Letitia opened her mouth; Christian closed his hand hard about her wrist. Ignoring her resulting stare, he asked, “What prompted your decision to sell?”

Trowbridge opened his eyes wide. “It wasn’t anything in particular, but Randall had reached the stage of deciding that continuing to court exposure was no longer necessary, or indeed wise. He had a canny instinct for when to draw back, and indeed, when he approached me I was only too ready to agree. We’re all very well established financially, all with significant income from investments and the like-all of us entirely accepted by the ton, as we have been for years-there was simply no reason we needed to continue with the company. I suppose, as Swithin and Randall would say, it had become more an unnecessary liability than a vital asset.”

“So you all agreed to sell.” Christian watched Trowbridge carefully. “When was this?”

“Quite recently. A few weeks before Randall’s death. He suggested it, I agreed, Swithin presumably did, too, and so Randall started the process, whatever that was. I always left that sort of thing to him, and so did Swithin. Business was Randall’s forte.”

“Did anything come of his…process?”

“Yes. He told me he had a buyer, and then, a few days before he was killed, he asked me for a letter stating that I agreed to sell my share at the same time he sold his.” Trowbridge met Christian’s eyes. “He told me the prospective buyer had requested the assurance, which I was happy to give, of course.”

“Did Randall tell you the name of this prospective buyer?”

“No.” Trowbridge shrugged. “But that wasn’t unusual. He might have told Swithin-because he might have thought to ask. For me it made no difference who bought the company as long as they paid a fair price-and I knew I could trust Randall to secure that.” He looked at Letitia. “Have you any idea whether you’ll want to sell or not?”

It was all Letitia could do not to leap on the suggestion, but mindful of Christian’s eye on her, aware of his fingers braceleting her wrist, she arched her brows regally and prevaricated. “Having only recently learned what my late husband’s business entailed, I’ll need to take stock and consult with others before making any decision.”

Trowbridge smiled easily. “Of course. You must take whatever time you need. Swithin doesn’t seem fussed either way, and neither am I. We’ll accept whatever decision you make-that was, in some ways, part of our motto, you know-all for one and one for all.”

Letitia found herself smiling back. Trowbridge was engaging, yet utterly unthreatening; she could see why so many ladies vied for his time.

“My dear, you’ve failed to offer your guests some refreshments. It is after eleven.”

The drawl from the door drew all eyes. A gentleman-he was undoubtedly that despite his rather unusual attire-well-cut breeches and a soft shirt topped by a long, dun-colored coat that hung straight from his shoulders to brush his highly polished boots-stood in the doorway idly observing them through heavy-lidded dark eyes.

Letitia glanced at Trowbridge. His smile had grown warmer.

He made an elegant gesture toward the newcomer. “Allow me to present Lord Rupert Honeywell. Lady Letitia Randall and Lord Dearne.”

Honeywell’s eyes passed over Letitia and Christian, lingered for an instant on Christian, then he bowed elegantly. “Charmed, my lady.” Straightening, he nodded to Christian. “Dearne.”

“Be a dear, Rupert, and ring for Cuthbert. Tell him to bring tea.” Trowbridge looked back at Letitia. “You will stay and take a cup, won’t you?”

Letitia smiled back. “I’d be delighted. Thank you.”

Cuthbert was summoned; tea, in an exquisite service, was duly delivered. At Trowbridge’s invitation, Letitia poured. When she complimented him on the china, Trowbridge insisted on showing her some of his treasures.

A half hour passed pleasantly. Although initially standoffish, when neither she nor Christian made any comment on what was plainly a ménage, Honeywell thawed. At Trowbridge’s suggestion, he took Letitia to view his canvases, set out in a little room off the front hall. As they were of excellent quality, she found no difficulty enthusiastically complimenting him.

At which he thawed even more.

Christian stood in the doorway to the small room. The instant Letitia turned from Honeywell’s last painting, he caught her eye. “We need to leave, I’m afraid.”

She smiled and made her farewells. He did the same, but with greater reserve.

As he took his leave of Trowbridge, he handed him a card-one inscribed with the Bastion Club’s address. “If you think or hear of anything that might bear on Randall’s murder, or on the sale of the company, please send word. I’m acting for Lady Randall in this matter.”

Trowbridge took the card, cast a questioning glance at Letitia. When she nodded, he smiled and put the card in his pocket. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

Outside, Honeywell handed Letitia up. Christian climbed up and took the reins. With a flourish of his whip, he set his horses trotting. Letitia waved, then sat back with a sigh.

After a moment she said, “That was a great deal more entertaining than I’d expected.”

He glanced down at her face. “There’s one thing you shouldn’t forget.”

She met his eyes, arched her brows. “What’s that?”

He had to look forward to manage his horses. “Trowbridge is an excellent candidate for Randall’s murderer.”

He took her back to Allardyce House for a late luncheon. He was getting very tired of Randall’s house, and of Barton hovering outside.

When he mentioned the man, Letitia snorted. “He has a one-track mind.”

“Which, now that I think of it,” Christian said, ushering her down his front hall, “does have its benefits-he’s stuck to the South Audley Street house like a leech and hasn’t been following us.”

“True. I suppose that’s something in him one can give thanks for.”

Percival sat her at the dining table in the chair beside Christian’s. As he took his seat, Christian glanced at her and decided that when-when, not if-she sat at this table on a permanent basis, whenever they were alone she would sit beside him, not at the far end of the long table as custom decreed.

Custom was often overrated.

As the dishes appeared, whisked in and out by the ever-efficient Percival and his minions, they discussed all they’d gleaned from their visit to Chelsea. As Hermione wasn’t present, they could speak freely. Letitia commented on the bond between Trowbridge and Honeywell.

“For all that he’s a typical, moody, broody painter-and yes”-Letitia raised her fork in acknowledgment-“I do realize I speak as a Vaux-I got the impression that they’re both very settled and content.”

She paused, staring unseeing across the table, then shook her head. “I really can’t see Trowbridge as Randall’s murderer. He’s…serene, content-he’s reached that point in life where he has all he wants, and he knows it. He has no ambition for more-doesn’t a murderer need ambition? Something to drive him?”

Christian grimaced. “Usually.” After a moment he asked, “What of Honeywell?”

Letitia snorted. “He’s even less likely.” She cocked a brow at him. “You saw his paintings, didn’t you?”

“I saw them-I didn’t study them.”

“Well, you should have. With the…” She waved her hand. “…intensity and focus he pours into his paintings, I’m surprised Honeywell has sufficient energy left to have any connection with anyone. His relationship with Trowbridge must absorb all that he has left in him-murder-any violent emotion-I really don’t think he could summon the strength.”

Christian knew she wasn’t talking of physical strength, and when it came to analyzing emotions, as a Vaux she was particularly well-qualified. Folding his napkin, he set it aside. “Very well. I agree that on an emotional basis neither Trowbridge nor Honeywell measure up well as the murderer, at least not based on what we know at present.”

“Hmm.” Letitia reached for her glass, took a long sip, then said, “At least Randall had the sense to set up this pending sale of the company. As Trowbridge is willing to sell, and Swithin is as well, there’s no reason I can’t rid myself of the encumbrance with all speed.”

Christian frowned, and checked his memory. “Trowbridge assumed Swithin agreed because Randall went ahead with organizing the sale. It didn’t sound like Trowbridge knew for certain what Swithin had said.”

Letitia frowned. “But Randall wouldn’t have gone ahead with organizing the sale if Swithin hadn’t agreed.”

“He might have.” If there was one thing with which Christian was willing to credit her late husband, it was that the bastard had to have been an expert at manipulation. “If Randall wanted to sell-and as he suggested it, we can take that as read-and Trowbridge was very willing-and that, as you’ve pointed out, is also highly believable-then if Swithin didn’t agree, but his disagreement wasn’t strong, then yes, I think Randall would have gone ahead and organized the sale, believing that once the deal was imminent, Swithin would fall into line-and that explains why Randall needed that letter from Trowbridge. He would also have needed the same from Swithin.”

Letitia frowned. “Why?”

“Because the potential buyer-or buyers-were clever enough to suspect that Randall didn’t truly have the agreement of both his partners.” Christian reassessed all they’d learned, measured it against what he’d just posited. He nodded. “We need to see Swithin and learn what he has to say about this proposed sale before you make any declaration of intent.”

Letitia humphed. “Your years as a spy are showing-you’re seeing deception and deceit where there is none.”

He was unmoved. “Better safe than sorry.”