The Edge of Desire

Chapter 15

The next day, Sunday, Christian escorted Letitia, Agnes, and Hermione to church-raising untold eyebrows and causing Letitia to send him increasingly narrow-eyed looks.

But as they walked the short distance back along South Audley Street, she saw his curricle waiting, with his chestnuts between the shafts.

Strolling beside her, he leaned nearer and murmured, “I thought you might enjoy a drive to Richmond.”

She glanced at him, met his eyes, then looked ahead. “I suppose that will keep me from wearing a track in the carpet.”

So they parted from Agnes and Hermione, and he handed her up.

The drive to Richmond was refreshing, oddly peaceful. The day was fine, but a brisk breeze blew beneath the trees, enough of a deterrent to keep many away; the broad swaths of lawn were, if not deserted, then at least not crowded.

Her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, they walked, and talked of events long past. By unspoken agreement they avoided the subject highest in her mind-their plans for tomorrow, and what they might find.

The wind whipped the ribbons of her black bonnet across his chest. In her black gown, with her alabaster skin so pale against the contrast of her dark red hair, she looked even more slender, even more femininely fragile than usual.

She wasn’t fragile, at least not physically, yet the hint of vulnerability the black emphasized-that he saw when, while thinking of him she glanced at him-wasn’t something she’d possessed long ago.

Now that he recognized it for what it was, his heart constricted and his chest felt tight every time he glimpsed it.

Time, he hoped, would help him eradicate it.

After a brisk ramble under the trees, they repaired to the nearby Star and Garter for lunch. He encouraged her to tell him all she knew of recent ton scandals; the time passed swiftly and easily.

Leaving the hotel, they took one look at the deepening gray of the sky and headed for the curricle. The drive back was uneventful, but instead of taking her to South Audley Street, he drove to Grosvenor Square instead.

Pulling up outside Allardyce House, he tossed the reins to his groom, who came running to the horses’ heads, then he stepped down to the pavement, turned and helped Letitia alight.

In response to her questioning look, he waved to the house. “We can have afternoon tea here. I’ve a pile of correspondence I need to look through.”

Because he’d been spending all his time with her. Letitia inclined her head and consented to be led inside.

Christian’s butler, Percival, recognized her. His face lit in a most unbutlerish way. He recovered and bowed low. “My lady. Welcome to Allardyce House.” He straightened. “If I may take your bonnet…”

“Yes, of course.” Letitia undid the ribbons, lifted the poke bonnet with its demiveil free of her hair, and laid it in Percival’s waiting hands.

“We’ll have tea in my study, Percival.” Christian took her arm and steered her down a corridor leading from the front hall.

“Indeed, my lord. At once.”

She hadn’t seen his study before; it had previously been his father’s domain. She found herself curious; she didn’t lack for distraction while he sat behind the large desk and steadily worked through a stack of letters.

Tea arrived. She poured, sipped, and sampled the scones that had arrived with the pot. They were delicious. As Christian had his head down, tea cup in one hand, she finished three scones, then took pity and called his attention to the last one.

By the time she finished her second cup of tea, he’d polished off the scone and finished with his correspondence.

He rose. “Come-we’ll walk back to the house.”

Not her house or “Randall’s house.” She’d noted he rarely uttered Randall’s name if he could avoid it, most especially in relation to her.

In the front hall, she reclaimed her bonnet. While securing it, she glanced at Percival, saw he was regarding her with a smile. “Please tell the cook that the scones were superb.”

Percival’s smile widened as he bowed. “Indeed, my lady. She’ll be thrilled to hear you enjoyed them.”

She suppressed the impulse to arch one brow. Had Christian said something to his staff? She glanced at his face, as arrogantly austere as ever, and doubted it.

They walked briskly to South Audley Street through the fading day.

Reaching the front steps, she paused-and glared across the street. “He’s still there!”

Christian grasped her elbow and turned her up the steps. “I warned you he’d be dogged.”

“But it’s Sunday!” On principle she glowered at Mellon when he opened the door.

Christian followed her in. And stayed.

For dinner, then through a long game of loo with Hermione and Agnes. When at last they were packing up the board and counters, he glanced at Letitia, and was satisfied. She might have thought about their appointment at the banks tomorrow, but at least she hadn’t had time to obsess. Like her, he couldn’t imagine anything good lying beneath the cloak of Randall’s secrecy, yet regardless, they had to lift it off and look.

She was, for the moment, relaxed and at peace. Over the last days, while he’d been intent on distracting her, he’d also been consciously wooing her-for the first time. Before, when they’d first known each other, he hadn’t had to exert himself; their mutual attraction had drawn them inexorably together, without any extra effort from him.

Now, however, while he might be sharing her bed, that mutual attraction wouldn’t serve to convince her he truly wanted more from her. He hoped the past day had opened her eyes, at least a little, that she’d seen he wanted to share not just a bed but a life, with all the simple pleasures that entailed.

The following morning, they were at the doors of the Piccadilly branch of Rothchild’s Bank when it opened at ten o’clock. Christian requested to see the manager; they were shown into an oak-paneled office almost immediately.

Letitia sat back, from behind her veil watched as Christian shamelessly used his rank and title to bend the manager, a Mr. Hambury, to his will.

She wasn’t at all surprised that Hambury bent very quickly.

“Indeed, my lord! Of course-I’ll instruct the teller to…er, look your way and nod when the deposit in question is made.”

“While the deposit is in progress would be best.”

Letitia gave thanks for her veil; it hid her amusement. Christian’s drawl was outrageous, his arrogant pose as he lounged in the chair beside hers the epitome of the powerful, bored aristocrat.

She couldn’t complain; the ploy gained them what they wanted.

On returning to the main chamber of the bank and taking up positions along one wall from where they could keep the two tellers in full view, they saw Hambury exit his office by another door and move among the clerks. He spoke first to one teller, then the other-in both cases the tellers looked across at them, then back at Hambury and nodded.

A harassed looking underclerk came hurrying out with a chair for her. He set it down, bowing low; she smiled, murmured her thanks, and sat.

Two minutes later Hambury, who’d disappeared into the depths of the bank, came out again and headed their way, another older clerk with a visor shading his eyes following at his heels.

Frowning slightly, Hambury bowed. “Ah…Mr. Wilkes here, our head teller, has some information which might prove useful.”

Unlike his master, Wilkes seemed much less obsequious, although he bobbed his head respectfully.

He addressed himself to Christian. “That deposit Mr. Hambury says you’re waiting for, my lord. The large one. It always comes in just after one o’clock.” He tipped his head back toward the nether regions from which he’d emerged. “I’m back there, counting the money as it comes in, and with a sum like that, the clerks always bring it straight to me. That’s how I know-the party who pays that sum in will be here at one o’clock, give or take ten minutes.”

Letitia sat transfixed. One o’clock?

“Thank you, Wilkes.” Christian’s voice came from above her. “It was good of you to spare us the wait.”

Letitia felt his fingers close about her elbow; inwardly moaning, she surrendered and got to her feet.

Christian nodded to Hambury and Wilkes. “Gentlemen. We’ll be back before one o’clock.”

Letitia waited until they’d gained the pavement to give voice to her impatience. Christian let her grumble as, her hand anchored on his sleeve, he led her along. When she finally wound down and disgruntledly asked, “What the devil are we to do until one o’clock?” he hailed a hackney.

He took her to the museum.

They wandered around the exhibits, but there was nothing there to catch her eye-or his, for that matter. He was wondering how on earth to keep her occupied for the next two hours when she said, “Tell me about your life as a spy.”

He felt his brows rise, but…“What do you want to know?”

She made an all-encompassing gesture. “Start at the beginning. I recently learned that Dalziel recruited you to his little band. When was that?”

“Within a month or two of me joining the Guards. He had his pick of the Guards, from any regiment.”

She was frowning, looking down as she walked beside him. “But you didn’t immediately go to France.”

“No. Because I spoke so many languages, at first he had me go in and out of various countries, getting a sense of the lie of the land, and laying down a background as the wealthy bastard of an ex-French nobleman engaged in trade. Later, when I went over and stayed, I was stationed in Lyon. It was the hub for the manufacture of machinery and heavy equipment-such as artillery. Even if it wasn’t made there, most of the components came from there. So…”

To his surprise, the words flowed easily. She listened, nodded, and asked questions-questions rooted in her knowledge of him and therefore easy to answer, even if sometimes both her questions and his answers surprised him.

Only when he looked up and found they’d wandered all the way back to the museum’s door, and the clock above it declared the time to be nearly noon, did he realize just how much he’d talked-and how much he’d revealed.

More than he had to any other living soul, Dalziel included.

He glanced at Letitia; she was still frowning over his last answer-an explanation of how Napoleon’s reign had affected the people of Lyon. That she’d even thought to ask it, that he’d answered without reserve, telling her about the resistance and the heartbreak of lost comrades who hadn’t even been British…

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Beneath the blatantly sexual attraction that had always flared between them ran another, deeper bond. One of shared background, of common understanding born of the fact they hailed from the same, very narrow social stratum. They shared the same sensitivities, looked on the world from much the same perspective, held to the same tenets of honor, loyalty, and courage. And stubborn determination, that never-accept-failure arrogance that permeated their class.

Looking at her, her brow furrowed as she digested all he’d said, all he’d revealed of himself along with the facts, all he could think of, all his mind could see, was the rightness of having her as his wife-of seeing her in his houses, surrounded by their children.

It was a vision that stole his breath.

It was a vision his never-accept-failure arrogance would never let him surrender…

And she wouldn’t expect him to.

He suddenly knew how St. Paul had felt on the road to Damascus. He wanted to convince her that he truly wanted her as his wife; if he did feel that way, she would expect him to pursue that goal, and her, relentlessly. Stubbornly and doggedly.

She looked up at him, saw the smile on his face, frowned. “What?”

He let his smile widen. “Just…this.”

With one hand, he tipped up her chin and brought his lips down on hers.

A quick, swift kiss-in the middle of the foyer of the museum in full view of any who might be passing.

He drew back before she could react.

Stunned, she stared up at him. “What was that for?” Then glancing left and right, and realizing they were now the center of attention for a number of other museum patrons, she swore beneath her breath, grabbed his arm and tried to tug him to the door.

He consented to move, a satisfied smile on his lips. “That,” he informed her as he held the main door back for her, then followed her through, “was just to confirm that when it comes to you, to my plans for you, I fully intend to succeed.”

She looked at him, then snorted. “Naturally.”

They had a quick bite to eat at a nearby pastry shop and were back at the bank at a quarter to one. Taking up their previous positions by the wall, they watched the steady stream of customers approach the grilles before the two tellers.

The bank’s customers were a mix of well-to-do gentry and prosperous merchants, with one or two less prosperous among them.

At just after one o’clock a striking woman-tall but not young, well dressed but not, to Letitia’s discerning eye, expensively enough for the ton-walked into the bank, a lumbering giant at her heels.

The giant was plainly a guard; the way he hovered by the woman, constantly scanning the surrounds even inside the bank, underscored his role. The woman seemed largely oblivious to the stares the giant drew; head high, she waited in line for one of the tellers, then advanced to the counter, drew a large canvas bag from inside the even larger tapestry bag she carried, placed it on the counter and pushed it toward the teller.

Who, as he reached for the bag, glanced at Christian and all but imperceptibly nodded.

Letitia felt her eyes grow wide. She glanced up at Christian.

He took her arm and drew her to her feet. Lowering his head, he murmured, “There’s only one door. Let’s wait outside.”

Letitia cast another glance at the couple at the counter, then let him lead her out.

On the pavement, she shook her head. “Surely Randall didn’t keep a circus?”

His hand still wrapped about her elbow, Christian steered her a little way along the street. “I don’t think that’s it.”

She looked up at him. “What, then?”

Lips firming, he shook his head. He halted outside the window of an adjacent apothecary’s, turned her as if they were looking inside. “We’ll follow them when they come out.”

“Why can’t we simply ask them what they’ve just paid for?”

His lips thinned even more. “We can ask later. Let’s see what business they come from first.”

She frowned, but then the door of the bank swung open and the woman came out, followed by the giant. They turned away from the apothecary’s and walked off in the opposite direction.

Letitia turned to follow. Christian anchored her hand on his sleeve and strolled, keeping her beside him.

She inwardly frowned at his pace, but she had to assume he knew what he was doing. In his past occupation, he’d no doubt followed people often.

And it was hardly difficult to keep their quarry in sight; the giant towered over everyone. He was wearing a plaid felt cap; even when Christian insisted on dropping half a block behind as they turned up Shaftesbury Avenue, Letitia could track the pair with ease.

Neither the woman nor the giant gave any indication they’d realized they were being followed.

Letitia frowned. “We’ve followed far enough-they might be trudging for miles. Let’s catch up to them and just ask.”

“No.”

There was a grimness in Christian’s voice, mirrored in his face when she glanced up at it, that made her frown even more.

He glanced down briefly. “Not yet.”

She sighed; looking ahead, she continued trailing along beside him.

From Shaftesbury Avenue their striking duo turned south into Wardour Street. Letitia glanced narrow-eyed at Christian. “Not yet?”

He didn’t even reply.

If she’d thought she could, she would have slipped her hand from beneath his, picked up her skirts and run after their quarry, hailing them and then simply asking directly for the answer they needed. How could that hurt?

But she held no illusions about how Christian would react; for all his size, he could move with startling speed when he wished-she doubted she’d even be able to draw her hand from beneath his before he caught it.

“This is-” She broke off as the pair stopped outside a town house. The area wasn’t a bad one, respectable enough; the town house was plain, but reasonably well-kept, with two steps leading up to an emerald green door.

Climbing the steps, the woman paused, hunting in her bag, then she drew out a key, unlocked the door and went inside.

Ducking his head, the giant followed, then the door shut.

On the opposite side of the street, Christian stopped, drawing Letitia to a halt beside him. She regarded the green door. “Well, then, let’s go in and speak with her.”

Christian clamped his hand about her wrist and remained where he was. He studied the building in question. “It’s not a shop-and there’s nothing to suggest it’s an office of any kind. No sign, no plaque by the door.”

Letitia looked at the building, then shrugged. “Perhaps she just lives there. With the giant.”

And perhaps it was a high-class brothel, which in this area was perfectly possible. If it was, Christian certainly wasn’t going to escort Lady Letitia Randall née Vaux in to speak with the madam. “I think we should go back to South Audley Street.”

He tried to draw her on, but she dug in her heels and refused to budge.

She stared at him. “Why? We’ve followed them here-we know they’re in there. Why can’t we just go and ask them what they’re paying the Orient Trading Company, of which I own a third share, for?”

He set his jaw. “I’ll come back and ask them-but you can’t.”

Locking his fingers about her wrist, he tried again to draw her on; this time she pulled back-to the limit of his arm.

“Nonsense!” She glared at him. “I saw that woman-she’s perfectly respectable. And if you think I’m going to wait any longer to learn what my devil of a late husband was up to-what he’s saddled me with-you’re wrong!”

She turned her arm sharply outward and broke his hold-then she streaked away, racing across the street. She reached the door, grabbed the knocker and hammered it down once before he caught her and lifted her from her feet-

A little window in the door flew open.

Gritting his teeth, Christian put her down. She tugged her bodice down, sent him a scorching glance, then turned to the window and smiled.

Whoever was behind the little window rumbled, “The mistress isn’t interested in any pamphlets or good works.”

Letitia’s smile didn’t waver. “That’s just as well, as I haven’t any to offer her. I-” She glanced over her shoulder at Christian, then turned back to the eyes she could see through the little window. “-we wish to speak with the lady who entered a few minutes ago. You may tell her Lady Randall requests a few minutes of her time.”

The instant she said “Randall,” a strange look came into the blue eyes watching her. A moment passed, then the little window shut and they heard bolts being drawn back. The door swung open, held by a large man who appeared to be masquerading as a butler. “Indeed, ma’am,” he intoned in a passable imitation of Percival’s authority. “If you’ll just come this way?”

His bow left something to be desired, but with a regal inclination of her head, Letitia consented to follow him down the hall, Christian behind her. To her surprise, the man didn’t conduct her into any of the rooms to either side; as they passed the open doorways, she glanced in and saw what appeared to be salons, yet there was something not quite right about the furniture, and the curtains were all still drawn.

There was also a curious smell, as if someone had spilled brandy on a rug.

The butler continued into a corridor and all the way to its end; there, he opened a door and bowed them through.

“If you’ll wait in here, ma’am-my lady-I’ll fetch the mistress. She’ll be along in a moment.”

Letitia walked in to what appeared to be a cross between a study and an office. A heavy desk sat squarely in the center of the room, with another smaller desk against one wall, a bookcase filled with boxes and files beside it. Two chairs faced the larger desk; glancing around, she moved to one and sat.

Although old and undistinguished, everything was clean and neat.

The butler whisked out of the door, closing it behind him.

She glanced at Christian-and found him surveying the room.

Christian drifted to the bookcase, glanced at the labels on the boxes. Uninformative. He looked at the desk, wondered if he had time to search…decided against it.

Letitia shifted on the chair, drawing his attention; she was sitting upright, unusually prim. She caught his eye. “This isn’t a brothel, is it?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.” But he’d wager the place provided some form of entertainment for wealthy gentlemen; he’d recognized the odors of tobacco and spilled brandy, recognized the decor in the rooms they’d passed.

Footsteps tap-tapped down the corridor-a woman’s heels, rapidly approaching. They halted outside the door; a whispered conference ensued, too muted for them to make out any words.

Christian stepped between Letitia and the door.

Abruptly, silence fell, then the door opened.

The woman they’d seen at the bank entered, the giant once again in her train. The butler, Christian noted, hovered by the open door.

The woman came to stand at the front corner of the desk, facing Letitia. Little showed on her handsome face, yet she seemed wary.

Letitia got to her feet. Both she and Christian were taller than the woman, but neither were taller than the giant, who lumbered around to stand behind the woman, openly protective. He’d removed his cap, exposing a balding pate; the face beneath was unprepossessing in the extreme-Christian suspected he’d been a pugilist in earlier years.

Having confirmed Letitia’s quality, and his, the woman drew in a breath. Hands clasped before her, she fixed her gaze on Letitia’s face. “You’re Lady Randall-Mr. Randall’s wife, I assume?”

Letitia nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.”

The woman straightened, her gaze shifting to a point by Letitia’s right shoulder. “I understand you wish to speak with me, ma’am.”

Letitia inwardly frowned; the woman was behaving like a housekeeper. “Yes.” Where to start? “As you may or may not know, Randall died unexpectedly.” Brows rising, she amended, “Well, not to put too fine a point on it, he was brutally murdered. Consequently, through his will, I learned I’d inherited a third share of the company he managed, the Orient Trading Company.”

The woman clearly knew the name.

Encouraged, glancing at Christian and receiving a tiny nod in reply, Letitia looked back at the woman. “Subsequently, I and”-she waved at Christian-“others acting on my behalf, have been trying to establish just what the business of my late husband’s company was. We know that you regularly, every Monday, pay in a large sum to one of the company’s accounts. If you would, I’d like you to explain to us what that payment is in relation to.”

The woman frowned. “It’s the week’s takings.”

Letitia blinked. “The week’s takings from what?”

“From the hell,” the woman replied.

“The hell?” Feeling suddenly unsteady, Letitia felt behind her for the chair.

Frowning more definitely, the woman looked at Christian. “That’s what this place is. Rigby’s-one of the most exclusive hells in London, if I do say so myself.” She looked from Christian to Letitia. “I’m Mrs. Rigby. I run the place.”

Letitia sank into the chair. “And Randall?”

“Owned it.”

When Letitia stared blankly and said nothing more, Mrs. Rigby went on, “I came to work for Mr. Randall…well, it’d be all of twelve years ago. He was setting this place up and needed someone who knew the ropes to run it. I’ve been here, running it, ever since.”

Letitia blinked. “So I own one of the most exclusive gaming hells in London.” Not a question. On the one hand she couldn’t believe it; on the other, faced with the evidence, with her evolving premonition, she did.

“Not just one,” Mrs. Rigby informed her, effectively reclaiming her attention. “I don’t know how many Randall had in his stable-I don’t know anything about any other accounts-but I do know of at least three other hells in this neighborhood who pay into the same account we do.” She paused, then added, “Not that we’re supposed to know about each other-Randall was always very careful, and never let on he had any other properties-but we do talk, those of us who manage the major hells.”

Christian thought of the entries they’d found for furniture and decoration, of the fourteen slim ledgers Tony had described as property ledgers.

Letitia continued to stare at Mrs. Rigby. “Not one, but a stable of gaming hells.” Her voice, weak before, had gained in strength.

Sensing a Vaux storm brewing-entirely understandably-Christian shifted, drawing Mrs. Rigby’s attention. “Did you ever meet any of the other partners in the company?”

Mrs. Rigby shook her head. “No. I never knew there were any other partners to meet.”

Christian nodded. He was starting, finally, to get the lie of Randall’s land. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out his card case. “If any others approach you, either saying they’re Randall’s partners or wishing to take the business over, send word to me at this address.” He handed Mrs. Rigby a card.

She took it, read it. Her brows rose. She looked at him. “Grosvenor Square?”

He met her gaze. “I act for Lady Randall.” He glanced at Letitia.

She caught his gaze, then looked at Mrs. Rigby and nodded. “Indeed. Please send word if you hear anything at all. We’re in the process of sorting out Mr. Randall’s affairs, and need to know anything pertinent-including if there’s any interest in the business from others.”

Consciousness passed behind Mrs. Rigby’s eyes. Christian noted it. “Have you heard anything?”

Startled, Mrs. Rigby looked at him, then she grimaced. “Not so much heard as…there’s been a rumor, the veriest whisper, going around that Randall was thinking of selling. Not just this place but his whole operation. Who to, I-and the other owners I know-never heard, but you may be sure there’d be a lot of interest in the businesses, at least all those I know of.”

Given the sums regularly pouring into the company’s accounts, Christian could well believe that. He nodded to Mrs. Rigby. “Thank you.” He caught Letitia’s eye. “We won’t take up any more of your time.”

Letitia rose. “Indeed.” There was an almost feverish light in her eyes as she pulled on her gloves. “We have rather a lot to deal with.” She swung around and headed for the door. “Do remember, Mrs. Rigby, to send word if there’s any query about the business.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Rigby fell in at Letitia’s heels. “I’ll send Tiny with a note. That way I’ll know it gets to the right place-no one gets in his way.”

Letitia glanced back at the giant, and nodded. “Yes-I can see how that might be.” She continued her march toward the door.

The butler whisked about and preceded her down the corridor to the front door, there to bow her out with all due deference. Mrs. Rigby came, too, to stand at attention and nod a careful farewell.

Christian followed Letitia down the front steps. When the door shut behind them, she halted on the pavement.

He joined her. She was still rather viciously tugging at her gloves.

Her eyes were narrow slits of fury. “You know, I lied.”

“Oh?” He kept his tone mild. “How so?”

“I swore I would never have killed Randall. But if someone hadn’t already done the deed, if-when-I found out about this-his secret business-I would definitely have murdered him myself!”

Suppressed rage fell from her in waves. She swung around and stormed off, back toward Shaftesbury Avenue. “Let’s find a hackney and get back to the club.”

Abruptly she halted. Christian nearly ran into her.

He steadied her, his hands on her shoulders.

She stared straight ahead, as if she’d seen an apparition.

“I just realized…” Her voice was too calm. Terribly calm. “…if on this account alone I’m the part owner of four hells, and each regular deposit is a different hell, including for those other two accounts, then…”

Her voice faded away.

Fourteen hells, Christian thought. Soothingly, he said, “We don’t know that yet.” His hand at her back, he urged her on. “Let’s get back to the club and see what the others have learned.”

“You, it appears, are the part owner of a company running an extensive string of high-class gambling hells throughout London.” Dalziel considered Letitia. They’d all returned to the club and gathered in the library to report on what they’d found. Along with Christian and Letitia, Dalziel, Tristan, Tony, and Jack Hendon were all seated in armchairs forming a circle before the empty hearth.

Letitia didn’t respond to the startling summation; she appeared to be mentally elsewhere.

“They certainly went to considerable effort to minimize any chance of outsiders learning of their involvement.” Tony Blake spoke to the room at large. “Each hell manager knew only one of the partners, and had no idea any other partners existed.”

Christian nodded. “The payers into each bank account are answerable to a different partner-Randall handled all the hells paying in at Rothchild’s, Trowbridge handles those depositing at Child’s, while Swithin oversees those paying in via Barkers.”

Dalziel and Tristan had found themselves visiting a hell in Newport Place, not all that far from Rigby’s in Wardour Street, while Tony and Jack had been led to an establishment in King Street, not far from Covent Garden.

“If the three hells we’ve visited are anything to judge by,” Christian said, “then it seems the company targeted the very crème de la crème in terms of young gentlemen with money to lose.”

Dalziel shifted. “I asked around after we left-the hell in Newport Place is known as an establishment that rash young men with more money than wits simply have to patronize.”

“You know,” Tristan said, “in terms of making money from the ton, Randall, Trowbridge, and Swithin have demonstrated a fine appreciation of what will work in attracting young gentlemen.”

“That’s what they learned at Hexham Grammar School,” Christian dryly remarked.

“Which is all very well,” Letitia suddenly said, “but says nothing to my purpose. I don’t give a fig for whatever ingenuity my late and unlamented husband and his cronies demonstrated in setting up this enterprise-all I want is to be rid of it!”

She glanced pointedly around the circle, reserving her final near-glare for Dalziel and Christian. “A Vaux,” she declared, “cannot be the owner of a string of gambling hells. My father would quite literally have a seizure-and who could blame him?-and I don’t even want to think of how my aunts would react if ever they heard of it, which I fervently pray they never will.”

Her tone made it clear she was not merely troubled by what they’d discovered-she was horrified, aghast, tending toward overset. She was seriously upset, well beyond agitated; they all understood that. They exchanged wary glances, keeping very still.

“Bad enough,” she concluded, her voice very nearly wavering, “to discover that Randall was a farmer’s son, but now I find he wasn’t even an honest one!”

Christian opted for silence.

Dalziel, brave man, tried for rationality. “There’s nothing illegal about running a gaming hell, in and of itself. The company isn’t breaking any laws per se.”

“That may be so”-Letitia’s tones were clipped; she clearly wasn’t mollified in the least-“but owning a string of gaming hells, no matter how exclusive, is breaking every ton law ever created.” She narrowed her eyes on Dalziel. “You, of all people, know what that means.”

Dalziel held her gaze, then, to the utter fascination of his ex-subordinates, inclined his head and retreated.

Letitia looked down at her fingers, clenched in her lap. “The only bright light in all we’ve uncovered today is that according to Mrs. Rigby, there was talk of someone wanting to buy the hells. If that’s so-”

“If that’s so,” Christian cut in, “you’ll need to wait and see who approaches you. Or me as your agent-you should take care not to be involved.”

“I have no interest in being involved.” She frowned at him. “That’s my point-if they wish to buy, then I’ll happily sell my share of the company. I want all ties with its enterprises severed and no more, as soon as humanly possible.”

“That’s understandable,” Christian allowed, “but you might want to consider not being quite so open about it.”

She frowned harder. “Great heavens, why?”

“Because,” he replied, jaw firming, “it’s entirely possible that the putative sale was in some way behind Randall’s murder.”

That gave her pause. “How so?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but until we know more, we need to play our cards very close to our collective chest.”

She consider that, then pulled a disgusted face and stopped arguing.

“We should,” Dalziel said, breaking into the ensuing silence, “put together all we’ve learned thus far about Randall, Trowbridge, and Swithin. We need to see how the picture fits together, and what pieces of the puzzle we’re still missing. We know all three were governors’ scholars, in the same year, at a school with a sizable percentage of boys from ton families and an otherwise solid base of the gentry-born. The three would have been entirely out of their social depth-certainly they wouldn’t have been readily welcomed among the other boys-so them banding together makes excellent sense.”

“It’s also,” Christian put in, “not hard to see what might have fired their ambition to become a part of the ton.”

“True,” Dalziel continued. “But from the time they left school to the time Randall appeared in London-which seems to be much the same time as Trowbridge and Swithin also relocated to the capital and the company was established-we know nothing of their lives. Whatever happened during that interval might be crucial, especially with regard to the motive for Randall’s murder.”

Tristan was nodding. “However, when they came to town twelve years ago, they immediately set about establishing a string of exclusive gaming hells exquisitely tailored to appeal to the dissolute young gentlemen of the upper echelons of the ton.”

Tony snorted. “Well, you can see it, can’t you.” He glanced around the circle. “They’re preying on the very group who, at Hexham Grammar School, would have made their lives hell.”

“There is,” Christian said, “a certain thread of irony running through all this.”

Jack stretched his long legs before him. “Extrapolating from Hexham to how they behaved when they arrived in London, I’d suggest that to fill in those intervening years we look for word of them at Oxford or Cambridge. Who knows? We might find gaming hells-the first they set up-operating there.”

Letitia glanced at Dalziel. “Much as I do not want to know the answer, I suggest you ask Justin. He would know-at least about Oxford.”

Dalziel nodded. “I’ll ask him, and send up and ask another who might know if Randall, Trowbridge, and Swithin actually owned a hell or hells in Cambridge.” He nodded to Jack. “I agree it seems likely they learned their trade there.”

Tristan grimaced wryly. “That would certainly explain their excellent understanding of how to attract their chosen prey-the fattest and easiest of all to pluck-into their establishments.”

Looking up to see nods all around, he continued, “While you’re pursuing that, I’ll see what I can learn about this rumor of Randall selling. The Newport Place manager seemed to think a deal was in progress.”

“I can help with that,” Tony said.

“And me,” Jack chimed in.

“Meanwhile”-Dalziel looked at Letitia and Christian-“I think we now have sufficient information to make another interview with Trowbridge worthwhile.”

“Indeed.” Christian rose. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

He offered Letitia his hand. She took it and rose, too.

All the others came to their feet. Dalziel continued, “Trowbridge’s house is in Chelsea.” He caught Christian’s eye. “You might well find Rupert Honeywell in residence.”

Reading the message in Dalziel’s dark eyes, Christian raised his brows. “I see.”

Letitia, following the exchange, didn’t, but before she could ask for clarification, Christian appropriated her hand and anchored it on his sleeve “We’ll reconvene here, I presume?” he said.

“We’d better, I think.” Dalziel exchanged a glance with the others. “We’ll all need to hear what Trowbridge has to say. If we can learn anything else, especially about any suggestion of a sale, then by tomorrow we might have quite a few potential murderers to pursue.”

Dalziel’s last words set hares racing and chasing through Letitia’s mind. That evening, as she stood in Lady Henderson’s drawing room and pretended to attend to the conversations around her, all she could think about was what she’d subsequently badgered out of Christian.

The soiree was not one she would have chosen to attend, but there were some invitations that, mourning or not, one did not decline. A summons from Lady Henderson was one such; the old lady was getting on in years, yet remained an institution within the ton. As Letitia was widely viewed as the most senior Vaux lady-with Randall so undistinguished, society had continued to regard her as a Vaux, and as Justin had yet to marry, she was the only female representative of the principal line of age-it fell to her to carry the family flag. The matrons around her would have been thoroughly shocked had she failed to appear.

Not that anyone could conceivably view standing in an ill-lit salon sipping weak orgeat and listening to others, most of whom were twice her age, dwell on the shortcomings of their adult children as at all entertaining.

Which was no doubt why her mind found it much easier to dwell on what Christian had revealed. He’d explained that in the murky world of which gaming hells formed a part, the sale of a valuable set of properties like the company’s had the potential to stir all sorts of reactions, any of which might turn violent. Bidders who sensed they might not win and owners of similar establishments were only some of the possible reactees; Christian had hinted that there were other even more shadowy souls within London’s underworld who might be moved to take an interest.

The notion of being involved with such persons held absolutely no allure. She was nearly twenty-nine; she’d left unthinking wildness behind her long ago.

Smiling as Lady Washthorne concluded a story about her niece, she wondered how soon she could leave.

“Letitia.”

Just the sound of Christian’s deep voice sent relief washing through her. She turned to face him and gave him her hand. “My lord. What brings you here?”

He raised her hand; eyes locked with hers, he brushed his lips across the backs of her fingers. “You.” He smiled. Instead of releasing her hand, he set it on his sleeve.

The others in the group were delighted to welcome him. He shook hands, exchanged greetings, then, after a few minutes had elapsed, excused them both and drew her out of the circle.

He glanced down at her. “How’s your temper?”

“Holding up. Just.” She looked around the room. “You know everyone here, do you not?”

“All by name, most by sight, but a potted recent history of the more notable wouldn’t go astray.”

“I see. In that case, you’ll want to know that Lady Framlingham…”

Christian steered her around the room in a slow, ambling circuit. A few reckless souls were brave enough to stop them to exchange greetings, but as it was plain they were deep in converse, most simply smiled, nodded, and let them pass by.

Letitia frowned at a gentleman-an aging dandy-across the room. “Did you hear about Findlay-Robinson?”

“What about him?” Christian inwardly smiled as she told him the tale of the faded beau’s obsession with one of the more flighty young ladies recently out.

“It will never do, of course, but no one has the heart to tell him.”

As they promenaded, she filled his ears with a detailed, colorful, accurate, and often acerbic account of the company and their private lives, their personal foibles. She entertained him while imparting information that, now he was appearing in society again, he needed. While she was frequently cynical, she was never malicious, instead exhibiting an understanding of their world that was both remarkably mature and remarkably well-grounded.

Demonstrating on yet another level why she was the perfect wife for him, and always had been.

Not that he needed reminding, let alone convincing.

Deciding they’d both been present long enough to be deemed as having done their respective duties, he turned her toward their hostess. “Come-I’ll take you home.”

Letitia inclined her head and let him.

Let him take her back to South Audley Street, let him take her upstairs, let him take her to her bed.

Let him take her.

Or, as the case proved, let him let her take him.

It was a distinction she appreciated, yet it was only much later, when she lay in his arms in the rumpled jumble of her bed and listened to his breathing deepen, listened to his heart slow as he slipped into slumber, that she realized.

She didn’t need to wake him to ask if he’d done it on purpose; she knew him-of course he had. He’d set the stage, played the part, and she-without thinking, without the slightest warning flicker in her mind-had slipped into the opposing role.

That of his wife.

If her unthinking acceptance hadn’t rattled her so much, she would have woken him just to upbraid him.

Damn man! She hadn’t seen that coming, not at all.

There was nothing to be done, not now she lay wrapped in his arms, her head pillowed on his chest, still far too physically wrung out to even contemplate moving.

No point in trying to move, either; even in sleep he’d hold her where she was. Over his heart.

All of which led her to contemplate instead the unexpected turn her life had taken. Randall was gone-as Christian had said, removed by fate from her side. And he was there instead, holding her through the night as Randall never had-as she’d never allowed Randall to do, which in itself told the story.

She was besotted with Christian, always had been, and nothing on that front had changed.

And now he wanted to marry her.

She knew he meant it, that this time he intended to stubbornly press his suit until she agreed, but the more cautious and wary, afraid-of-being-hurt-again side of her insisted she had to know why.

Had to know what was truly in his heart before she could decide whether marrying him now, after their years of separation, was the right, safe, and sensible thing to do.

It wasn’t being his wife she questioned; she’d always wanted the position, knew it fitted her like a glove and that everyone-simply everyone-agreed. That was not the issue. What she wasn’t sure of, what was holding her back, was a sense of not having looked hard enough. Of not yet having gained sufficient assurances to justify taking the risk of loving him again.

Of giving him, as she had long ago, her heart and soul, unconditionally.

Last time she’d done that naïvely, without a second thought-without any idea whatever of the dangers-and when she’d needed him by her side to protect her heart, he hadn’t been there. So her heart had been broken and, as she’d told him, she’d put the pieces away, locked them away and buried the key. That was the only way she’d been able to survive, to distance herself from the pain.

She still remembered the pain.

Given that, now he was back, now he was there once again in her arms, before she dug up the key, unlocked the casket, took out her heart, put it back together and handed it to him again, she had to be sure.

Absolutely, beyond all doubt sure that her heart would now be safe with him.

Once bitten, twice shy; in her case the old adage rang true. Regardless, she was going to have to make up her mind, and soon.

With him so intent on pressing his suit, in the next few weeks she would have to decide if what he was offering-all she would gain-was worth facing, accepting, and taking that risk again-this time with full knowledge of the pain she would endure if she agreed and her decision proved wrong.

She lay in his arms, cocooned in his strength, listened to the muffled thud of his heart-and knew in her heart that she was where she belonged.

If only there existed some guarantee.

Or at the very least some sign…

She was on the cusp of sleep when clarity shone, a beam sharpened by the prism of her waning conscious.

She knew she loved him-that wasn’t, never had been, a part of her dilemma.

The resolution to her dilemma lay in the opposing direction.

She had yet to be convinced that he loved her.

Loved her as she loved him, with her heart, her soul-with everything in her.

She was a Vaux-love was, for her, a grand, burning passion. She needed proof that he loved her in the same way-to the depths of his conqueror’s soul-before she again surrendered her heart and gave it into his keeping.

Sleep rolled over her and dragged her down, but the essence of that moment of clarity remained, lodged very firmly in her brain.