeping his name a secret. That’s not the point.”

He cast her a saber-edged glance. “What is the point?”

She heaved a huge sigh. “The point is that mentioning his name, whether to his face or otherwise, anywhere in the ton and, I suspect, even beyond, is forbidden. Absolutely not done.”

He stared at her. “Why?”

“Because it was so decreed years ago-even before my come-out. It was one of those things my aunts instructed me in before I came to town. I don’t know exactly how long the edict has been in place, but there you have it-anyone caught breaking the rule can be assured of instant ejection from the ton.”

He frowned. “Is this one of the Almack’s patronesses’ rules?”

“No, although they certainly support it. It was a rule-an edict-laid down by all the most powerful ladies of the ton, and, as I heard it, many of the gentlemen agreed. It’s been in force for…well, it must be something like fifteen years.”

He couldn’t fathom it. After a few minutes of slow rocking through the traffic, he asked-begged rather plaintively, “Can’t you just whisper it to me?”

“No!” She frowned at him severely. “No one speaks his name-that’s the rule. Aside from anything else, he would know.”

She wasn’t going to change her mind.

He heaved a huge sigh. He’d got so close.

The carriage slowed. They’d reached South Audley Street.

Letitia glanced at him. “I can’t see why you’re so exercised-you’ll learn the truth soon enough.”

Before he could question her further, the carriage halted and she leaned forward and opened the door. “I’ll meet you in Montrose Place at three. Until then…” A footman had come down the steps to assist her; she gave him her hand and alighted. On the pavement, she looked back at Christian. “I’m going to circulate and do my best to play down the rumors of Justin’s guilt.”

He hesitated, then nodded and saluted in farewell. Dalziel’s news about the warrant had shaken her; she no doubt wished to ascertain how widely known that development was.

With a nod she swung away-then halted, stared along the street. All but hissed. “That damned runner! Did I mention I found him in the library this morning? I’ve given orders he’s not to be admitted without my express permission, or unless he has a warrant, or both. If he wants to keep watch on the scene of the crime, he can damn well do it from outside.”

With another fulminating glare, she swung away, forged up the steps and swept through the door Mellon was holding open.

Christian watched the door close, then smiled. “St. James,” he called to the jarvey on the box. It was time to do a little social scouting of his own.

They met as arranged, delighting Gasthorpe and his staff, who were feeling rather redundant with so little to do.

Tea and ginger biscuits appeared in the library where Christian, Letitia, and Tristan gathered; the “no females beyond the front parlor” rule was long dead. While Letitia poured, Christian outlined for Tristan what they’d learned from Justin and Hermione, how the events on the night of the murder now appeared, and briefly detailed their meeting with Dalziel.

He’d barely finished when a familiar heavy knock sounded on the front door. A moment later Gasthorpe entered to announce, “Mr. Dalziel.”

A misnomer if ever there was one; they may not know his name, yet of one thing they were certain-Dalziel was one of them.

He walked in, his eyes briefly meeting theirs. He exchanged nods with Letitia, accepted a cup and saucer from her, then she handed the rest of the cups around and they sat and got down to business.

Dalziel spoke first. “I contacted the Bow Street magistrate in charge of the case. He and his minions are convinced Justin did the deed. A warrant for his arrest has indeed been sworn, and a runner, Barton, has been assigned to hunt him down.”

Letitia grimaced but didn’t comment-to the relief of all three men.

Christian quickly, succinctly, listed the facts they knew, establishing the likelihood that Randall was killed by someone he knew, most likely a friend, who’d visited the study between Letitia leaving it and Justin entering.

“It sounds as if he expected his killer.” Tristan glanced at Letitia. “Just to cover the obvious, have you checked his diary?”

Letitia shook her head. “He didn’t keep one.”

Christian frowned. “Not at all? No address book even?”

“Nothing. I don’t know how he managed, but he kept all that sort of thing in his head.”

Dalziel raised his brows. “Not so hard if you don’t have many friends.”

“He must have had some,” Christian said. “We need to learn who.”

“We need to make a list.” Tristan rose and, taking his cup, went to sit at the library desk. He pulled out a sheet of paper, checked the pen, then dipped it in the ink pot. “Friends.” He wrote. “Need to identify.” He looked down at his handiwork. “I’ll ask around the clubs. Given I’m in no way connected with the Vaux, I might learn more than you.” He looked at Christian.

“I’ll see what I can learn via other avenues,” Dalziel put in.

Tristan and Christian exchanged a glance, but forebore to ask what other avenues their ex-commander had in mind.

“With any luck,” Letitia said, “once he’s had time to think of it, Justin might, by the time he reaches here, have remembered something more.”

“That covers the direct approach,” Dalziel said. “For the indirect, what do we know of Randall himself-his background, family?” He looked at Letitia.

She met his gaze. A long moment passed, then she pulled a face. “You’re not going to believe it-in hindsight it seems quite amazing-but I know of no family. None. As for his background…” She raised a helpless hand. “I know our man of business looked into his financial state before our marriage, but other than that…he was educated, well-presented, was established in our circles, was wealthy and personable enough.” She paused, sipped. “I suppose we saw no reason to look further.”

“So…” Dalziel’s voice had grown softer-more intent. “No family known, no school, no university, no connections known.” He raised his brows, met Christian’s gaze. “Our man becomes more and more of a mystery.”

Tristan had been frowning. “Place of birth?”

Letitia shook her head. “Not even that.” She paused, then added, “I can’t even tell you which county he hailed from-he never said, never even dropped a clue that I recall.”

Dalziel looked at Tristan, who obediently dipped the pen and started writing. “So we’ve lots more to learn about Randall’s personal background.” He switched his gaze to Letitia. “What about his financial background? He was wealthy, so where did his money come from? Was he involved in any schemes-investments, developments? You mentioned your family’s man of business had checked earlier.”

She nodded. “I’m sure he’ll have some of those answers, at least as things were eight years ago.”

Christian caught Dalziel’s eye. “If we want to investigate Randall’s finances we should use Montague.”

Dalziel nodded.

“Heathcote Montague,” Letitia stated, “and his father before him, have always handled the Vaux family affairs-it was he who looked into Randall’s financial state.”

“Perfect.” Dalziel set down his empty cup. “We can rely on Montague to ferret out whatever there is to find in Randall’s financial dealings.”

Tristan was busily scribbling. Christian said, “I’ll go and see Montague.”

“I’ll come, too.” Letitia reached for a ginger biscuit. “He’ll want my permission before he speaks of Vaux family business.”

The men all nodded.

“Which brings us to the connected subject of Randall’s will.” Dalziel cocked a brow at Letitia.

She looked taken aback, then frowned, as did Christian. “Yet more oddity-the funeral was days ago and yet we haven’t heard a word of any will. What is going on?”

The three men exchanged glances.

Christian leaned forward, setting down his cup. “Do you know who Randall’s solicitor was?”

To his relief, Letitia nodded. “Griswade, Griswade, Meecham and Tappit. They’re in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

“So,” Tristan said, writing, “they’re on our list to be visited, too.”

Letitia brushed crumbs from her fingers, her expression unimpressed. “I’ll inquire about Randall’s will.”

Christian made a mental note to go with her.

“Right.” Sitting back, Dalziel steepled his fingers. “We’ve avenues to pursue-facts to assemble. What about motive?”

When Letitia raised her brows, Christian elaborated, “Money, power, or passion-Randall will have been killed for one or the other.”

“Or any combination thereof,” Dalziel added.

“Power seems unlikely,” Tristan suggested. “A prime element of power, at least in our world, is influence. If he had no friends…”

“He liked to meet and be seen with powerful people,” Letitia said, “but I never sensed he had any interest in exploiting such acquaintances. In using them for anything.” She frowned. “He just didn’t seem interested in developing such connections.”

Dalziel caught Christian’s eye and shook his head. “The more we learn of George Randall, the less he seems to conform to any recognizable type. For someone who, as I understand it, presented as unremarkable, he seems to have led a highly eccentric existence.”

Christian nodded. “So if power wasn’t involved, then leaving aside the obvious-money-is there any hint this might be a crime of passion?”

Dalziel snorted. “Other than the Vaux being intricately involved?”

Christian’s lips quirked; he inclined his head “Other than that.”

Letitia narrowed her eyes at them both, but her heart wasn’t in her glare. After a moment she said, “I honestly can’t see Randall being involved in any situation that might have given rise to a grand passion in another-not enough for that other, or even someone associated with them, to kill him.”

Dalziel arched a brow. “Are you sure you’re not biased?”

She shot him another look, but shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. It’s not that…” She frowned at the biscuit plate-now empty-then sighed. “Randall wasn’t…well, like us. While I routinely gave thanks for that, he simply didn’t have the same drive.”

They all knew precisely which drive she was referring to, and given her beauty, her unquestionable desirability-her temper notwithstanding-that, too, rated as odd.

Dalziel rubbed his temple. He glanced at Christian. “You see what I mean-this man, the bits we keep learning of him don’t mesh into any recognizable whole.”

Letitia was still frowning. “Justin might know with more certainty, but I’m almost completely certain Randall never had a mistress-at least not while we were wed. That simply wasn’t where his interests lay.”

“If there’s any long-term connection, it’s likely to be mentioned in his will,” Tristan said, still busily making notes.

“But if his interests didn’t lie in that direction”-Dalziel fixed Letitia with an interrogatory look-“what was his principal focus in life?”

She answered readily. “Business. He was always involved in this or that-even that night, he cried off from a dinner because he wanted to attend to some business.”

Dalziel sat up. “Did he have any business associates?”

Letitia dashed his hopes. “When I say ‘business,’ I mean letters, papers, documents. He was forever in his study poring over some report or proposal. He often worked late into the night, dealing with such things.” She paused, then added, “I think he acted as his own man of business. I never heard of anyone calling who might be such a person.”

“I’ll check with the butler,” Christian said. “He should know.”

Dalziel nodded. “So as far as we can see at present, motive appears to be the most usual, and most obvious-money. In some way or form.”

He glanced around, but no one disagreed.

“So we need to learn who stands to profit from Randall’s death.”

“Even better,” Christian said, “who profits from Randall’s death now.”

“True.” Dalziel nodded. “If money’s the motive, there’s likely some reason he was killed at that time.”

“At that meeting between associates.” Tristan looked up from scanning his list. “So when will we meet again?”

They discussed who would do what, when, and decided to reconvene in two days’ time.

Letitia rose, pulling on her gloves. “Justin should be in London by then, so we’ll be able to see if anything we learn means something more to him.”

“Meanwhile”-Dalziel straightened his long legs and got to his feet-“while we all have our avenues to pursue, the most pertinent aspect is-”

“Who stood to benefit from Randall’s sudden death.” Letitia nodded regally to Dalziel and Tristan. “Gentlemen-I’ll see you in two days.”

She turned to the door and Christian, who struggled to hide a grin; if Dalziel had thought he would be in charge, he was fast learning otherwise. She arched a brow at him. “I thought to go and see Montague tomorrow morning.”

He nodded. “I’ll call for you at ten.”

Airily she replied, “I’ll see you then. My aunts and their families are dining in South Audley Street tonight-I must oversee the preparations.”

With a graceful inclination of her head that included them all, she swept to the door.

Christian inwardly debated, but in the end let her go. Given the upheaval of the last days, a little time apart might be wise.

They met again the next morning, and journeyed into the city, to Heathcote Montague’s office within a stone’s throw of the Bank of England.

Christian had sent a note the previous afternoon. Montague was waiting, ready to greet them-to express his condolences to Letitia and bow to Christian.

He ushered them into his office, waited until they’d settled in the chairs before his massive desk, then he sat in the chair behind it and opened the file box that waited on his blotter. “Dreadful business, but I understand there’s some question about your late husband’s finances.”

“Indeed.” Letitia set her reticule in her lap and waved at Christian beside her. “You may speak freely before Lord Dearne.”

“Excellent. Well, I looked up the research I did on Mr. Randall at the time of your marriage, my lady. Eight years ago, I admit I was still in my father’s shadow somewhat, but all the relevant issues”-he studied a document he extracted from the box-“appear to have been covered. Since then, of course, I haven’t had reason to inquire into Mr. Randall’s finances-he wasn’t a client of mine.” He glanced at them. “What is it you wanted to know?”

Letitia glanced at Christian, a clear invitation to lead the questioning.

“I understand,” he said, looking at Montague, “that Randall was very wealthy at the time of his marriage. From where did that wealth derive?”

Montague briefly glanced at the contents of his box. “Ah, yes, here it is-a very sound fortune consisting primarily of conservative financial instruments of one sort or another, holdings in the funds, and some very solid investments.”

Christian nodded. “But where did Randall’s money initially come from? The seed capital, as it were? By your account, at the time of his marriage he had large sums of money sitting in various deposits-but where did he get that money in the first place?”

Montague blinked. For the first time in all the years Christian had known him, he appeared at a loss-momentarily. Then he frowned and delved back into his box. “That’s a very good question…” He eventually unearthed a sheet of paper. Straightening his glasses, he read it. His frown deepened. “I understood-well, assumed in the face of nothing speaking to the contrary-that it came from his family?” He directed a questioning look at Christian.

Who shook his head. “For various reasons-including that we know of no family-that doesn’t seem likely. Ton or gentry, a family with that level of wealth would have been more widely known. Do you have any information on his family and background?”

Montague now looked troubled. He went back into the box and came up with another document. “Randall attended Hexham Grammar School. I didn’t do the search for his birth certificate myself, but I have it recorded that he hailed from Hexham.” Lowering the sheet, he looked at Christian. “Given he went to the grammar school-I believe it has an excellent reputation-I assume that means the family has, or had, a certain social and financial standing.”

“Normally that’s true, but there are exceptions.” Christian glanced at Letitia, who was as puzzled as Montague. “Randall may have attended the school on a scholarship. Many larger grammar schools have such things.”

He looked at Montague. “Clearly we need to dig much deeper into Randall’s background, but at least you’ve given us a place to start-Hexham Grammar School. We’ll follow that up, but we have an even more urgent need to learn of his current financial state. We need to know of any recent activities, where his money was at the time of his death, where his income derived from, if he was involved in any scheme, any development, whether he’d gone into business in any way whatever, whether he’d made any unusual transactions in recent days-in short, every possible detail of his recent life that had anything to do with money.”

Montague looked at them, then beamed. “You’ve come to the right place.”

“Well,” Christian said as the hackney they’d hailed rumbled out of the city, “that certainly confirms Dalziel’s observation-the more we learn of your late husband, the more a man of mystery he becomes.”

Letitia frowned. “I’m not at all thrilled to discover how very little I knew of him. It seems rather bizarre in hindsight, but…well, I suppose we all took him at face value.”

“I’m surprised your father-if not your aunts-didn’t demand to know all about his family.”

Letitia grimaced. “They probably did, but that would have been after we were married, and Papa would just have scowled, growled and told them to go away. He asked Montague to check Randall’s finances-that, after all, was the point of the marriage-but as for family…as I said, Randall was perfectly presentable, and in the prevailing circumstances, not to say panic, his ancestors were a great deal less relevant.”

After a moment of trying to imagine it, Christian asked, “What about the wedding? He must have had family or friends there-a groomsman at least.”

But Letitia shook her head. “We were married very privately, here in town. Justin was his groomsman.” She grimaced. “That was mostly my doing. It was a travesty of a marriage-it seemed appropriate it commence with a travesty of a wedding. Randall wasn’t concerned. The story we put about was that it was an out-and-out love match and we were so urgent to tie the knot we wouldn’t wait for a big wedding to be organized.”

“That must have gone down well with your aunts.”

“Not to mention all our many connections. But by the time they learned of it, all was done and finished. They grumbled a bit, but…” She shrugged.

Christian studied her expression, serene now, but he could imagine what she must have felt-a lady of her nature, and a Vaux besides-to make do with such, as she’d termed it, a travesty of a wedding. It would have been the antithesis of her dreams.

He made a mental note-a vow-for later. If he got the chance. If she gave him the chance.

The hackney swayed as it turned into Trafalgar Square, reminding him of their unexpected destination. He frowned. “I don’t understand why you’re so keen to share this with Dalziel immediately.”

She was peering out of the window. “Because he might well have contacts in Hexham who can make inquiries at the grammar school.”

He frowned. “Do you know that he does?”

“No. I suspect that he might.” She turned her head and met his gaze. “Let’s just go and tell him and see.”

Dalziel’s clerk looked up as they entered. He didn’t wait to be asked but immediately rose and went to tap on Dalziel’s door. He was back in seconds to bow them into his master’s presence.

Immersed in paperwork, Dalziel signed a sheet, then rose. Once Letitia sat, he subsided again and fixed her with a patently false mild look. “Yes?”

Without embellishment, she related what they’d learned from Montague. “So, you see, the place we need to start asking questions about Randall’s family is in Hexham.” She fixed Dalziel with a pointed look. “I thought you might know how to make inquiries there without Christian having to travel all that way.”

His expression unreadable, Dalziel held her gaze for a pregnant moment, then straightened. “Consider it done. The grammar school will have records. I’ll get whatever there is in them sent down.”

Letitia beamed. “Excellent.”

Dalziel looked less pleased. “Is there anything else?”

His servile tone suggested he fully expected to be asked to supply cream buns for their next meeting. Seeing Letitia’s eyes start to narrow, Christian stepped in-before she could take his ex-commander up on his unvoiced offer. “I’ve sent word to Justin-he’ll come down to London tonight, to the club.”

Dalziel looked at him and nodded. “I’ll whisk him away tomorrow night. It might be useful to have him at our meeting tomorrow afternoon.”

Letitia rose, gathering her reticule. “Have you learned anything else about Randall?”

“Not yet.” Dalziel met Christian’s eyes as they both got to their feet. “What’s rather more surprising is the answers I’m not getting.” He didn’t elaborate, but nodded to them both. “I’ll see you tomorrow at four.”

Christian followed Letitia from the office. As they emerged into the corridor outside the anteroom, he murmured, “Hexham, hmm? Yet another man of mystery.”

Letitia smiled, but refused to say more.

She was not smiling later that afternoon when they arrived at the offices of Griswade, Griswade, Meecham and Tappit in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to be informed that, yes, while the solicitors had been notified of the unexpected demise of Mr. Randall, the partner who dealt with his estate-Mr. Meecham-was presently away attending another client in Scotland and wouldn’t be back until late that night.

Letitia subjected the head clerk, a wizened individual, to her most haughty stare. “Can’t someone-Griswade, Griswade, or Tappit, for instance-read the will in Meecham’s absence?”

The clerk cast a nervous glance at the closed doors around his station. “They could, ma’am-but they’ve declined.”

“Declined?”

Before matters grew too fraught, Christian stepped from behind Letitia to stand alongside her at the railing behind which the clerk was perched at his raised desk. “Waiting for Meecham’s return seems an unnecessary delay, given the will is unlikely to be complex. Randall was buried nearly a week ago.”

Again the clerk glanced around, then he leaned nearer and lowered his voice. “It was the runner that did it. All ready to come and read the will after the funeral, Mr. Tappit was, as was right and proper, until that red-breast turned up on the doorstep and demanded to see it.”

Letitia stiffened.

“Did he see it?” Christian quickly asked. He grasped Letitia’s elbow.

The clerk sniffed. “Of course not. Mr. Tappit and Mr. Griswade both told him no-and when he pushed and pestered, telling them it was a case of foul murder and all, well, they decided it would be better-more appropriate-to wait until Mr. Meecham got back and let him handle it, he being the one who knew the client and his affairs.”

Christian squeezed Letitia’s elbow in warning; it sounded as if Meecham was the one they needed to see anyway. “Very well.” He fixed the clerk with a hard gaze. “Please convey to your masters that once Meecham returns, the reading of Mr. Randall’s will cannot be further delayed. Its contents are, unsurprisingly, of pressing interest to Lady Randall, and her friends.”

He imbued the last words with quiet significance.

Beside him, Letitia, her spine ramrod straight, looked down her aristocratic nose at the clerk. “Please tell Mr. Meecham that I will expect to see him tomorrow morning. I, and Lord Dearne, will be expecting him.”

The clerk all but curtsied in his fluster. “Indeed, my lady. Of course, my lady. I’ll be sure to tell him.”

Christian caught the clerk’s eye as he stepped back from the rail and uttered just one word. “Do.”

Letitia swung around and he released her; he fell into step protectively behind her as, head high, she made her exit.