The Edge of Desire

Chapter 12

Christian accompanied Letitia to Montague’s office the next morning.

Montague was delighted to see them. He eagerly copied Christian’s notes on Randall’s current estate. When he came to the third share of the Orient Trading Company, he paused, brows rising. “Now that’s interesting. I didn’t find any mention of that when I looked into his finances before the marriage-but that was eight years ago.” He made a notation on his pad. “We’ll certainly find out everything we can about the company.”

Letitia frowned. “It doesn’t ring a bell? It’s not an investment company?”

Montague shook his head. “I’ve never heard of it. Most likely it’s a private company. But we have their representative’s address, so the details shouldn’t be hard to extract.”

“Have you uncovered anything about Randall’s original source of funds?” Christian asked.

“No, unfortunately.” Montague’s expression darkened. “I have to say that’s proving most…intriguing. I haven’t yet been able to track down any source prior to him setting up his London accounts when he moved to the city twelve years ago. But it has to be there-I will persevere.”

Reflecting that Montague’s choice of the words intriguing and persevere was apt-when it came to finances, he was a stickler for detail and a terrier for facts-Christian nodded and rose. “We’ll leave you to it.”

“To that”-Montague shuffled his notes-“and to toting up Randall’s present considerable wealth-which will necessarily involve a complete analysis of the Orient Trading Company’s worth.” Looking up, he smiled, then rose as Letitia did. He bowed to them both. “You may leave all that to me.”

They did. Returning to South Audley Street, they alighted before Randall’s steps. Barton stupidly let Letitia get a glimpse of him. Even across the width of the street, her contemptuous dagger-eyed glance scorched.

Christian drew her up the steps and through the door.

Ire lit her eyes. “That man!” Reaching up, she unpinned her veil. “Don’t you know anyone at Bow Street?”

Taking her arm, Christian steered her toward the dining parlor; Mellon had informed them that Hermione and Agnes were already at the luncheon table. “I probably could get Barton removed, but they’d only put someone else on the case.” He met Letitia’s eyes. “Much as he irritates you, he might well be a case of better the devil you know.”

She humphed, and let him lead her to the dining table and seat her at its end.

Hermione and Agnes were eager to hear of developments. While the footmen and Mellon were in the room, they had to be circumspect in what they said, but when the fruit was set before them, Letitia dismissed the staff and had Mellon close the door.

Lowering her voice, she told Hermione and her aunt that Justin was in town and safe with friends.

“Well that’s a relief.” Agnes reached for a fig.

“Yes, but,” Hermione said, “he can’t be free again until we catch the murderer.”

“Indeed.” Letitia was concentrating on the fig she was peeling, yet Christian registered her tone, sensed the same thread of something more deadening in Hermione, too.

The Vaux tended not to deal well with “nothing happening.”

He cast about for something to distract them. Remembered…“We haven’t yet pursued the question of how the man Hermione heard talking with Randall that night-presumably the murderer-got into and out of the house.”

A minor issue, but it would serve.

Busy neatly consuming her fig, Letitia slanted a glance his way. “You were going to question Mellon again.”

“So I was. No time like the present.” Swinging his legs from beneath the table, Christian rose and crossed to the bellpull.

When Mellon answered the summons, Christian, seated again, arched a brow at Letitia.

She waved to him to proceed. To Mellon, she said, “Please answer his lordship’s questions.”

Christian studied Mellon, standing between Letitia and Agnes on the other side of the table, for several seconds, before saying, “Mellon, think back to the night your master was murdered. Who, throughout all that evening, did you admit to this house?”

Mellon frowned, but answered readily enough. “Other than Lady Randall when she returned from her dinner, and the master when he came home at six o’clock, the only person I opened the door to was Lord Vaux, my lord.”

Christian watched Mellon closely. “You admitted no other person, at no other time during that evening and night, whether through the front door or any other door. Is that correct?”

Mellon fixed his gaze above Christian’s head. “Yes, my lord.”

Christian leaned forward. “Tell me, Mellon, in your opinion is it possible that someone entered the house, or left the house, through the front door without your knowledge?”

Mellon opened his mouth, but then shut it. Christian was pleased to see he took time to think before answering. Nevertheless…“I can’t say absolutely not, my lord-there were a few minutes between when I left Lord Vaux in the library and reached my room-but that was the only time anyone could have come in or out through the front door, or else I would have known, given as my room is directly above it.”

Christian nodded. “And if they’d come in then, when did they leave, and if they left then, then when did they arrive-quite.” He paused, then asked, “Is there any other door, or French door-any other way into the house other than through the servants’ hall?”

“No, my lord. None at all.”

Christian remembered. “There’s a lane down the side. No entry from there?”

“Not to the front of the house, my lord. There’s a gate at the side of the backyard, and as you will have seen, there’s only a very narrow area behind the front railings. The drawing room and front parlor windows look onto that, but they aren’t doors, and they’re locked anyway.”

Christian waved the windows aside. “There’s clearly no other way anyone else could have got into the house.” He caught Hermione’s eye as she opened her mouth-breathed easier when she shut it. Looking at Mellon, he smiled. “Thank you, Mellon. You may go.”

Mellon bowed, then cast a glance at Letitia. She waved a dismissal and he went.

Hermione managed to contain herself until the door shut. She even managed to keep her voice down. “But there was someone else there-I heard them.” She glanced at Letitia. “I’m not making it up.”

“We know you’re not.” Letitia looked at Christian. “What now?”

Carefully, he took Hermione step by step through her story again. She was unshakable in her certainty that she’d heard Randall speaking with some other man. “And it definitely wasn’t Justin. I wouldn’t mistake his voice-it’s deep, like yours.”

Christian raised his brows. “And the other man’s wasn’t?”

Hermione shook her head. “His was…lighter. Not light, but a medium man’s voice. Nothing one would notice either way.”

She remembered things far too clearly, in too much detail, for Christian to doubt her.

He sat back. “Very well. So what we’re faced with is this. On that night some man, a friend of Randall’s, gained entry into the house, how we don’t know, spoke with Randall, and then hit him with the poker, killing him. How did that man get into and out of the house?”

They all sat back and thought.

“Not the house,” Letitia eventually said. She caught Christian’s eye. “Just the study-we don’t know that he went anywhere else in the house. We have no reason to suppose he did.”

Christian nodded. “Good point. So how did he get into the study?”

Letitia sat forward, leaning her elbows on the table. “If this was Nunchance, I’d say he’d got in through the secret passage. But this is a London town house-no secret ways.”

Christian stared at her, at her face, for a long moment, then looked up-at the cornices-ornate-and the heavy rough plaster of the ceiling. Recalled similar plasterwork in the library and front parlor, and the wood half paneling that ran through most of the house… “But this is an old house.” Swinging around, he stood and stalked to the window to get a better sense of the thickness of the walls. Thick. Head rising, he pictured the front facade-of this house, and the one that abutted it, and the one beyond that.

He turned back to the table, caught Letitia’s gaze. “This isn’t a new London town house. It’s a very old house that’s been divided into three. It is of the vintage where secret passages and entrances were de rigueur.”

Something else struck him. “Why did Randall buy this house-this particular house? Did he ever mention it?”

She thought, shook her head.

“He was a secretive man-if we’ve learned anything about him, it’s that. He liked to hide things.” He was already moving toward the door.

Behind him, chairs scraped. His hand on the doorknob, he turned back to see all three ladies on their feet.

Letitia’s eyes were wide. “You think there’s a secret passage leading to the study?”

He smiled intently. “I wouldn’t be the least surprised.”

They trooped into the study and started their search. Agnes, unable to easily bend or stretch, excused herself and retired, leaving the three of them tapping panels and poking at the ornately carved mantelpiece and the thick, lushly carved picture rail.

Letitia was working her way along one wall, pressing every knob in the intricately figured rail that ran along the top of the half paneling, when a knock fell on the front door. They all stopped searching, waited, listening to the low murmur of voices in the hall.

A second later the door opened to reveal Mellon. He announced, “A Mr. Dalziel has called, my lady. I’ve shown him into the drawing room.”

Letitia straightened. “Please show him in here, Mellon.”

Mellon looked disapproving, but retreated, restricting himself to a glance at the spot where his master’s body had lain.

Two heartbeats later, Dalziel walked in. He turned and rather pointedly shut the door in Mellon’s face.

Holding up one finger to enjoin their silence, Dalziel waited for half a minute, his hand on the doorknob, then he opened the door again.

They couldn’t see past his shoulders, but heard him utter two words. “Leave. Now.”

His tone suggested that whoever was there-presumably Mellon-risked fatal injury if he didn’t immediately comply.

He must have left-at speed-because Dalziel smoothly shut the door and turned back into the room.

It wasn’t good news making Dalziel so edgy; leaving the wall, Letitia moved to the center of the room, stopped and waited for him to join her.

Which he did, halting directly before her.

She was conscious of Christian drawing nearer, stopping by her shoulder. She searched Dalziel’s uninformative face. “What is it? Justin?”

Dalziel answered with a sharp shake of his head. “He’s safely hidden where no one will think, or dare, to look for him.” He held her gaze. “I’ve heard from Hexham.” His voice low, he went on, “There’s only one family called Randall in the area, or was-a farmer who had a decent spread outside the town. He and his wife are both dead, but he was warm enough to spare his only son from the farm when the boy was awarded a governors’ scholarship to Hexham Grammar School. There, the lad did well enough, apparently, but the school lost track of him after he left.”

Letitia held his dark gaze; she knew what he was telling her, but she couldn’t-simply could not-take it in. After a blank moment, she said, “You’re saying…” Then she shook her head, briskly dismissing the impossible. “That couldn’t have been Randall. I couldn’t have been married to a farmer’s son.”

Dalziel’s lips compressed, then he murmured, “George Martin Randall. According to the school and parish records he would have turned thirty-four in April this year.”

She stared, jaw slackening. “Good God!” Her voice was weak; she literally felt the blood drain from her face.

“Sit down.” Christian grasped her arm and eased her back and down into the chair he’d set behind her.

Once she was seated, still stunned and shocked, he glanced at Dalziel. “That explains a few things.”

“Indeed.” Dalziel nodded curtly. “It also poses a host of new questions.”

“But…how could…?” Letitia gestured at nothing in particular, but they knew what she meant.

“Precisely.” Dalziel glanced around the study-at the polished wood, the heavy desk, the books and curios on the shelves, the elegant chairs. “The ‘how coulds’ are endless. How could a farmer’s son have achieved all this? More, although he was only thirty-four, he’d been wealthy enough, for long enough, to have simply become accepted by the ton.”

“Wealthy enough to rescue the Vaux from gargantuan debts,” Letitia said. “And so marry me-and through me become connected with and have the entrée to the highest levels of society.”

Dalziel blinked.

Christian realized he hadn’t known about the debts that had led to Letitia marrying Randall. Letitia, Justin, and their father had kept that secret well.

It was on the tip of Dalziel’s tongue to ask-to confirm and inquire about the forced marriage-but then he glanced at Christian, his look plainly saying, Later?

Christian nodded.

Somewhat to his relief, a frown replaced Letitia’s stunned expression.

“But why?” She looked up at Dalziel, then swiveled to look at him. “Why, why, why? It makes no sense.”

After a moment, Dalziel said, “Yes it does. Just think-a farmer’s son rises to live as one with the highest in the land.” When they looked at him, he continued, “That has to be a dream, a fantasy many farmers, laborers, and the like indulge in. Randall didn’t just fantasize, he made it happen. Found ways to make it happen.”

“I don’t understand.”

They all turned to Hermione. She was leaning against the desk, arms folded, a frown identical to the one on Letitia’s face darkening hers.

“Why would he want to become one of us? Why not just be a very rich farmer?”

Dalziel answered. “Status. It’s something we take for granted, that we rarely if ever think of. We’re born to it-we assume its mantle as our norm. But although we’re barely aware of it, others are. They envy us what we barely notice-all the privileges we enjoy by right of birth.” He paused, then went on, “While there are many who-out of our hearing-rail against our privilege, the truly clever…they try to join us.”

Letitia hauled in a huge breath, let it out with, “In which endeavor Randall succeeded excellently well.”

She was a part of his success.

She looked up, met Christian’s, then Dalziel’s, eyes. “That fits. Very well. It explains a lot of his attitudes that I never understood.”

Dalziel nodded. “Very likely, but the most pertinent point for our investigation is that having succeeded so excellently well, Randall kept his success a secret. A very, indeed amazingly, closely kept secret. Who knew of his background? So far, we’ve found no one. No one even suspected. One might have thought that, having succeeded, he might crow-at least to close friends. But he didn’t have any-something that now makes sense. Yet nothing we’ve uncovered suggests even secret gloating. He might have inwardly preened, but he didn’t celebrate his success.”

“He wasn’t finished.” Letitia met Dalziel’s dark eyes, then looked at Christian. “He was set on taking Nunchance from Justin. And he wanted children.” Her lips curved cynically. “Unfortunately for him, he forgot to specify that as part of our agreement. I believe he thought it simply followed as a natural outcome of my duties in the marriage bed, and strangely-perhaps because he was in fact a farmer’s son-he never realized that I might have some way of preventing that.”

The depth of her aversion for Randall showed in her eyes, then she turned back to Dalziel.

Who had started to pace. “Even so, his secrecy might well have been the reason behind his murder. His continuing plans, which made maintaining that secrecy even more important, only add weight to the thesis.”

Letitia frowned. “I can understand him murdering someone else to preserve his secret, but how could such a secret have killed him?”

Dalziel halted. “I don’t know, but such secrets are always dangerous.” He frowned, then glanced at the paneling, as if only then registering what they’d been doing when he’d entered. “What were you searching for?”

They told him.

He hesitated, clearly weighing what else he had on his plate against the challenge of finding a secret door. It took him all of five seconds to decide. “I’ve got some time-I’ll help.”

Which made four of them, which, as Letitia remarked, was just as well. The study was a cornucopia of carved wood. They divided the room into quarters and settled to their search.

Starting in one corner, she poked and prodded, mindlessly working her way along the paneling’s upper rail; inside, her mind was awash with a litany of exclamations, all escalating versions of “a farmer’s son?” It was, simply, unbelievable-unacceptable. For a lady of her rank and birth…it was more than shocking.

More than scandalous.

If it ever became known she’d stooped so low as to marry a farmer’s son…

Halting, raising her head, she sucked air into suddenly parched lungs.

Farther along the wall, Christian glanced up, caught her gaze.

She looked into his eyes, into the unwavering, unshakable gray, and felt her reeling world slow, steady.

Her catastrophic secret would only be a disaster if it became known.

He arched a brow at her, plainly asking if she was all right.

Drawing in another breath, she nodded, and returned to her examination of the rail.

Later. She would deal with the potential for catastrophe later. At the moment, it was all she could do to get her mind to accept Dalziel’s truth.

Ten minutes later she found a catch hidden in the moldings around one of the windows. Energized, she told the others. They came to look, then, while they all scanned the room, she depressed the catch.

A bookcase in the center of the opposite wall popped free of the stonework.

“My God!” Hermione breathed. “There really is a secret door.”

Christian and Dalziel had already crossed to the bookcase. They didn’t need to expend any huge effort to move it back-it swung open easily, and noiselessly, on well-oiled hinges.

Standing in the opening revealed, Christian, in a voice tinged with awe, said, “It’s not a secret door-it’s a secret room.”

Letitia and Hermione joined the two men, then followed them down the three steps that descended into what truly was an amazing find.

“Trust Randall to have a secret room”-Letitia slowly pivoted, taking in the space-“to store all his secrets in.”

That certainly appeared to be the room’s purpose. In contrast to the study, which was neat and tidy, with no papers on the desk and a pristine white blotter clearly for show rather than use, this room was full of papers-stacked on both sides of the massive but well-worn desk and bulging from pigeonholes behind it-and a blotter that was crossed, recrossed, and rather tattered.

All of the available wall space was covered with shelves housing ledgers, stacks of files, document boxes, and tomes that appeared to be accounts, their spines marked in Randall’s schoolboyish hand with dates and initials. The shelves stretched all the way to the high ceiling; a wooden ladder stood in one corner.

There was an old, serviceable lamp upon the desk-a large one of the sort clerks favored, that shed a wide pool of light when lit. The glass lamp-well was half full of oil, and the wick was charred, needing to be trimmed. There was hardly any dust anywhere. The room appeared to be in frequent use.

The desk, with its well-padded revolving chair behind it, sat halfway into the room, its back to the shelves covering the wall the room shared with the main body of the house. Letitia glanced back; the wall with the hidden door in its center was likewise covered in shelves, outside the space of the door itself. The wall opposite, abutting some deeper part of the house, was also covered in shelves.

The fourth wall-the one facing the desk-was the one of most immediate interest to them all. Both sides housed more ledgers, but between were two narrow windows flanking a wooden door.

They’d all been standing silently, pirouetting as they took it all in. Their gazes came to rest on the closed door. Christian walked forward, grasped the knob and turned; the latch clicked.

“Well, well.” Opening the door wide, Christian walked through.

The rest of them followed, emerging into a small walled yard. Less than three yards wide, it ended at the lane wall. To the left, in line with the study-side wall of the secret room, a plain stone wall ran across, joining the lane wall. That wall was high-so high none of them could see over it, and no one in the area along the house’s front could see into the yard where they stood.

Opposite, another stone wall ran from the house to the lane wall; again, it was sufficiently high so no one below, in the yard beside the kitchen, could see in, and they couldn’t look over and down.

But they could hear voices floating up and over the wall; a few seconds of listening told them two maids were hanging out some washing.

The length of the yard from the front to the back matched the length of the secret room. Turning as one, they looked back at the house, at the way the roof line concealed the existence of the little room. Shaking her head in amazement, Letitia nudged Hermione back toward the door.

Christian made to follow, but Dalziel hung back, then turned and walked in the opposite direction, to the wooden door set in the lane wall. From where Letitia paused by the door into the room, she could see the heavy lock on the lane door. But when Dalziel grasped the handle and turned it, the door swung open-as easily and noiselessly as the door to the study.

Leaning out, Dalziel looked up and down the lane. Letitia knew what he would see-a cobbled lane too narrow for carriages, with a procession of wooden garden doors opening onto it. Unless one counted and watched the roofs at the same time, the unexpected door wouldn’t appear out of place.

Drawing back, Dalziel closed the door. Turning, he waved them ahead of him back into the room. Once the room’s outer door was shut and there was no chance of the maids below hearing them, he looked at Letitia and Christian. “I believe we’ve solved the mystery of how Randall’s murderer came and went.”

They were all silent for a moment, imagining it.

“I doubt Randall would have left those doors unlocked.” Letitia wrapped her arms around herself. “He was always careful of windows being left open.”

“The doors-all of them-would have been locked, but his murderer was a friend, one he was expecting.” Christian reviewed the events of that night in his mind. “Randall wasn’t expecting Justin that evening-no reason he wouldn’t have made an appointment for a friend to call.” He looked around. “Not just any friend, but one he did business with.”

Dalziel nodded. “He unlocked the doors, and left them unlocked because he assumed his friend would shortly be leaving by the same route.”

“Which he did,” Christian said. “After he’d killed Randall.”

Nodding again, Dalziel turned to consider the shelves.

Hermione had already wandered over to them. Tilting her head, she peered at some stacked papers. “No wonder he spent so many hours, so many nights, locked in his study.”

Dalziel glanced up the steps. “It might be best if we lock the study door.”

“I’ll do it.” Hermione headed back into the study.

Letitia exchanged a look with Christian, then they joined Dalziel in staring at the shelves.

She shook her head. “I can’t see any obvious place to start.”

Christian sighed, walked to a shelf, and pulled down a ledger.

Within ten minutes they’d confirmed they were looking at the records of the Orient Trading Company. Encouraged, they spent the next twenty minutes wading through files, documents, and accounts.

Dalziel looked up, glanced at the ledger Christian held. “I have income, you have expenses, but all the entries are in some sort of code.”

Frowning, Christian nodded. He and Dalziel had a more than passing familiarity with codes. “I don’t think it’s a keyed code.” Glancing at Letitia and Hermione, he explained, “A code where there’s a defined key-so once you have the key, you can read the code.”

He looked again at the entries in the ledger. “This looks more like initials of things.”

Dalziel grunted. “If so, then there’ll be a pattern somewhere, if we look long enough.” He looked up at the towering shelves of papers.

They all mentally groaned.

A clock chimed in the study. Letitia blinked, then reluctantly shut the ledger she’d been perusing. She looked at Christian. “If we want to catch Trowbridge this afternoon, we’ll have to go.”

Dalziel cocked an inquiring brow. Letitia explained, “I received an invitation to an afternoon exhibition of garden sculptures at Lady Hemming’s house in Chelsea. Trowbridge is one of the critics her ladyship has invited to grace the event and proffer opinions on the works. I’d thought to approach him there, in a social setting, rather than call formally.”

“An excellent idea.” Dalziel looked at Christian. “I’ll continue here, but we should send for Trentham. He knows more about importing and shipping than I do-he might see something in these”-with a wave he indicated the walls of records-“I’ll miss.”

Christian nodded, closing the ledger he’d been examining. “I’ll send a message-and I’ll also see if Jack Hendon’s in town. If we need to know about importing and shipping, no reason not to go to the source.”

“Indeed.” Dalziel looked at the shelves again. “I’ve a feeling we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

They arranged for Hermione to wait in the study, from where she could look out and keep watch on the street. When Tristan arrived, she would allow him into the study, then show him the secret door.

“One last thing.” Dalziel set down the files he’d been perusing. “Let’s find out how to open the door from this side…assuming it does open from this side.”

Leaving Hermione in the study, they shut the secret door, then hunted. It was the work of a few minutes to locate the catch; the door did indeed open from both sides.

Letitia was about to leave the secret room when she recalled that both outer doors were unlocked. She mentioned it, along with, “So anyone who’s ever seen Randall open the secret door from this side-his murderer, for example-has free access to the rest of the house.”

Both she and Hermione wrapped their arms around themselves and shivered.

Dalziel exchanged a look with Christian.

Who looked at Letitia.

Just as she remembered. “I know where the keys are.”

Spinning around, she climbed the steps into the study. Going to the desk, she opened the middle drawer and pulled out a small ring with two keys. Returning to the secret room, she headed for the outer door. “Barton found these when he searched the desk. Neither he nor I had any idea where they fitted-he tried them in all the locks in the house.”

One key operated the lock on the door to the small yard. Unlocking it again, she opened the door and silently crossed to the laneway door. The second key locked it.

Relieved, she returned to the secret room, locked the outer door, then tossed the keys to Dalziel, now sitting in the chair behind the desk. “Leave them with Hermione if you leave before we get back.”

He sent her a look-he didn’t take orders at all well-but then saluted her and gave his attention to another ledger.

She turned to Christian. “Now we can go.” She headed for the steps to the study. “Come on, or Trowbridge will have left before we get there.”

After exchanging a resigned look with Dalziel, Christian turned, nodded to Hermione, and followed Letitia back into the house.

Throughout the journey to Chelsea, Letitia was uncharacteristically quiet, her silence punctuated by an occasional muttered, “I still can’t believe it.”

Christian understood her difficulty, and her consternation. If it ever became common knowledge that she, Lady Letitia Vaux, an earl’s daughter, had married a farmer’s son, she, and the Vaux in general, would never live it down. Despite Randall having deceived the entire ton, she, even more than her family, would bear the opprobrium. As dangerous secrets went, that certainly qualified.

She, of course, realized that; as the carriage rattled into Chelsea she fixed him with a tense look. “Who else might know of Randall’s background? What about the alumni of Hexham Grammar School?” A hint of hysteria colored the words.

“I doubt they’d know,” he answered evenly. “The school wouldn’t advertise the social standing of their governors’ scholars-the other boys would have imagined them impoverished gentry.” He paused, then added, “If any had known, you would have heard of it long since.”

She nodded tersely. “True. So!” She drew in a tight breath. “Who else needs to know the details?”

He’d anticipated that question, too. “The others who are helping us-Trentham, and Jack Hendon, if he’s here. Without knowing that, they won’t understand what we’re dealing with. But you needn’t worry about their discretion. They won’t say a word-I guarantee it.”

She searched his eyes. “You know each other’s secrets, I suppose.”

He nodded.

She softly humphed, and looked out of the window. “I’ll have to tell Agnes-she’ll need to know. But I’m not going to tell Amarantha or Constance. They’d have the vapors, and that would be just the start of it.”

“There’s no need to tell anyone who’s not helping us unravel this mystery.”

After a moment she said, “I’ll have to tell Justin.”

Given Justin’s feelings over Randall and her marriage, her reluctance was understandable, but…“Yes, he has to know.”

When she said nothing more, he added, “And at some point, you’ll have to tell your father.”

A moment went by, then, still looking out of the window, she murmured, “He already feels so guilty over me having to marry Randall…we’ll see.”

He left it at that, not least because they’d reached Lady Hemming’s; the carriage slowed, joining the line of vehicles drawing up before her ladyship’s front steps to disgorge their fair burdens. A survey of those alighting confirmed that this was another highly select event. To his relief, Christian noted a smattering of gentlemen among the female throng.

Lady Hemming greeted them effusively, thrilled to have Letitia grace her event. Randall’s death was still a point of interest for the ton’s avid gossips, and having Christian appear as Letitia’s escort only heightened expectations.

Yet as they strolled into the crowd-a sea of color constantly shifting about the sculptures set up on her ladyship’s lawn-Letitia’s cool grace proved sufficient to keep the curious, if not at bay, then at least within bounds. They nodded and exchanged greetings, eyed Christian with open curiosity, but did not try to detain them or engage them in discussion of the “distressing events surrounding her husband’s death.”

Christian overheard the phrase more than once during their perambulation, whispered behind hands, eyes following Letitia and himself. Like her, he ignored both the whispers and the eyes.

“That’s Trowbridge.” Letitia halted by a bronze of a scantily clad nymph. She pretended to study the statue, but with a tip of her head indicated a gentleman standing before the next sculpture along. He was surrounded by a bevy of ladies, both young and old, who hung on his every word as he passed judgment on the piece.

Letitia continued to study the nymph, allowing Christian the opportunity to feign boredom and idly survey the group before the next statue.

Trowbridge was on the tall side of average, his hair an artful tangle of mousy brown locks, one of which fell artistically across his forehead. His features, while pleasant enough, were undistinguished, lacking the sharp angles and planes common among the aristocracy, but it was his dress that caused Christian to mentally raise his brows.

Trowbridge had elected to wear a coat of bold green, ivory, and black checks. His waistcoat was a perfectly matched spring green, the buttons on both coat and waistcoat large gold disks; his trousers were black. Instead of a cravat, he wore a floppy ivory silk scarf knotted about his throat.

Together with his gestures as he discoursed on the sculpture to the assembled ladies, the vision he presented made Christian wonder…

“I seriously doubt he has the slightest interest in any lady-other than the statue, of course.”

The dry comment from Letitia had Christian glancing at her. Then he looked back at the group around Trowbridge. The ladies, one and all, appeared to be flirting outrageously with the man, while Trowbridge responded to the top of his bent. He frowned. “Do those ladies know that?”

“Of course.” Slipping her hand onto his arm again, Letitia murmured, “That’s why they flirt with him so openly-no matter how he responds, his preference for men makes him perfectly safe.”

Christian’s brows rose higher. “I see.”

They circled, holding to their own company but keeping Trowbridge in view. Eventually some of the ladies drifted away, then, having expounded at length on the points of a statue of a satyr, Trowbridge stepped back, allowing those left a moment to reflect.

Letitia and Christian exchanged a glance, and moved in.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Trowbridge.” Letitia gave him her hand. “I’m Lady Letitia Randall. We met at Lady Hutchinson’s event.”

Trowbridge smiled delightedly and with an extravagant flourish bowed over her hand. “Enchanted, my lady.”

“Allow me to present Lord Dearne.”

Christian exchanged a circumspect nod with Trowbridge.

“I wished to speak with you”-Letitia glanced at the ladies still studying the satyr-“to ask your advice on the relative merits of the pastoral style of works”-a wave indicated the pieces studding the lawn-“versus the humanistic style, from the viewpoint of long-term investment.”

Trowbridge blinked.

Turning away from the satyr-and the other ladies-Letitia started to stroll slowly down the lawn toward the river wall that marked its far end.

Trowbridge necessarily kept pace. “I…er, don’t really advise from an investment point of view. My interests are more on the artistic side-the skill of the artist in capturing his subject, his technique, the quality of execution. Sadly, investment value is more driven by what becomes popular, rather than by artistic merit.”

Contrary to Christian’s expectations, Trowbridge didn’t halt, ready to part from them and return to his bevy of admirers. Instead he continued to stroll beside Letitia, his gaze on her face. Waiting.

She glanced swiftly back, confirming they were out of earshot of all other guests. “I see. Regardless, Mr. Trowbridge, I have something I wished to discuss with you.”

“Yes?” Trowbridge’s tone was frankly expectant.

Christian had fallen back, strolling a pace behind Letitia’s shoulder, leaving Trowbridge’s interrogation to her-at least to begin with. He drew closer as she drew breath and said, “I daresay you’ve heard about the murder of my late husband, and that the authorities suspect my brother of the crime.”

Trowbridge’s face blanked.

Glancing up, Letitia saw, waited. When he said nothing, simply stared at her, she went on. “I believe you knew my husband rather well-you and he were close friends, were you not?”

Trowbridge halted. “Ah…no. Not close. Not anymore. Not for many years.”

Halting, too, Letitia raised her brows. “Indeed? Then it will come as a surprise to you that he left you a bequest in his will.”

“He did?” Trowbridge was either an excellent actor or was truly surprised. “But I thought…that is to say, we’d agreed-” He broke off altogether. After a moment of staring into space as if seeking clarification, he refocused on Letitia. “I really don’t know what to say, Lady Randall. Randall and I hadn’t been more than passing acquaintances socially for…well, the last decade.” He frowned. “What did he leave me?”

“You’ll no doubt hear from his solicitor in due course. It was an antique clock-he said you’d admired it.”

Trowbridge’s face lit. “The Glockstein?” When Letitia nodded, he rattled on, “Indeed, it’s a very fine piece. He came across it years ago and was wise enough to pick it up. I was always envious. He even said it was knowing my taste that spurred him to buy it. Such ornate work on both the face and the hands. I’ve always-”

“Trowbridge.”

Christian’s deeper voice jerked Trowbridge back to blinking attention; he caught the man’s gaze. “How did you know Randall?”

Trowbridge’s eyes widened. “How?”

Christian felt his face harden. “Through what avenue did you first meet him? It’s a simple enough question.”

“Yes…but why do you want to know?”

“Because for obvious reasons we’re hunting for Randall’s killer, and a necessary part of our investigation is considering all who knew him well. He mentioned you in his will as a longtime friend, and if, as you intimated, you were green with envy over his acquisition of the Glockstein clock, then-”

“No, no!” Trowbridge waved his hands. “Good Lord. It wasn’t like that. Our acquaintance…well, friendship as it was, was nothing like that.” He looked sincerely horrified. “If you really must know, we met at school.”

Letitia opened her mouth. Christian silenced her with a look. “Which school?”

“Hexham Grammar School.”

Christian looked into Trowbridge’s large, slightly pro-truberant blue eyes. “Did you know Randall was a farmer’s son?”

“Yes, of course. We…ah, he wished it kept secret. Especially when he went up in the world.” Trowbridge glanced at Letitia, as if conscious of what such a secret would mean to her.

Christian grasped the moment to ask, “And what about you, Trowbridge? Have you come up in the world, too? Are you, too, hiding something?”

Abruptly Trowbridge looked him in the eye. “Patently, I’m hiding nothing at all.” He held out his arms, hands spread, inviting them to view him as he was. “From which you may infer that deception isn’t my strong suit.” He glanced at Letitia. “It was Randall’s.” He looked again at Christian. “If I had half his talent, I would, without doubt, be more circumspect. As it is…”

Again he gestured, turning the movement into an extravagant bow. “If you’ll excuse me?”

With a nod, he turned away, and walked swiftly, rather stiffly, back up the lawn.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, Christian and Letitia watched him go.

“I’ll lay odds,” Christian murmured, “that he’s from a lower class family, too. That he was another governors’ scholar. His natural…flair, for want of a better word, is his disguise-in our circles quite an effective one.”

Letitia snorted. “If we’re to talk of odds, what are the chances of two governors’ scholars from Hexham Grammar School rising from nothing to walk our gilded circles?”

“I wouldn’t like to think.” Christian took her arm and started back to the house. “Regardless, what would you wager that when we learn about Swithin, he, too, will prove to have attended Hexham Grammar School, and that he, too, was a governors’ scholar?”

“Regardless of Trowbridge’s protestations, his particular bent, no matter how widely recognized, how relatively open and undisguised, still gives him a powerful motive for murder.”

Later that night, Christian moved about Letitia’s bedchamber; shrugging out of his coat, he laid it over the back of a chair. “For instance, if Randall, who must have known his secret, including numerous details-a gentleman who could claim long acquaintance-were to explicitly expose Trowbridge, then everything he’s worked for, his position in the ton, would evaporate overnight. The fact that he and Randall shared another secret wouldn’t matter-the secret of their births counts for much less, and affects them both equally.”

In light of Trowbridge’s “particular bent,” they’d had to wait until now, when they were free of both Agnes and Hermione, to discuss the subject.

Standing before the window looking out over the night-shrouded street, Letitia folded her arms. “No lady would be able to allow him to cross her threshold, not if his inclination was public fact.”

They’d returned to South Audley Street to find that Tristan had indeed arrived and spent several hours with Dalziel searching through the files and papers. They’d eventually departed, leaving a message with Hermione-chuffed to be a part of their investigation-to the effect that they’d return the following day to continue searching and share any news.

Beyond that, Hermione knew no more, which had done nothing to ease Letitia’s growing concern over the Orient Trading Company. She had a gnawing premonition that Randall being a farmer’s son might prove the least troubling of the secrets he’d left behind. She leaned against the window frame. “I wish I’d asked Trowbridge about the company-whether he knew anything of it, or whether, indeed, he was another part owner.”

On the journey back from Chelsea, they’d speculated as to whether Trowbridge and Swithin might prove to also be part owners in the company, accounting, perhaps, for the other two-thirds.

Unbuttoning his shirt, Christian crossed to stand behind her. “One step at a time. We’ve established that Randall and Trowbridge were once friends, that they’d known each other for decades, but that for some reason they grew distant with the years…or they played down and actively hid their association.”

Reaching for her, he drew her back against him; she let him, but remained stiff, spine straight, in his arms. He continued, “If Trowbridge is a part owner of the Orient Trading Company, then claiming he barely knows Randall won’t wash-they would have had to meet frequently, and with Randall leaving him a bequest in a relatively recent will, citing their friendship, then Trowbridge’s claim of mere acquaintance isn’t believable.”

“Which in itself is strange-why hide a friendship if it were there? Trowbridge didn’t attend Randall’s funeral, yet he must have known of his death. He hasn’t called to offer his condolences-he didn’t offer any even today.”

Settling her against him, he reviewed the short interview. “Trowbridge was taken aback that Randall had named him in his will. It seemed to me his reaction had more to do with Randall acknowledging him at all, rather than that it was via a bequest.”

“Hmm.” She closed her hands about his at her waist. “What I don’t see is how any of this is helping us clear Justin’s name.”

Secure in the knowledge that she couldn’t see, he let his lips curve, then he touched them to her temple, drew them slowly down, barely touching, over the whorl of her ear to press a more definite kiss into the shadowed hollow behind it.

Eliciting an encouraging shiver.

“We’re identifying other possible suspects.” He murmured the words against the soft skin of her throat. “And once we know more about the Orient Trading Company, we’ll doubtless have more. If Randall was managing an enterprise directly engaged in trade, there’s always the chance of a disgruntled customer or supplier furious enough, or desperate enough, to commit murder. We now know we can add Trowbridge to our list. And most likely Swithin as well. The more potential suspects we can identify, the weaker the case against Justin.”

She eased back against him, into his warmth. “Perhaps, but he’s still the prime suspect.”

“True.” He skated his lips down the long line of her throat, heard her breath catch as she arched her head, allowing him better access. “But once we start winnowing our suspects, the real murderer will emerge.” Raising his head, he turned her, met her shadowed eyes. “And once we have him, Justin will be safe. In every way.”

She looked into his eyes; he could sense the frown in hers. “You make it sound so…straightforward. That it will simply happen, step by step, like that.”

“Because it will.” He drew her closer. “Because we’ll make it happen”-he bent his head-“just…like…that.”

He covered her lips and kissed her-deliberately kissed her to distract her.

To give her something else to think about, to fill her mind with…

Him. Them.

And what might be.

He needed to reawaken her dreams again, to convince her to trust that they could come to be. To convince her to put her hand in his again, to be his again.

In his heart he knew it wouldn’t be as easy as he’d like, yet when he held her in his arms, when she stepped into him and sank her fingers in his hair and kissed him back with all the pent-up longing in her dramatic soul, he felt like heaven was within his reach.

So close, as he angled his head and deepened the kiss, he could taste it.

She no longer even pretended that she thought he might-or should-leave her each night, that he should go home and allow her to retire alone. Just as well. The single night he’d stayed apart from her had seemed to drag on forever.

Yet as they tussled for direction, wrestled for supremacy, as clothes dropped like so much litter to the floor, as hands grasped and mouths and lips caressed-until he spun her about, bent her forward over a round table and entered her from behind-and she gasped, caught her breath, then sighed, shifted, and took him yet deeper-even then he wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell whether she was as caught in the moment as he was.

As deeply ensnared by the emotional net that for him, at least, in moments such as this, held him.

All he could do was show her how he felt-let her see, and feel, how possessive of her, with her, he wished-needed-to be.

And hope she understood.

In the end, after they’d both touched glory and he’d carried her, all but staggering, to collapse on her bed, as she curled against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, the fingers of one hand lazily riffling the hair on his chest, all he could do was hope that she would once again grant him what she’d so freely gifted him with all those years ago.

Hope that with every night, with every day that passed, she would see his unswerving devotion for what it was.

Hope that on this unsettling and unfamiliar battleground, he was advancing his cause, and drawing ever closer to recapturing her heart.