The Edge of Desire (3 page)

Letitia looked startled, and shocked. So did Hermione.

“Disappeared?” Letitia stared at Barton; Christian could all but see the wheels in her mind churning. Then she sniffed and looked away. “I daresay he’s gone to the country to visit with friends. It is August, after all. I suspect, Mr. Barton, that your ‘disappearance’ is nothing more than that.”

Barton looked pugnacious. “Would you say his lordship normally leaves for country parties in a tearing rush late at night? With his man, who hadn’t had any warning?” When Letitia said nothing, Barton went on, “Because that’s what happened according to his landlord who lives downstairs.”

After a moment Barton glanced down, drawing all attention to what he carried in one hand; it appeared to be a cloth garment, folded many times. “And then there’s this.”

He shook out the garment, revealing it to be a gentleman’s coat. “Would this be one of your brother’s, your ladyship? Do you recognize it?”

Letitia frowned. She walked closer, considering the coat’s cut. “It looks like one of Justin’s.” Halting before the coat Barton obligingly displayed at arm’s length, she raised her brows. “Is it from Shultz?” She reached for the left lapel.

Barton whisked the coat away. “You might want to be careful about touching it, your ladyship. There’s blood on it, see—most likely your husband’s.”

Every drop of blood drained from Letitia’s face.

Christian was at her side instantly, before he’d even thought.
“Barton.”
The single word resonated with menace, yet was nothing to what he felt. His hands had fisted; he battled an urge to strike the runner. His tongue itched to tear strips off the man, but…they needed to learn what he’d discovered. “Did the landlord have any idea where his lordship was headed?”

He’d barked out the question. Barton stiffened; he wanted to refuse to answer, but didn’t dare. “No.”

“Did he know how they left—in a hired carriage, or did
Lord Vaux drive his curricle?” He glanced at Letitia as he asked; lips tight, she nodded. Justin did indeed keep a curricle in town.

Barton had noticed the interplay. Eyes dark with suspicion, he nevertheless grudgingly conceded, “His lordship drove off in his curricle.”

“Do you have any further light to shed on this matter? Any information at all?”

“No, my lord. The body’s been taken to the police surgeon. When he’s done with his examination, the corpse will be released to her ladyship for burial.” Barton used the word “corpse” deliberately, his gaze sliding to Letitia.

Christian battled an almost overpowering urge to throttle the man. “Very good.” His harsh tones had Barton looking his way again; he caught the man’s eye. “When that time comes, you—personally—will inform Mellon, and he will convey the information to me. Her ladyship is not to be disturbed with this matter again. Any query you may have, you may make through me.” He held Barton’s gaze. “I trust I make myself plain?”

His last words came out in a menacing purr, much like a lion anticipating his next meal. Letitia heard, not just the words but every nuance they conveyed, and could have kissed him.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t, not now, not ever again, but he clearly still cared, somewhere in his heart, for her. She’d spent all her life among men like him; she knew how to read their signs.

Under Christian’s hard gaze, Barton nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”

Christian inclined his head. “Good.” He paused, then added, “Rest assured that any pertinent information we find that sheds light on Randall’s murder will be conveyed to you at the earliest opportunity.”

Letitia turned her head and stared at him. He was being conciliatory—to the enemy! That was an olive branch if she’d ever seen one. She was about to draw breath and un
leash some of her suppressed feelings—on which of them, Christian or Barton, she hadn’t made up her mind—when Christian caught her eye.

Just a look—one pointed, intent glance—and, inwardly grumbling, she grudgingly shut her lips.

Folding her arms again, she fixed Barton with a chilly—icily furious—look.

He glanced her way, then returned his gaze to Christian and nodded. “I’ll be on my way, then.” He bobbed a general bow, then turned and left.

At a nod from Christian, Mellon followed, closing the door—the inches-thick oak door—behind him.

The instant it shut, Letitia let her temper loose. “How
dare
he!” She drew a huge breath. And raved on.

Christian glanced at Hermione. Although she remained silent, she clearly egged her sister on, agreeing with every dramatically and forcefully elucidated sentiment. Her enthusiastic “Hear, hear!” was clear in her eyes, in her whole being.

Resigned, he leaned back against the edge of the heavy desk and watched Letitia rant and pace, then rant some more. No one ranted like a Vaux—they had the activity down to a fine art. He was quietly amazed at how inventive she still was; colorful phrases and strikingly adverse comparisons—“addlepated, imbecilic moron with less wit than a dormouse”—tripped from her tongue with barely a pause for breath.

Better to let her get it out of her system. That was the Vaux’s folly, their foible; all that natural energy had to be released.

Eventually finishing her dissection of Barton, his progenitors, and potential offspring, she swung around.

And fixed him with a fiery glare. “And as for you—how
could
you? You slapped him down well enough to begin with—and I thank you for that—but after one agreement,
one
halfway reasonable comment, you patted him on the head and let him go! Worse—you all but promised to share
whatever we find!” Halting a pace away, she glared into his eyes; with him propped against the desk, hers were level with his. “What the devil were you thinking?”

“That he might learn something we need to know.” Christian kept his voice mild; it reflected how he felt. He smiled, as always amused; he’d never been affected by Vaux histrionics, which was one point that always fascinated the Vaux. Almost without exception others got extremely nervous when they let their tempers loose; most tended to edge away, or escape if they could. Not him. He found their unbounded, unleashed energy refreshing. For all their apparent venom, they were never intentionally malicious; contrary to what many thought, they were neither dangerous nor insane.

Their temper tantrums were all fireworks; not in the least harmful if handled with care, and capable of being highly entertaining.

Especially as no Vaux had ever held his immunity against him. Certainly not Letitia.

His calm words had given her pause. She considered him through eyes in which the searing flame of her temper was slowly dying; he could almost feel the energy in the air around her fading.

“There’s an old but wise saying,” he offered. “‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’”

Something changed in her face; a coolness slid into her expression. “Well, as to that, you would surely know.”

There was a quality in her tone he neither recognized nor could place. She held his gaze for an instant, then turned away. Her gaze passed over the bloodstain on the floor, then she started for the door. “If you’ve finished here?”

He straightened, glanced around. “Yes.” He fell in in her wake, pausing to allow Hermione to proceed him through the doorway. “But I have more questions for you two.”

Without comment Letitia led him across the front hall into the room diagonally opposite the study. She gestured as she swung to face him. “The front parlor. I tend to sit here more than in the drawing room.”

To his left lay an archway leading deeper into the house; through it he saw ranks of bookshelves packed with books. He pointed. “The library?”

When she nodded, he headed that way. Letitia and Hermione followed.

The library was a good-sized room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering much of the walls; halting in the middle of the room, he surveyed the books filling them. “Randall?”

“Yes. Not that he ever read them.”

He glanced at Letitia. “He bought them, but didn’t read them?”

She shrugged. “He didn’t read. He could read, of course, but he never read a book, not that I saw.”

Christian glanced again at the shelves. Many of the Vaux were bibliophiles. Most read voraciously; even Letitia would occasionally be found with her nose in a book. The idea of a total nonreader marrying into the family seemed…odd. And while it wasn’t unheard of for a gentleman to set up a library just for show, there were a lot of books in that room.

As if sensing his thoughts, Letitia said, “Perhaps he saw them as an investment.”

Walking past him, she went to a wing chair by the fireplace. A book had been left open on the small table beside it. She picked it up, then softly snorted. “Justin. This is what he was doing while he waited for me to leave Randall.”

He’d followed her and looked over her shoulder. “Seneca—
Letters from a Stoic.”
His lips quirked. “Appropriate reading for a male Vaux.”

She laid the book aside and turned to face him. “What else did you want to know?”

He gestured to the wing chair; she sank into it as he waved Hermione to its mate. Once they were both seated, he looked down at them. “If we want to shift suspicion from Justin, we need to reconstruct the crime and demonstrate that someone else had the opportunity to kill Randall.”

Step by step he took them over what they knew, from the
time Letitia returned home through the chaos of the following morning. The exercise got them nowhere.

He grimaced. “Barton’s right—the most obvious suspect is Justin.”

“Perhaps,” Letitia grimly conceded. “But he didn’t do it.”

“The key,” Hermione said. “Don’t forget that. You said it yourself.” She fixed Christian with large eyes. “Why would Justin do such a thing? It makes no sense, not if he were the murderer. So he can’t be the murderer.”

Christian looked into her eyes, and wondered, not if but what she was hiding; that wasn’t the first time she’d spoken in Justin’s defense.

He glanced at Letitia; after spending a few hours in her and Hermione’s company, he felt increasingly certain that the Vaux temperament was as he remembered it. They hadn’t changed. Letitia’s betrayal of him aside, loyalty, especially of the familial variety, was ingrained. Letitia had—he felt certain with no real thought for herself—walked across the gulf between them, braving whatever wrath he might seek to visit on her—whatever price he might ask—to gain his help in clearing Justin. Hermione demonstrably felt the same. The question in Christian’s mind was whether she’d acted on that feeling, and if so, how.

He fixed Hermione with a direct look. “Do you know anything more about what happened last night?”

She blinked, slowly, then shook her head. “No. Only what I told you.”

He didn’t believe her. From the corner of his eye he noticed Letitia was also now regarding her sister with a slight frown. But she said nothing.

Both, he felt perfectly certain, would lie through their teeth if that’s what was needed to protect Justin, even though the Vaux rarely lied…and family loyalty worked both ways.

It was very possible Justin was acting to protect…

He looked at Letitia, waited until she felt his gaze and raised her eyes to his. He studied those eyes, eyes he knew
very well in all their green and gold splendor, eyes he’d in the past always been able to read. “Tell me you didn’t kill Randall.”

She blinked, but continued to return his steady regard. He saw her make the connection, her mind following the path his had trod. Her brows rose fractionally. “I didn’t kill Randall.” An instant passed, then she grimaced and added, “I often felt like killing him, but no, I didn’t. I wouldn’t. No more than Justin would.”

And that, Christian reflected, was the right answer. In contrast to Hermione, he had no doubt whatever that Letitia was telling the truth.

He nodded. “Very well. That leaves us with one large and immediate question. Where is Justin?”

A
fter dining alone and reviewing and digesting the conversations and interactions of that afternoon, Christian—much to the disgust of his more vengeful side—felt compelled to call again at Randall’s house.

Not that he had any interest in the house; it was its mistress who drew him.

He’d thought he’d understood where he and she now were vis-à-vis each other, yet there were undercurrents between them he couldn’t explain. When he’d taken his leave of her that afternoon and she’d given him her hand, he’d grasped it—and felt her pulse leap, her breathing tighten.

Felt everything in him respond.

She reacted to him as she always had, if anything even more intensely—just as he was affected by her. He hadn’t expected either to be so, had assumed she’d loved Randall with all her considerable heart and soul, and that her attraction to him and his to her would consequently have faded, if not died.

Not so.

As he strode briskly down South Audley Street, his more vengeful side—the side her betrayal and marriage to Randall had brought into being—sneered. Contemptuously reminded him how he’d felt when Barton had so distressed her with Justin’s coat, how helpless he’d been to suppress the primitive response to protect and defend her—one that, at
that intensity, only made sense if he loved her. If, in his heart of hearts, he still, despite all, saw her as his.

His to protect, even if she was no longer his to possess.

His position, he cynically admitted, was pathetic.

Inwardly frowning, he neared Randall’s house, a block south of Grosvenor Square—and saw, to his considerable surprise, every window ablaze with light, much as if a ball were taking place. Mystified, he went up the steps and rapped sharply on the black crepe-draped door.

Mellon looked flustered when he opened it; leaving his cane with the man, Christian strolled into the drawing room—and discovered the reason why.

The large room was packed with women. Ladies. A swift survey informed him they were all Vaux—those of the main line together with innumerable connections.

The Vaux were one of the very oldest ton families. They were all but legendary, one of those families everyone knew of and kept track of, a recognized cornerstone of society. Christian noted a few males among the crowd, all more senior than he, but the company was predominantly female—and all were talking.

Luckily in whispers and the soft tones considered appropriate to a house in mourning; he could hear himself think. Because of the crowd, many of whom were standing, and being Vaux were of the tall, commanding type of female, he was only seen by those in the groups nearest him. And while those ladies stopped talking long enough to take due note of him, to bob curtsies or nod as appropriate to his rank, they quickly returned to their hushed conversations.

Randall might not have been a Vaux, but he’d married one of their leading lights. His death therefore was of considerable note to the wider family, something to be acknowledged by attendance at this gathering, not a wake for the departed but a show of support for the bereaved.

Locating Letitia on a chaise by the hearth, Christian made his way toward her. Cleaving a path through the crowd, most
of whom knew him, wasn’t easy; charm to the fore, he progressed by slow stages.

Which gave him time to study his target.

Seated between her paternal aunts—Lady Amarantha Ffyfe, Countess of Ffyfe, and Lady Constance Bickerdale, Viscountess Manningham—Letitia presided over the assembly with a calm, composed air.

Her expression clearly stated she knew this gathering had to be, and she was perfectly ready to host it and play her part…

Except she didn’t look bereft.

She hadn’t earlier, either, but he’d put that down to her concern for Justin, something that, in her, might be strong enough to override grief. Temporarily. But as he neared the chaise, he could see no evidence that she’d shed so much as a single tear for Randall.

In another female, he might suspect repressed grief, some emotional blockage that kept the woman in question in a state of emotional denial, barring all expression and the release of grieving. But the Vaux lived for emotion. The only way they knew to survive was firmly in the here and now, immersed in the immediate moment and unashamedly giving their emotions full rein.

Witness Letitia’s storm of the afternoon. That’s what happened with Vaux. They were, as one, single-minded when in the grip of their latest flight.

Letitia’s current flight should have been grief, but there was no sign, not even a hint, of that emotion when she raised her eyes to his face, giving him her hand as he bowed before her.

Her clear-eyed composure unsettled him; to gain time to regroup, he turned to acknowledge her aunts.

Lady Constance arched a brow at him. “Letitia mentioned she’d appealed to you over finding Justin. Not that the Continent might not be the best place for the boy, all things considered, but it would be nice to know where he’s gone.”

“Nonsense!” Lady Amarantha waved that aside. “He should come back and face his trial. It’s not as if anyone would convict him.”

Christian blinked; he looked to Letitia for guidance.

She promptly stood. “If you’ll excuse me, aunts, I must speak with Dearne.”

“Of course, dear,” Lady Constance said. “But later we must talk about the funeral.”

Promising to return and give that subject its due, Letitia grasped his arm and steered him toward a corner of the room; while others stopped them to express their condolences, to which she replied with her prevailing calm, they reached their destination in good time. Astonishingly, not one of those who spoke with her seemed at all perturbed by her lack of outward grief.

Turning to stand beside her and look out over the room, he bit his tongue against the urge to ask, baldly, whether she’d loved Randall. The question plagued him, yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

He’d always assumed she’d been head-over-ears in love with the man; that was the only circumstance he could imagine that might have been strong enough to make her turn aside from the promises they’d exchanged. Her promise to him that she would wait until he returned from the wars, that she would be no other man’s—that she loved him.

If she hadn’t loved Randall, why had she married him?

Why had she broken her promises to him?

Confusion wasn’t the half of what he felt.

In contrast, she clearly felt none. Surveying the company, she softly snorted. “They may be here because they’re family, but the truth is Randall’s murder is likely to be the juiciest scandal of the season. I can’t imagine what might trump it, especially with the rumor of Justin being involved.”

He frowned. “Has that got out?”

“Oh, yes.” Contrary to her lack of grief, there was no doubt of her anger. “Quite a few mentioned it in their
greetings—they’d heard about it, including that Justin has disappeared—
fled,
as they’re putting it—long before they crossed this threshold.”

Christian looked down the room—at Mellon, hovering just inside the doorway.

“Indeed.” Letitia had followed his gaze. “I have absolutely no doubt Randall’s senior lackey is who we have to thank for that. He’s always hated Justin—hated, not just disliked.”

“Why is that? Justin, after all, is his master’s brother-in-law.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I have no idea.” She turned to face Christian. “We need to clear Justin of suspicion as soon as possible. The rumors will be rife by tomorrow.”

He met her gaze. “I’ll start searching in earnest tomorrow, but unless he’s merely gone to visit friends, or is staying somewhere reasonably obvious and hasn’t in fact deliberately gone to ground, then flushing him out isn’t going to be easy.”

She frowned. “I’ve racked my brains, but I have no clue where he’s gone. He didn’t mention leaving town.”

After a pause, Christian asked, “Why is it that no one seems to expect you to be wailing and tearing your clothes?”

“I’m a Vaux—I wouldn’t tear my clothes.”

“Possibly not, but you should be wailing.”

She met his eyes briefly. “Sorry, no wailing tonight. Nor any crying, either—it does terrible things to my complexion.”

He looked at her, simply looked. While she felt the weight of compulsion in his gaze, she had no intention of explaining why she wasn’t grieving for Randall. Especially not to him. Such an explanation would inexorably lead to further questions, ones she had even less interest in answering.

Their past was past. The promise of it dead and buried. Gone.

Stolen from her.

By Randall, and him.

Which was the reason she was making not the smallest
pretense of grief or sorrow. Her agreement with Randall had ended on his death; she was free, now, to behave as she felt. Her only surprise was that, as Christian had remarked, none of her extended family seemed at all shocked by her lack of feeling; she’d thought she had done better at pretending to love Randall over the years.

She surveyed the room. “I wonder how long they’ll stay?”

About another hour was the answer. She wasn’t entirely surprised that Christian, denied the explanations he wanted, remained by her side, his charm disguising his determination.

When she’d squeezed fingers and touched cheeks with the last of the ladies and thanked them for their concern, she turned to him, met his gaze and arched a brow. “Well?”

He glanced around the now empty room, large and peculiarly lifeless; although it was furnished in expensive style, as she’d informed him, it wasn’t a room she favored. His gaze returned to her; he waved to the door. “Let’s go to the library.”

The library, she assumed, because it wasn’t her domain. She acquiesced with a nod, gracefully turned and graciously led the way.

All too aware that he prowled in her wake. The image of a stalking lion popped into her head. With his fairish brown hair, combined with his loose-limbed grace and the power inherent in his large body, the analogy was peculiarly apt.

But when they reached the library, he seemed somewhat at a loss. She sat in one of the armchairs by the hearth and watched him prowl the room, idly inspecting titles as he worked his way closer.

When he finally arrived before her, he stood frowning down at her. “I checked at the obvious clubs—Justin’s not staying at any of them. I’ll make the same rounds tomorrow and see if I can find anyone who’s sighted him.”

Christian paused, wishing he could simply ask her outright about her marriage. The trouble with interrogating
her was that she rarely if ever lied; instead, as she’d demonstrated earlier, if she didn’t want to answer a question, she simply wouldn’t. Even if he could bring himself to browbeat her by enacting some dramatic scene, being a Vaux, she’d only trump whatever efforts he made.

Catching her gaze, holding it, he stated, “It would help—greatly—if you simply told me everything you know that might affect this situation.”
Including how you felt about Randall
. “I’m clearly missing vital pieces of the story.”

And not only over the issue of Randall’s death.

She merely raised her brows at him in that coolly superior way female leaders of the haut ton had perfected. “I have nothing to add to what I told you earlier.”

He had no intention of being so easily dismissed. “What was the subject of your argument with Randall—the one last night?”

She hesitated, clearly debating if that was a piece of information she could offer as a sop. She decided it was. “It concerned Hermione. Randall had hatched a nonsensical scheme to marry her off to the Duke of Northumberland.”

“Northumberland? He must be in his dotage.”

“He is, but that was of no concern to Randall. He wanted the connection to a dukedom. Being connected to an earldom—” She broke off.

When she didn’t continue, he dryly supplied, “Wasn’t enough?”

A faint flush touched her pale cheeks—anger, not embarrassment. “Indeed.”

“And the argument?”

Her gaze strayed to the empty hearth. “He’d been trying to convince me to support the notion over the last few weeks. Last night he pressed me to take Hermione on a visit to Northumberland’s estate. I refused.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he prompted, “You argued with him for more than twenty minutes.”

Gaze still on the fireplace, she shrugged. “He put his case in detail, but of course I would never agree to such a thing.”

Her tone suggested that Randall was a fool to think she would…in the circumstances.
What circumstances?
Gritting his teeth, he quietly asked, “Why ‘of course’?”

He’d hoped her abstraction would have her answering before she’d thought, giving him some insight into her increasingly curious marriage. Instead, she slowly turned her head and looked at him. Steadily. Then simply said, “I would never countenance Hermione being used in such a way.”

Every answer he wrung from her only raised more questions—such as why Randall hadn’t understood that. Christian held her gaze, and felt his own temper stir. She wanted him to clear Justin of suspicion, but would offer only limited information.

For whatever reason, she was determined to tell him nothing of her marriage.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, that was the most urgent point he wanted to know.

He took one slow step closer, then leaned down, clamping one hand on each of the chair’s arms, caging her. Bringing his face much closer to hers, looming over her.

His nerves flickered; the scent of jasmine—the scent she’d always worn—teased his senses.

She didn’t press back, retreat, didn’t react in any fearful way to the blatant intimidation. Belatedly he remembered she’d always found his size—that he was significantly taller, heavier, and larger than she, and therefore capable of physically dominating her—exciting.

A lick of desire slid down his spine. He studied her eyes; at such close quarters in the dimly lit room they gleamed like beaten gold, shadowed and mysterious, giving nothing away. But her breathing had quickened. Her lips, when he glanced at them, had parted.

“If you recall”—his voice had lowered to a gravelly purr; slowly he brought his gaze back to her eyes—“I’ve yet to set a price for assisting you in finding Justin.”