The Edge of Desire (44 page)

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 today 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.

T
wilight 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 closed 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.

In stylish comfort they ambled through courses while Letitia filled in all sorts of feminine details for her aunt and sister, then she turned to interrogate him on his meeting with Roscoe, showing equal interest in Roscoe’s decor and style as in the words exchanged. Nevertheless…

“So he’s still definite about wanting to buy the company?”

He nodded. “He insisted I present him as Randall’s chosen buyer in exchange for his information.”

“Well”—she waved the spoon she was using to demolish
a delicate
crème anglaise
—“as it seems I can’t visit him in Dolphin Square, he’ll have to come to me. I’m sure Mrs. Swithin and Trowbridge will be only too happy to sell, so there’s no reason we can’t settle the business of the Orient Trading Company as soon as may be.”

When she turned limpid eyes on him, Christian inwardly sighed. “I’ll contact him and make arrangements for him to call on you—perhaps here might be best. Late at night.”

She waved. “Whatever you think best.”

Just as long as she had her way and divested herself of her share in the company. As he strongly suspected she would want to do so before any wedding, he nodded. “I’ll send a message to Roscoe in the morning.”

Eventually, replete and happy, they returned to the drawing room. Noticing the piano in one corner, Hermione sat herself before it. “I haven’t been practicing much of late. I suppose I should if I’m to make my come-out next year.” She proceeded to entertain them with a sonata.

Relaxed on the sofa beside Letitia, Christian smiled all the more. This was how his evenings would henceforth be, with Agnes sitting by the hearth, he and Letitia comfortably ensconced, and music floating through the room. Simple family pleasures, something he’d known and taken for granted as a child and youth, but had missed throughout his adult life.

With Letitia, he would have those family pleasures again.

With her, he would have the life he’d always dreamed of.

An hour later, after the tea trolley had come and gone, Agnes rose, collected a sleepily content Hermione, then bade Letitia and Christian a good-night.

Letitia smiled and nodded, then realized where they were. “Oh. I’ll—”

“No need to disturb yourself.” A gleam of mischief in her old eyes, Agnes gathered her shawl. “We’re staying here. Dearne and I thought it more appropriate—no need to live in that man’s house any longer. We know our way upstairs.”
She fluttered her fingers at them as she turned to the door. “We’ll see you in the morning, my dears.”

Letitia stared after her, and at Hermione, who, with a smug smile and a wave, followed Agnes out of the door. “They’re staying here,” she repeated. Turning, she stared at Christian.

He smiled, even more smugly content than Hermione. “Your Esme is upstairs—I gather she’s been furiously busy hanging all your gowns in the marchioness’s apartments. I suggested, however, that she needn’t wait up for you tonight.”

He studied her eyes, then leaned closer, gently framed her face with one hand. Lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. “Welcome to my house. Welcome to my home. I hope you’ll make it yours.”

Tears—tears of a happiness she’d never thought to feel—filled her eyes. The same emotion swelled in her chest, filled her heart to overflowing. She raised her hand and laid it over his, felt the gentle strength, savored it. “Nothing would make me happier, my lord.”

He smiled, slowly, the gray of his eyes peaceful and calm, then he kissed her again—a longer kiss, one that stirred the flames between them to life.

When he eventually drew back, they were both breathing more rapidly. “Let’s go upstairs.”

She rose as he did. “Indeed. No need to shock Percival. At least not yet.”

Christian glanced at her as he led her to the door. “Actually, quite aside from any shock, I suspect he’d be thrilled. He and the rest of the staff have been waiting for over a decade to serve you, you know.”

But they did go up the wide stairs, to the marquess’s suite, to his bedroom. To his bed.

There, under the soft radiance of a waxing moon, they celebrated all they now had, all they’d reclaimed. All the heat and passion—all the life.

All the indefinable gifts love had to offer, even love itself they claimed anew.

With hands, lips, mouths, with every inch of their bodies, every particle of their souls.

In harmony, attuned, they scaled the peak; gasping, clinging, they loved wildly and let go, celebrating the beginning of a new life, celebrating the fact they were both still alive, that with the past behind them, buried and gone, they would, now, at last, have a chance to live their dreams of long ago.

Love drove them, racked them, enfolded them in its grace.

When, at the last, as they lay slumped, long limbs tangled in the jumbled billows of his bed, the warmth of satiation heavy in their veins, their hearts slowly slowing, as their new reality closed around them Christian shifted his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. “This is where we were always supposed to be.”

Letitia didn’t answer, but he felt her lips curve against his chest.

Felt her fingers gently riffling through his hair.

Smelled her elusive scent, of jasmine heavy in the night, wreath about him.

And knew they’d finally secured their dreams.

“Mr. Roscoe, my lord. My lady.”

Letitia rose from the chaise in the smaller drawing room of Allardyce House, Christian beside her. Her gaze fixed on the doorway as Percival stepped back; she would own to considerable curiosity over Neville Roscoe. Quite aside from the fact that she expected to divest herself of the troublesome business of the Orient Trading Company, everything Christian had told her of the mysterious Roscoe had only whetted her appetite.

Four days had passed since Swithin had tried to push her to her death; somewhat to her surprise, her fear-filled memories had all but immediately been overlaid by feelings of relief, and then happiness.

Christian had been responsible for both.

He’d also contacted Roscoe. She in turn had visited the house
in Cheyne Walk, to tell Trowbridge and Honeywell all that had transpired, and to get from Trowbridge his written agreement to sell his share of the company if and when she did.

She’d also sent one of Christian’s grooms into Surrey with a letter for Mrs. Swithin confirming the business of the Orient Trading Company and the desirability of a sale, and the consequent need for a written agreement. She had received by reply the requested agreement, along with a declaration from Swithin’s solicitor, who had, most fortuitously, been in Surrey dealing with Swithin’s affairs.

So all was in readiness to effect the sale.

Roscoe appeared; he literally darkened the doorway. With his close-cropped dark hair, dark clothes, and cynical, dark blue eyes, he looked the epitome of a dangerous character. With an inclination of his head, he moved past Percival and approached them; he walked with the same, arrogant, faintly menacing stride Dalziel employed. Not so much an intentional affectation as an expression of what, underneath the sophisticated glamour, they really were.

As he neared, she saw that Roscoe was as tall as Christian, but not quite as large, as heavy, his build more rangy, but in no way less lethal for that.

Christian extended his hand.

Roscoe quirked a brow—apparently at being accorded the courtesy—but gripped and shook nonetheless. “Good evening.”

It was after ten o’clock.

Christian inclined his head. “Thank you for coming.” He turned to her. “Allow me to present Lady Letitia.” He left out the Randall, she was quite sure deliberately.

Letitia gave Roscoe her hand, smiled as she looked into his face…and barely felt his fingers close about hers.

Barely heard his proper, “Lady Randall,” barely registered the rumble of his deep voice or his perfectly executed bow.