Tony meanwhile organized butler and footmen to fetch Swithin, not dead but wounded, and definitely incapacitated, from the roof. Barton assisted; he no longer had his eye on Justin, but on Swithin.
Swithin wasn’t unconscious. He babbled incessantly, the pain and shock of his wounds having unhinged what little rationality he’d possessed.
When he was carried, still babbling, into the drawing room, Christian, who had more experience of gunshot wounds than the others, took one look at his injuries and ordered the butler to summon a doctor, then examined the wounds more closely. The bullet lodged in Swithin’s right shoulder he attributed to Justin; at twenty-six and unbloodied in war, he still possessed the naïveté to shoot to incapacitate rather than kill. The other bullet—just a fraction too high to put an end to Swithin’s life—would have come from Dalziel, a man far too experienced to court the slightest risk.
As it transpired, they were all soon sorry Dalziel’s bullet hadn’t found its mark; it would have saved everyone a great deal of bother, and freed Swithin from a life of misery as well.
Luckily, Mrs. Swithin proved to have rather more backbone and nous than her meek demeanor had suggested. She accepted the tale of her husband’s villainy without protest or argument. “He’s always been quiet and strangely secretive for as long as I’ve known him, but over the last weeks he’s been acting most peculiarly.”
Swithin’s continued bleating in the background, fragments of sentences jumbling together in an incomprehensible ramble, verified that he’d deteriorated even further.
Tristan exchanged a look with Christian and Dalziel, then turned back to Mrs. Swithin and gently suggested, “Given the circumstances, it might be best for everyone concerned if we apply to have Swithin certified.”
Mrs. Swithin frowned. “What circumstances, and what would having him certified entail?”
Christian listed the number of people who would be harmed if Swithin and his secrets were put on public show via a sensational murder trial. Mrs. Swithin herself was at the top of the list; she nodded her understanding as he added Trowbridge, Honeywell, the elder Trowbridges, Letitia, Justin, the Earl of Nunchance, and the Vaux family in general.
When he fell silent, she stated, “There’s surely no need for all of us to suffer more.”
“No.” Tristan looked at Barton, who was frowning. “And if we manage it carefully, no one but the authorities needs to know the full story.”
Barton brightened considerably; he hadn’t wanted to end with no quarry to show his superiors.
“If everyone agrees?” Tristan looked around. Most nodded. No one protested. He looked at the butler, who had returned after sending for the doctor. “Who’s the nearest magistrate?”
As it turned out, Tristan, a magistrate himself in the neighboring area, knew Lord Keating well. His lordship arrived promptly; shown into the drawing room where they’d all remained, he was at first shocked by the bare bones of the story Tristan related, but then quickly got down to business.
Settling in a chair with a traveling writing desk balanced on his knees, his lordship decreed, “I’ll want statements—perhaps from the representative of Bow Street first, and then you, Trentham”—he inclined his head to Tristan—“and perhaps one of you others?” He cast a vague glance at Tony, Christian, and Dalziel, then beckoned Barton forward. “Now, then.”
Under cover of Barton explaining what he knew, Tony glanced at Christian and Dalziel, and grinned. “One of you outranks me, and I suspect the other does, too. It should be one of you two.”
So saying, he wandered off to join Justin, who was sitting beside Swithin, listening, curiously intent, to his ramblings.
Christian glanced at Dalziel. He’d always wondered…
Dalziel’s lips lifted slightly. “No, I don’t outrank you. We could toss a coin, but all things considered, I suspect it had better be you Keating speaks with.”
Christian raised his brows but nodded. “All right.”
Dalziel drifted away to settle in a chair by the windows, attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not an easy task, especially as Lord Keating, regardless of that earlier vague look, was very aware of his presence.
Letitia noted the exchange between Dalziel and Christian. While Tristan, and then Christian, gave their version of the affair and answered Keating’s questions, riveting the attention of most in the room, she patted Mrs. Swithin’s hand, rose, and glided to the windows. She sank into the chair alongside the one Dalziel occupied.
He acknowledged her presence with a sound suspiciously like a grunt. “At least,” he said, his gaze fixed across the room, “I now know why you married that upstart. I never could understand it—I’d always regarded you as one of the saner of our females. Nice to know my judgment wasn’t at fault.”
Letitia smiled, not the least offended. That was a typical enough comment from him.
They chatted—bantered—for some minutes, about the likely reaction of the ton once they learned it was Swithin who’d killed Randall, not Justin.
“He’ll have to be extra careful.” She considered her brother, still listening, a frown on his face, to Swithin’s all but continual blather. “He’ll not only be eligible again, he’ll be famous to boot.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about him,” Dalziel dryly replied. “Not unless the matchmaking mamas and their charges have taken to hunting in libraries. He’s barely stirred from mine except in pursuit of our investigation.”
Letitia smiled fondly. After a moment she more quietly said, “Speaking of hiding, your time for hiding—for being in exile, as it were—will soon be at an end.”
She glanced at Royce, but he didn’t meet her gaze; his remained fixed broodingly on the tableau before them, although she would have sworn it wasn’t Christian and the others he was seeing.
A long moment ticked past, then he softly sighed. “If you want to know the truth, I’m not sure it will ever end.”
“It will. It must. You are, after all, his only son.”
“That, if you’ll recall”—Dalziel straightened in his seat—“didn’t stop him before.”
There was no answer to that. Letitia looked across the room and saw that Lord Keating had shifted to sit beside Swithin. He attempted to question Swithin, raising his voice to cut through the constant babbling.
Swithin paused. For a moment it seemed he might respond rationally, but then his gaze found Letitia and he grinned. “I even helped Randall organize his bride. Now that was plotting to a high degree. And then there was…” He went off on another, unconnected subject.
Justin, sitting close on his other side, had paled. He leaned closer, tried to catch Swithin’s eye. “How did you help Randall organize his bride?”
Swithin’s silly grin grew broader. “Investments are my forte, you know. The old man…” His voice trailed off, then he said loudly, “The grammar master was always unfair, you know. He liked Randall and Trowbridge better than me.”
From that, he switched to buying a house. His mind seemed unable to remain on one subject for more than two short sentences.
Lord Keating sat back, defeated. After a moment Justin did the same. Then he looked across the room and met Letitia’s eyes.
Justin rose. Leaving Lord Keating consulting with Tristan, Christian, and Mrs. Swithin, he came to stand beside Letitia’s chair; he pretended to look out at the garden.
“So it was as I suspected,” he murmured. “It wasn’t Papa’s fault.”
“Apparently not.” Her marriage to Randall no longer held any power to disturb her; it was all in the past—a past that no longer mattered.
Lord Keating cleared his throat portentiously. “Very well—it seems we’re all agreed. Given the circumstances, and the testimonies I’ve received today, I cannot but conclude that Mr. Henry Joshua Swithin, for reasons of his own advancement, killed Mr. George Martin Randall of South Audley Street in London, and this morning attempted to kill a Mr. Trowbridge of Cheyne Walk in Chelsea, then later t
oday attempted to kill Lady Letitia Randall, also of London, by flinging her, bound, from the roof of this house.”
His lordship glanced around. “It is my judgment that Mr. Swithin is incapable of standing trial by virtue of his transparent insanity. I therefore order that he be confined within this house for the foreseeable future.” He turned to Mrs. Swithin. “My dear lady, I realize this is an onerous burden to place on your fair shoulders, but I must ask for a declaration that you are prepared to ensure that your husband never leaves these premises.”
Mrs. Swithin nodded decisively. “Yes. The staff and I are prepared to give our assurance that Mr. Swithin will remain confined within doors.”
“Thank you.” Lord Keating turned to Tristan. “That’s all we can do, I believe.”
“Indeed.” Tristan stood, holding out his hand to assist his lordship to his feet. “The last duty I believe we need to attend to is to compose a report for the authorities, to be conveyed back to London by Barton here.” Gathering the grateful runner with a look, Tristan turned his lordship to the door. “I assume there must be a study here somewhere?”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Swithin waved at her butler. “Please show their lordships to the master’s study, Pascoe.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
While the butler led Tristan, Keating, and Barton out, Mrs. Swithin looked, somewhat uncertainly, around at the company. “I realize this is a trifle awkward, but I do think tea would be appropriate before you all start your journeys back to London.”
They all exchanged glances. It had been a long day.
“Thank you.” With a bow, Christian accepted for them all. “Tea would be much appreciated.”
They set out in their curricles an hour later.
Dalziel gave up his seat in Christian’s curricle to Letitia, handing her up with a bow.
She looked down her nose at him, but her lips quirked.
Christian flourished his whip and they set off.
Dalziel walked back to where Justin waited in his curricle, the reins of his restive blacks in his hands. Tristan and Tony had already set off. Swinging up to the seat beside Justin, Dalziel nodded ahead. “Home, James, and don’t spare your horses.”
Justin laughed and flicked his whip.
Barton, hanging on behind, mumbled, “Just as long as you don’t drive as fast as you did coming down.”
“I promise not to lose you,” Justin called back. “Aside from all else, you hold my freedom in your hands—I’m counting on you to explain all to your masters in Bow Street.”
“Aye, I will. They’ll be pleased to close the case.”
“Indeed, they should be.” Sitting back, arms crossed, Dalziel’s gaze was fixed on the road ahead. “It occurs to me that you should receive a commendation—not least for saving your masters the unfortunate embarrassment of wrongfully arresting the future head of one of the oldest aristocratic houses. Just think how unpopular that would have made them.”
“That’s undoubtedly true,” Justin chimed in. “You really should work on how to present this result in the best possible light, Barton—so it reflects most favorably on you.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Barton asked, “So how should I do that?”
Justin grinned, and with helpful advice from Dalziel, proceeded to tutor the runner in how best to gild his triumph.
All three quite enjoyed their journey back to town.
Chapter 21
Twilight had taken hold by the time Christian drew his horses to a halt outside the house in South Audley Street. Every window was ablaze. Leaving his curricle in the care of an urchin—the horses were too tired to be difficult—he escorted Letitia up the steps and into the house.
Into chaos of a different sort to that earlier in the day.
Hermione spotted them first. With a shriek she flew across the parlor to wildly hug Letitia.
The assembled ladies—many having left, then returned despite the hour—surged in her wake; they enfolded Letitia in a welcome full of exclamations and relief.
They embraced him as if he were a conquering hero.
“An excellent outcome all around.” Amarantha stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for bringing her back to us, dear.”
“And in such spirits. “Constance bussed his other cheek. “Although,” she said, drawing back, “I do wonder why that is.”
She and Amarantha fixed him with identical inquiring looks—in response to which he merely smiled.
He knew better than to even hint of what was in the wind in such company; the faintest suggestion that he and Letitia might be planning a wedding would be all over the ton before midnight.
Agnes eventually won through to his side. “You did very well, Dearne.” She looked at Letitia, surrounded on all sides by the females of her family. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen dear Letitia so…animated.” She cocked a brow at him. “I do hope you won’t disappoint us.”
He looked into Agnes’s eyes, realized that in her he now had a firm supporter. “Actually…” He took her arm; after a quick glance over the sea of heads, he steered her toward the front hall. “Along those lines, there is something you might help me with.”
He quickly outlined what he proposed. Agnes was delighted. They found Mellon and gave the necessary orders, then, sharing pleased, conspiratorial smiles, they returned to the fray in the parlor.
Two minutes later Justin walked in. The ladies fell on him—the future head of their house—with unbounded enthusiasm.
Standing to one side, Christian smiled as he watched Justin play to his appreciative audience. He told his tale with verve and flair; there was no doubt he was a Vaux.
Letitia appeared beside Christian, sliding her arm into his. “Never before have I been so glad to be upstaged by my little brother.” But she was smiling fondly as she surveyed the crowd, now all hanging on Justin’s every word.
“Not so little, these days.”
“No, indeed. He’ll have to take care to avoid the matchmakers’ snares now he’s become so famous.”
Christian glanced at her. “So Dalziel’s a marquess.”
Her lips curved. “He let that slip, did he?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He waited a moment, then asked, “Is it a courtesy title, or…?”
Her smile grew. “Now that would be telling.” Turning to him, she laughed. “You’re just going to have to wait, like the others. Trust me—you’ll learn the truth soon enough.”
He would prefer to learn it sooner, but…looking into her eyes, he set the mystery of Dalziel aside. There was something much more important he had to say. “I meant what I said on the roof.”
She searched his eyes. Her gaze remained steady as she arched her brows. “So did I.”
His chest suddenly felt unaccountably tight. “So…when can we marry?”
Her brows rose higher; her expression, her eyes, told him she was considering. “I’m honestly not sure of the possibilities in our particular case. As it now seems clear Randall contrived the reason that forced me to marry him—a fact guaranteed to set the ton’s social arbiters firmly against him, and therefore in our camp—even if I only whisper the truth into a few select ears, those of ladies I can trust not to spread the details but only their conclusions…once I have their backing, I doubt we’ll need to wait out the year. Not even six months.”
“Good. How about next week?”
Her lips twitched. “Hmm. Well, that’s certainly a goal to aim for, but it might be a trifle ambitious.” She met his eyes, love glowing in hers. “Let’s say the week after. A quiet wedding at Nunchance.”
He looked at her, looked beyond her, and laughed.
She frowned. “What?”
He smiled down at her, then, ignoring the eyes that had strayed their way, bent his head and kissed her. Still grinning, he drew back and met her eyes. “A quiet Vaux wedding? That would have to be the archetypal contradiction in terms.”
To Letitia’s surprise, when she finally c
losed the door on the last of her female relatives, neither Agnes nor Hermione were anywhere in sight.
Puzzled, she glanced up the stairs. “Are we having dinner, or have they gone up to change?”
“Both, in a way.” Christian took the shawl Mellon had fetched and draped it over her shoulders. “We are having dinner, but not here.”
“Oh?” Settling the shawl, she faced him. “Where, then?”
At Allardyce House was the answer, not that he told her. If she could keep Dalziel’s secret, he could keep one of his own. He put her in his curricle and drove the short distance to Grosvenor Square, where one of his grooms was waiting to lead the tired horses to the mews.
Handing Letitia down, ignoring her quizzical look, he led her up the steps to the front door. It swung open just before they reached it. Percival stood beaming in the doorway.
“Welcome, my lady.” He bowed low—too low for an earl’s daughter, but just right for a marchioness.
Letitia, always alive to social nuance, sent Christian a look, but smiled graciously on Percival and greeted him with her customary collected air.
As Christian led her on, she leaned close and whispered, “What have you done?”
He smiled. “I haven’t said anything, I swear.”
It was simply that Percival and the rest of his staff could read between his lines.
He led her into the drawing room where Agnes and Hermione were waiting. After he’d answered several questions for Agnes over his mother’s collection of Sevres figurines, they adjourned to the dining room, where his staff outdid themselves in presenting an elegant but cozy family meal.
Christian sat at the head of the table, with Letitia on his right and Agnes and Hermione on his left, and couldn’t stop smiling. This was what his house needed—females, and family.