Meecham paused after that section, casting his eye back over the list he’d just read. Randall’s property had been described not in value but in kind-the house in South Audley Street, his investments in the funds, in various other bonds, and a third share in the Orient Trading Company, which had as its address another legal firm on Chancery Lane. “A very tidy fortune,” Meecham opined.
Letitia glanced up and back at Christian. He quietly said, “Montague will be able to tell us more.”
Meecham cleared his throat, drawing all attention back to him. He fixed his gaze on Letitia. “That’s what will come to you, my lady, plus any and all residuals after the following bequests.”
Letitia had to force herself not to lean forward. Barton, she noted, didn’t seem interested in the bequests; frowningly studying what he’d written, he’d stopped taking notes.
“The first bequest,” Meecham intoned, “is to a Mr. Trowbridge, of Cheyne Walk in Chelsea-‘the Glockstein clock that resides in the study, in recognition of our long friendship.’ The second bequest, also in recognition of long friendship, is of the Stuart crystal pen and inkwell set, also from the study, to a Mr. Swithin, of Curzon Street, London.” Meecham paused, then went on, “Those are the only two bequests beyond the household. The other bequests…”
While Meecham worked his way through the usual long list of small bequests to household staff-Mellon, the two footmen, Randall’s long-serving cook among them-Letitia turned and looked inquiringly at Christian.
He nodded, spoke quietly. “At last we’ve some names-some people we can ask.”
“Perhaps they’re away, and so missed his funeral.”
“We’ll see.” With his head, Christian directed her attention back to Meecham, who was summing up.
“So the bulk of the estate passes to Mr. Randall’s relict-Lady Letitia Randall-outright, no covenants and no restrictions bar the customary one.” Meecham looked at Letitia and colored faintly. “That is to say, if you were to bear Mr. Randall a child after his death, then the estate is held in trust-”
“You need not concern yourself with that eventuality.”
Letitia’s tone-colder and more final than any grave-gave Meecham pause, but then he gathered his courage and with an attempt at delicacy suggested, “Your pardon, my lady, but it is possible-”
“No, Mr. Meecham. No child of Randall’s is possible, at least not by me. My late husband and I have not been…close for some years.”
Meecham’s color deepened to an unbecoming purple. “Yes, well.” He fell to shuffling his papers. “If that’s the case, then the estate passes to you unreservedly.”
“Very well.” After a moment Letitia asked, “Is there anything more?”
Meecham assured her there was not; he went on to outline his role in registering the will with the courts.
Christian let the words roll past him; his mind had snagged on Letitia’s “some years.” He didn’t doubt she was speaking the literal truth, even possibly understating it; “some years” explained a number of things-her short fuse when he pulled her into his arms, for one.
For a woman of her passions, “some years” must have seemed a lifetime. Just as it had for him over the years he’d been celibate, expecting to return to her.
He wasn’t sure if it was the notion of tit for tat-that she’d been as deprived as he-or the more fundamental realization that Randall and she hadn’t been intimate for years that so buoyed him.
Regardless, when Meecham rose, bowed, and took his leave, he was feeling distinctly mellow.
Barton rose as Meecham turned for the door. “Just one thing I wanted to check with you, Mr. Meecham.”
Meecham halted. “Yes?”
“This estate of Mr. Randall’s-it’s quite a fortune if I understood correctly?”
“I don’t know the precise value-you’d need to consult a financial expert for that-but I would venture to say that taken together the properties and funds I listed would amount to quite a considerable sum.”
“And,” Barton pressed, “all that considerable sum passes to Lady Randall here?”
“Yes, that’s right. Hers to do with as she pleases.”
Barton thanked Meecham and let him go. He made a note in his book, then, closing it, turned to Letitia, still seated in state on the chaise. “A considerable sum makes a very good motive for murder, I’ve always found.”
Letitia didn’t shift a muscle; her voice dripped icicles as she said, “You can’t seriously be suggesting I murdered Randall.”
“No-but I would suggest you’re very fond of your brother, and if he’d needed money, then killing Randall would, through you, serve him just as well.”
A long silence ensued. Christian considered stepping around the chaise to get between Barton and Letitia, but then she spoke, her voice dreadful in its calmness, “I believe you know your way to the door.”
Barton hesitated; Christian prayed he had enough nous not to further prod her. Then Barton bowed stiffly and turned away.
Just as he reached the door, Letitia spoke again, and there could be no doubt whatever of her feelings. “Incidentally, Barton, should you enter this house again without a warrant, rest assured I’ll have the watch summoned and see you thrown out on your ear.”
Barton had paused in the doorway. A moment ticked past, then he continued on without looking back.
Christian rounded the chaise. He reached for Letitia’s hand; as the door clicked shut, he drew her to her feet. “At last we have two specific names to pursue-although I don’t know either. Do you know Trowbridge or Swithin?”
She had to think to answer-had to put aside her rising temper to do so; it took her a moment of blinking up at him before she succeeded, and frowned. “No, I don’t-at least not in the sense of having any real acquaintance. I know nothing of Swithin-I’ve never heard of him-but I’ve heard of Trowbridge.”
“It’s lunchtime. Let’s go into the dining room and put together what we know, so this afternoon, when we meet the others at the club, we’ll have a concise report.”
Frown easing, she nodded, her mind having switched, as he’d intended, to a topic that held more interest than railing over Barton. “Yes. All right.” She glanced at Agnes. “Aunt, are you ready to eat?”
Agnes nodded. “An excellent idea.” Her gaze was on Christian. He stepped around Letitia and helped Agnes up.
Nodding her thanks, Agnes shook out her gray skirts, then headed for the door. “You’re very good, Dearne.”
Christian hid his smile and offered Letitia his arm. Already engrossed in assembling all she knew of Trowbridge, she absentmindedly placed her hand on his sleeve and let him steer her to the door.
In mid-afternoon Christian escorted Letitia down the steps of Randall’s house and into a hackney. Ordering the jarvey to drive them to the park, he climbed in, shut the door, and sat beside her.
He watched, but as the hackney drove off, Barton made no move to quit his position opposite the house. As the hackney turned the corner, Christian saw him settling back against the area railings, arms folded, his gaze locked on Randall’s door.
“He’s staying there?” Letitia asked.
“It looks like it. Nevertheless, we won’t take any chances.” He glanced at her. “A short walk will do us good.”
They left the hackney at the corner of Hyde Park, then crossed the street and ambled a short way down Grosvenor Place. They’d passed Grosvenor Crescent when Christian halted, scanning the street behind them. “No sign. He didn’t follow us.”
“Good.” Letitia set off at a brisker pace. “It’s this way, isn’t it?”