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.