The Edge of Desire (16 page)

Letitia nodded.

After their outburst, both needed a moment to recoup. Inwardly smiling, Christian took charge. “Now that we can
all think, might I suggest it’s time to focus on the problem before us?”

Letitia and Justin turned their heads and regarded him with identical expressions suggesting neither was sure which problem he was alluding to.

He enlightened them. “If Letitia didn’t kill Randall—which we know to be fact—and Justin didn’t kill Randall—which we also know to be the case—then who
did
kill Randall?”

They both stared at him, then frowns slowly darkened their handsome faces.

“We now know Randall was killed between the time Letitia left him, and the time Justin went to the study to speak with him.” For Letitia’s benefit, Christian sketched the information from Justin and Pringle that had enabled him to establish that point.

Her frown deepened. “Mellon must know something.”

“Possibly. But equally, Randall might have been expecting someone and let them into the house himself. Mellon could well have been en route to his room at the time, and so not have heard the door.” Christian looked at Justin. “What do you know of Randall? I never met the man—describe what type of man he was as best you can.”

Justin thought as he finished off the last of his ham; pushing away his empty plate, he grimaced. “He was something of an enigma. You imagined he would fit the normal mold—he certainly seemed to outwardly—but the closer you got and the more you learned of him, he…just didn’t match expectations.”

“There were no friends at his funeral,” Christian said. “No male acquaintances of any degree.”

Justin’s brows rose; his gaze grew distant. “Now you mention it, I can’t recall ever meeting him with anyone he introduced as a friend. He knew others, of course, and was known by others, but it was all the usual passing acquaintances one has in the clubs. In his case…I can’t think of anyone I’d name as his friend.”

Refocusing on Christian, Justin went on, “That’s what I mean about him not meeting expectations. What gentleman of the ton has no friends?”

Christian inclined his head. “Regardless, it had to be a friend—at the very least an acquaintance he trusted—who murdered him, given the position of the body and the two glasses on the table near the hearth.”

Justin nodded. “So we need to look for Randall’s friends. Whoever and wherever they might be.”

“We need to return to London. That was Randall’s base—that’s where we’ll learn more.” Considering Justin, Christian frowned. “You, most unfortunately, are our best source of information on Randall. You might not know anything specific—like who his friends were—but you almost certainly have information tucked away in your head, the sort that if we learn a name, you might be able to tell us more.”

Justin shrugged. “So I’ll return to London with you.”

“You can’t!” Letitia told him. “Thanks to your earlier efforts, you’ve succeeded exceedingly well in casting yourself as the murderer.”

“Indeed.” Christian met Justin’s eyes. “And there’s a runner haunting Mayfair who’s determined to hunt you down.”

“So I’ll go to ground.”

Christian nodded. “The question is: Where?”

“Not at your lodgings—Barton, the runner, has already been there. And you mustn’t come near Randall’s house,” Letitia said. “The little weasel is keeping a watch in the belief the murderer—meaning you—will return to the scene of the crime.”

Justin’s brows quirked. “I suppose that cuts out my clubs, too.”

“And unfortunately Barton knows I’m helping, so Allardyce House won’t be safe, either, especially not with my aunts and sisters dropping by whenever the fancy takes them.” Christian met Justin’s eyes. “If either of my aunts see you, it’ll be all over the ton inside an hour.”

“Yes, well, that consideration eliminates our aunts,
too.” Letitia frowned. “There must be somewhere safe you can go—somewhere we can easily reach you to pick your brains.”

They all fell silent, thinking.

Eventually Christian stirred. “As a stop-gap we can use my private club, the Bastion Club. It’s in Montrose Place,” he added for Justin’s benefit. “Ultimately that will come under Barton’s eye, too, but for a few days it’ll be safe enough. Meanwhile…there’s an ex-colleague who might agree to give you refuge. If he’s still in London and if he’s so inclined.”

Christian thought for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll need to return to London and ask him. If he agrees, I’ll send word. Until then, I suggest you remain here.” He glanced at Letitia. “As you doubtless counted on, everyone knows that Nunchance is the last place on earth you’ll be.”

Letitia pulled a face. Justin grinned.

Christian rose. “I’ll head back to town immediately.”

Letitia bounced up from her chair. “I’ll come with you. I need to get back to Hermione.” She swooped on Justin and bussed him on the cheek. “Thank you, brother mine, for trying to protect me, however misguided your efforts.”

Justin snorted, caught her hand and squeezed it. But he was looking at Christian as he said, “Just take care that in exonerating me, you don’t color yourself as the murderer instead.”

Christian’s lips curved in a wry smile. “As it happens, courtesy of your earlier sterling efforts to throw everyone off the scent, the only way we’ll succeed in exonerating you now is by identifying and producing whoever did, in fact, kill Randall.”

They left Nunchance within the hour, bowling south in Christian’s curricle, his powerful chestnuts between the shafts. A parasol shading her face, Letitia sat back and watched the scenery flash by. Esme would follow in the carriage with her luggage, but for herself…she was determined to stick by Christian’s side.

She knew him. If she let him, he’d plant her in a drawing room—or in her front parlor—and leave her there while he went out hunting Randall’s killer. It might be perverse of her, yet despite the contempt if not outright hatred she’d borne her husband, she felt a real need to see his murderer brought to justice—not solely on Justin’s account, but on hers, too. That murder had been committed within her household deeply offended her at some fundamental level.

Murder was not something that could be tolerated in a tonnish house; she was sure that was one of those maxims ladies such as she were brought up to revere.

Regardless, she meant to play an active role in the hunt.

They halted on the road for lunch, but didn’t dally. Once they were bowling along again, this time behind a pair of flighty blacks, she said, “You were speaking the literal truth, weren’t you—about us having to identify and catch whoever killed Randall in order to exonerate Justin?”

Christian held the horses in as a mail coach rumbled by, then let the reins flow again. “Unfortunately, your brother overlooked a number of factors in scripting his little drama. Clearing him of suspicion from the authorities will be straightforward enough—that we can do with evidence alone.”

“But clearing him of suspicion from the ton—clearing his
name
so he’ll be accepted in society again and be able to marry well—for that…”

“Indeed.” With a flick of his wrist, Christian sent the restive pair racing past a lumbering carriage. “To achieve that, we’ll need to produce not just factual proof, but the murderer himself. Nothing else will do.”

Letitia humphed. “If I know the gossips—and I do—we’ll even need to prove that the murderer, whoever he is, doesn’t know Justin. Or me. Or even Hermione.”

“As none of you know any of Randall’s friends, that, at least, shouldn’t be too hard.”

Letitia mulled over the issue of Randall’s friends—the odd circumstance that, after eight years of marriage, she had
absolutely no idea who they were. She’d had no interest in her late husband’s life—no interest in him; their social paths had remained by her decree disconnected.

Not that Randall had minded.

As if following her train of thought, Christian asked, “Did Randall accompany you to the usual functions?”

“Yes, but only the major ones, or those where he knew certain other guests would be—those with whom he wanted to rub shoulders.” She thought back. “He wasn’t all that socially inclined, not in tonnish terms, but he did like to be seen, to claim his place, as it were, every now and then.”

Another mile swept by, then he asked, “I assumed that he married you for your social connections. Wasn’t that the case?”

She grimaced. “I assumed the same, but the answer was yes and no. I was more like…oh, a trophy. At least that’s how I felt. Not so much a person as an object, something to be acquired and put on a shelf to be admired, but otherwise…”

That, she realized, was a reasonably accurate summation of her marriage. There never had been any pretense, at least not between them, that Randall had married her for love, not even for desire.

Unprompted, she murmured, “Our marriage was more like a civil truce. I didn’t like him, I didn’t respect him, but we’d made an agreement and I stuck to it. And for all that I detested him, so did he.”

She wasn’t surprised when Christian asked no more, but she knew he had more questions—ones he couldn’t, had no right to, put to her. Such as how often Randall had shared her bed. The answer was far less than she’d expected, but Christian didn’t need to know that. Didn’t need to know that courtesy of her earlier association with him, she’d had the confidence and the ammunition to drive Randall away—and keep him away. He’d never asked her who her lover had been, so he’d never known to whom he was being compared.
All he had known was that he didn’t measure up—not in any way.

With a younger brother and more male cousins than she could count, she’d known where the major chink in men’s armor was. Reducing Randall to a near impotent state, at least with respect to her, hadn’t been too difficult.

She’d gained control of that aspect of her marriage, and had otherwise largely lived a life apart from her husband. Unfortunately that meant…

As they rolled into London, she sighed. “I do hope you have some idea of where to search for Randall’s friends, for I freely admit I have none.”

Christian glanced at her. “No man is an island. Donne was correct. Randall will have had some connections somewhere.”

He looked up at the sky. They’d made good time, yet late afternoon was edging into evening. “It’s too late to call on that colleague I mentioned. I’ll take you back to the house.”

Letitia wrapped her shawl more tightly about her as the shadows of the buildings engulfed them. “Hermione and Agnes will be waiting to hear.”

They weren’t the only ones. After halting briefly in Grosvenor Square to pick up one of his grooms, Christian drove on to South Audley Street. Tossing the reins to his groom with instructions to walk the horses around to the mews behind Grosvenor Square, he alighted and handed Letitia down. As the curricle moved off, he glimpsed a familiar head ducking behind the area railings opposite. Inwardly shaking his head, he turned and climbed the steps to where Mellon, struggling to hide his disapproval, and failing, stood holding the door.

Shrugging off his heavy greatcoat, he left it with the butler, then walked into the front parlor. Letitia wasn’t, as he’d expected, seated on one of the sofas regaling Hermione and Agnes with their news. Instead, she stood poised by one of the front windows, peering—glaring—past the lace cur
tains. “That horrible little man is still there! Did you see?”

Lips quirking, he halted by the sofa opposite the one Agnes and Hermione occupied. “However reluctantly, one has to give him credit for unswerving devotion to his cause.” He nodded to Agnes and Hermione.

Letitia humphed, and turned back into the room. Joining him before the sofa, she sat, allowing him to sit, too.

“So Justin’s perfectly all right—you spoke with him?” Eyes bright, almost painfully eager, Hermione leaned forward.

Letitia nodded. “The idiot thought he was protecting
me
.” She described where Justin had been hiding and what they’d learned from him.

At the end of her recital, she glanced at Christian. “You may as well stay for dinner—if you haven’t any other pressing engagement?”

When he inclined his head in acceptance, she rose and headed for the bellpull. “We need to put our heads together and decide what to do next.”

He waited while she summoned Mellon and gave the order for an extra place at dinner. He’d have to question Mellon again, but now was not the time. He shifted his gaze to Hermione. She was biting her lower lip, clearly chewing on her thoughts. In the circumstances, she was currently at the top of his interrogation list.

When Mellon retreated and Letitia returned to the sofa, Hermione looked up at her. “So you don’t think Justin killed Randall—and you’re looking for the real murderer?”

Flopping back down beside Christian, Letitia nodded. “To clear Justin’s name completely and beyond question, as we must—the future head of the House of Vaux cannot carry the stigma of being suspected of murder in even the least degree—then we have to produce the real murderer, and have him convicted of the crime.”

Mellon returned to announce that dinner was served. They all rose and repaired to the dining room. As he took his seat alongside Letitia’s at the end of the table, Christian
noted that no expense had been spared—not with the highly polished table, a stunning example of the craftman’s art, nor with the silver and crystal, both on the table and on the sideboard against the wall. Expensive artwork, curtains, rugs, and satin-striped upholstery completed the room, along with an elegant crystal chandelier.

Flicking out his napkin, he glanced at Letitia. “Did you entertain much?”

She looked up, then, as he had, looked around the room. “A little, but not as much as I might have.” Realizing the significance of his question, she added, “And they were always my friends and acquaintances—the only names Randall ever suggested were politicians or ton figures he wished to meet and talk with, not people he already knew.”

Seated opposite Christian, Agnes shook her head. “He never did bring people home.” Agnes looked at Letitia. “Not even when you and Hermione were out.” She glanced at Christian. “When Letitia takes Hermione with her, I usually remain at home. And people like Randall always overlook the old ladies of the world.”