The Edge of Desire (10 page)

She should be furious, but the revelation that she could, if she wished, sweep
him
away—sweep aside his control and reduce
him
to mindless, quivering need—went a long way toward dousing her temper.

Indeed, as she wriggled and he obliged and, moving very carefully, disengaged and set her on her feet, she couldn’t help feeling a trifle smug.

Unfortunately, her limbs were still too exhausted—
wrung out and boneless—to support her; she wobbled, but he grabbed her, gathered her in and settled her against him. Feeling strangely like purring, she nestled against him and let contentment claim her.

Let her mind assess where they now were, and what she should say, how she should go on.

Eventually, summoning every ounce of censure she could lay her tongue to, she coolly informed him, “Your inquisitorial methods did not impress. Don’t try to question me like that again. And just to make sure we’re quite clear on the matter, there will be no more payments of any sort until you find Justin.”

She paused, thought, then frowned. “Incidentally, in light of the down payments and incentives you’ve already received, have you learned anything yet?”

Christian inwardly sighed. With one hand he absentmindedly readjusted his clothing while he told her about Tristan and their inquiries. “Tristan called around this afternoon.” He glanced at her face as he said, “Did you know your brother is no longer—indeed, may never have been—the profligate rake he’s purported to be?”

She frowned in quite genuine puzzlement. “No.” She met his eyes. “What have you—or your friend—heard?”

“It appears that, sometime since coming on the town, or thereabouts, Justin has…turned over an unexpected leaf. He’s in reality highly circumspect in his associations, and conservative to a fault, especially with money.”

Because he was watching, Christian saw the comprehension flare in her eyes—at the mention of money. But the Vaux were wealthy, always had been. They were major landowners, in similar circumstances to himself. “It appears,” he continued, “that with Justin there’s no gambling, that he’s not the least interested in frittering away his patrimony as the bulk of his peers are. Admittedly none of his friends couch it in miserly terms, but rather that he simply isn’t interested in losing large wads of cash, and they can’t recall
that he ever was. He also seems to have developed a monkish attitude to women, not complete abstinence but…”

Still studying her face, he summed up Tristan’s and his own findings. “Justin seems to have taken a very mature line from a relatively early age. As if something happened that shocked him to his senses much earlier than is the norm.”

She reacted to his guess that there’d been something—some event she knew of—that had affected her brother as he’d described; he saw speculation light her eyes.

Equally saw her expression close as she shuttered herself against him.

Shutting him out, despite what they’d just shared.

Despite the fact he was searching for Justin.

He caught her gaze, asked anyway. “Do you have any idea what happened to make Justin…so different from what one might expect?”

She looked at him and baldly stated, “No.” She was lying, and knew he knew she was.

Before he could say anything more, she drew back out of his arms, shook her skirts into place, then, buttoning up her bodice, calmly walked away from him.

Toward the door.

She spoke as she walked, facing away from him. “I’m sure you know your way out by now. Do lock the door behind you.”

His lips thinned. “Letitia.” He waited until she paused, but she didn’t look back. “Whatever you and Hermione do, don’t forget about Barton.”

“He’s still out there?”

“Yes. I spotted him when I came in.”

“He’s obsessed.”

“Very possibly. Catching Justin would help his career.”

She hesitated, then inclined her head, still without looking back. “I’ll bear that in mind—and warn Hermione.” She proceeded to the door. Opening it, she went through; turn
ing, she looked back at him as she reached for the doorknob. Met his eyes across the room. “Good night.” Her lips curved slightly. “Sleep well.”

He narrowed his eyes on the door as, quietly, she shut it.

Dealing with the Vaux had never been a simple matter.

Throughout the next day, Christian devoted himself to finding Justin Vaux, and tried his damnedest to keep his thoughts from Justin’s infuriating sister. Infuriating, and enthralling.

The following morning he set off for South Audley Street early. Reaching Randall’s door, he strode past it, then crossed the street to where he’d spied the top of Barton’s head; the man had ducked into the area beside a house’s steps to avoid his gaze as he’d scanned the street.

Halting on the street above the crouching runner, who’d taken refuge on the steps leading to the house’s basement, he mildly inquired, “If I might ask, what do you think you’re doing?”

A moment ticked past, then Barton heaved a put-upon sigh and stood. He had to look up to meet Christian’s eyes. “I’m keeping a close watch on the deceased’s house. On the scene of the crime.”

Christian studied the unprepossessing man. “And by doing so you hope to achieve…what?”

Barton tried his best to look superior. “It’s a well-known fact among us runners that, more often than not, the murderer returns to the scene of the crime.”

“You believe that?”

“Indeed, m’lord. You’d be surprised how many villains we catch simply by being patient and keeping a solid watch.” Barton eyed him a touch suspiciously. “’Specially in the night hours. People tend to think no one will recognize them in the dark.”

Christian held the man’s gaze and let his brows slowly rise. “Is that so? Well in that case, as to Randall’s house, you
can expect to see me coming and going rather a lot—in the nighttime as well as during the day.”

“Be that as it may, m’lord, we haven’t figured you for this crime.”

“No, but one might imagine my presence in the house might deter the villain.”

Barton frowned. “No saying what villains will do, but the way I see it, chances are Lord Justin Vaux will try to speak with his sisters. I plan to be here when he comes calling.”

Recognizing that nothing was likely to dissuade the runner from continuing his watch, Christian wished him luck and left.

Returning to Randall’s house, he knocked on the door. When Mellon opened it, he walked in. “Are the ladies down yet?”

Mellon took his cane with reluctance but was forced to admit, “Yes, my lord. But they’re just sitting down to breakfast.”

“Excellent. I’ll join them. You may announce me.”

Mellon clearly wished he had some other alternative, but accepted the inevitable and did so.

Letitia greeted him with a sparkling gaze—one of anger, although not directed at him. She waved him to the chair beside her, barely waiting for him to exchange greetings with her aunt Agnes and Hermione, the other two at the table, before informing him, “I went belowstairs this morning looking for my dresser, and discovered that runner in the kitchen, talking to Mellon as if they were old friends, and scrounging breakfast while he was at it!”

Which explained why Mellon had quit the room the instant he’d finished announcing Christian, all but sliding past him in the doorway.

Engaged in scrounging breakfast himself, Christian asked, “As I found Barton in the street just now, I take it he beat a hasty retreat?”

Letitia glowered. “He did once I’d finished with him.”

Christian helped himself to the ham Agnes passed him.
“He apparently swears by the old saw that the murderer always, eventually, returns to the scene of the crime.”

Addressing herself to a mound of kedgeree, Letitia sniffed. “So I gathered.”

They all ate for some moments in silence. Then the footman returned with a fresh pot of coffee. Letitia dismissed him once he’d set the pot down. “Please close the door after you, Martin.”

The instant the door clicked shut, she looked at Christian. “Have you found Justin?”

She’d kept her voice low.

Christian shook his head. Sitting back, he set down his knife. “We’ve searched in all the likely places and found no sign. Last night it occurred to me that I might have been going about our search the wrong way.”

She frowned. “How so?”

By not taking sufficient account of Vaux intelligence. Something he’d been guilty of in other respects. He picked up the coffee cup Agnes had filled for him; she and Hermione were as eager as Letitia to hear his report. “As I said, we’ve been hunting for your brother everywhere one might expect to find him, to no avail.” He took a sip of coffee, then caught Letitia’s eye. “I thought perhaps it was time to ask where the very
last
place you’d think to find him would be.”

Hermione, also frowning, said, “You mean the place he’d be least likely to go?”

Christian nodded.

Letitia’s face cleared. She exchanged a glance with Hermione, then shrugged. “Nunchance. That’s the one place you can be certain he
won’t
be.”

Christian saw the light. “Yes, of course. I understand he’s had a falling out with your father.”

Letitia’s lashes screened her eyes. “You might say that.”

From her tone, he surmised it would be fruitless to ask why.

Puzzling over his words, she fixed him with a frown.
“But I can’t see how that gets you any further. Justin definitely
won’t
be at Nunchance.” She hesitated, then—perhaps because he hadn’t asked—consented to explain. “My father has grown rather worse with the years.”

Recognizing the wisdom of telling him enough so he would understand that Justin really wouldn’t be at Nunchance Priory, their family estate, Letitia hunted for the right words. “Some years ago something occurred that set Justin at loggerheads with Papa. Unfortunately, my marriage to Randall only added to the tension. Rather than fading over time, as I’d hoped, that tension escalated to a major rift, to the point where now they can’t be in the same room without coming to verbal blows. No, even worse than that—flaming rows the like of which even our family hasn’t seen for generations.”

She held Christian’s eyes. “You know what they’re like. They’re quite capable of tearing strips off each other, lacerating and painful, and they’re equally stubborn, so there’s no hope of reconciliation because neither will back down.”

Reaching for her teacup, she shrugged. “Over the last years, Justin has only visited Nunchance at Christmas, and then only for a fleeting visit on the day, to see me and Hermione and the rest of the family. I honestly don’t think he and Papa have exchanged a civil word in all that time.”

Sipping her tea, she considered the possibility that Justin might have sought refuge at Nunchance—perhaps staying out of their father’s sight—but she couldn’t see him being that cautious. More specifically she couldn’t see him reining in his pride to that extent, enough to hide like a felon in his family home. She shook her head and set down her cup. “Wherever Justin’s gone, he won’t be at Nunchance.”

Turning her head, she arched a brow at Christian. “So what are you planning?”

He met her gaze briefly, then looked across the table—at Hermione. Her sister remained oblivious, busy slathering marmalade on her toast.

“I have various avenues to pursue—I’ll let you know if I hear anything promising.” His gray gaze returned to her
face. “Incidentally, everything we’ve uncovered about your brother’s life since we last spoke has confirmed his…somewhat novel direction. Far from being a wastrel and a hellion, he’s a son to make any father proud.”

Letitia merely nodded, wondering where he was heading with that comment—where he was trying to lead her.

He held her gaze, unhurriedly searching her eyes. “You don’t seem all that surprised that Justin should be the antithesis of his reputation.”

Ah.
That
was where he was heading. She smiled. “As a loving older sister, I can only rejoice at his exemplary sense.”

“Indeed. But you also know why Justin is as he really is.” He arched a brow at her. “I don’t suppose you’d care to enlighten me?”

She held his gaze, then shook her head. “Knowing that won’t help you find Justin.”

“I see.” Christian smiled easily and inclined his head. “In that case, ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to the hunt.”

He rose, bowed to Agnes, nodded to Hermione, then looked at Letitia.

Frowning, she asked, “What are you going to do?”

He looked down at her, let his smile grow edged. Softly replied, “You knowing that won’t help me find Justin.”

Her mouth dropped open, then she shut it with a snap and glared at him.

Unperturbed, he saluted her, then turned and walked out of the room.

Entirely confident that she would work out where he was going soon enough—and that she would follow.

He set out an hour later, driving out of Grosvenor Square in his curricle with his pair of prime chestnuts between the shafts. The long drive north was very familiar, yet the necessary tacking to get out of London’s crowded streets, then threading through the traffic clogging the Great North Road—the mail coaches, the wagons and drays—com
manded his attention, so that despite the length of the journey, he had little time to think.

His ultimate destination was Nunchance Priory, but he wanted to time his arrival there, so he’d decided to stop at his home, Dearne Abbey, for the night.

He pulled up in the graveled forecourt as twilight was taking hold. His staff were ecstatic to see him.

“I’ll have your room ready in a jiffy, my lord.” Mrs. Kestrel, his housekeeper, all but rubbed her hands in glee. “And Cook set a roast on the spit the instant we heard you were back.”

Christian acknowledged her enthusiasm with an easy smile, then turned to his steward, hovering hopefully at the mouth of the corridor leading to the estate office, and gave himself up to business.

Later, he dined in solitary state—there was no one else, not even a distant impecunious cousin, in residence—then he elected to climb the stairs to the long gallery to reacquaint himself with the extensive, uninterrupted views across the fens to the Wash.