The Edge of Desire

Chapter 19

Why can’t we just go to his house and put it to him?” Justin looked from Christian to Dalziel.

Christian reined in his own impatience. “Because it might not be him. And if it is, we need an approach that’s going to advance our position, gain us some ground, not simply serve to advise him of our suspicions.”

“You heard Roscoe.” From his corner of the carriage, Dalziel gazed out at the familiar streets. “Swithin didn’t need to kill Randall-it’s difficult to see why he would.”

“Swithin is quiet, cautious. Of the three of them, he’s the last one you’d imagine had the intestinal fortitude to commit murder.” Christian added, “Far easier to imagine Roscoe was our man, except he’s far too clever.”

Dalziel humphed in agreement.

The carriage drew up outside Allardyce House. They couldn’t go to Randall’s house because of Barton’s dogged watch, so Christian had suggested they call in there to take stock and plan their next move-almost certainly a call on Swithin, but exactly how…

They’d alighted and were climbing his front steps when a messenger-one of those Gasthorpe used-came pounding up the pavement.

They all halted, turning to face him.

“My lord!” The youth offered Christian a folded note, then caught the railing, almost doubling over as he worked to catch his breath.

Christian unfolded the missive; the others watched his face as he read. “Trowbridge has been attacked at his home and left for dead.”

“Randall’s murderer strikes again.” His face hardening, Dalziel stepped down to the pavement, reclaiming the hackney that hadn’t yet moved off. He glanced back at Christian. “Chelsea?”

Christian nodded. “Cheyne Walk.” He went down the steps, but then halted. “I promised I’d go and see Letitia and let her know what Roscoe said.” He held up the note. “She’ll want to come.”

Dalziel looked at him, a species of disbelief in his eyes.

Christian hesitated; he glanced at Justin as he joined them. “And if Randall’s murderer is attacking the owners of the Orient Trading Company, she’s now on his list.”

Justin humphed. “She’s sitting in a house full of servants, and you told me she said she’d wait there. She usually does what she says she will, and Barton’s there, too, keeping watch over her and the house-she couldn’t be anywhere safer.”

“Exactly.” Dalziel opened the door of the hackney. “And while we debate the issue, the murderer’s trail is growing cold.”

Christian hesitated. Why, he didn’t know, yet reluctance dragged at him as he forced himself to nod. “All right. When we’ve finished in Chelsea, we’ll come back to South Audley Street.”

Following the others into the carriage, he shut the door.

The scene that met their eyes when they walked into the house in Cheyne Walk-through the wide open, unmanned front door-could only be described as chaotic. Christian caught a rushing footman, relieved him of the fruit bowl he was ferrying and directed him to announce their arrival. After staring at Christian, then at Dalziel and Justin, the footman turned tail and went.

Christian walked into the drawing room and set down the bowl. The three of them stood in the middle of the fabulous room with its wonderful light and white-and-lemon decor, and waited.

Eventually they heard heavy footsteps raggedly descending the stairs.

Rupert Honeywell came in. He looked haggard and distraught even though he was making a herculean effort to bear up. Any doubt of the depth of his regard for Trowbridge would have been banished by one look into his tortured eyes.

“Thank you for coming. I didn’t know who else to send for.” He looked at Christian. “I remembered the card you gave Russell-he still had it in his pocket.”

Christian nodded. “What happened?”

Honeywell dragged in a huge breath, held it for a moment, then said, “He went out for his morning walk as he always did, along the bottom of the garden-there’s a path that follows the boundary wall along the river.” He hauled in another breath. “When he didn’t come back for breakfast, I sent a footman to look for him, then decided to go myself. Sometimes he sat on a bench looking out over the river and forgot the time.”

He paused, then, gaze distant, continued, “I got to the bench, but he wasn’t there. Then I heard the footman call out and strode over. Russell was sprawled on the path-from a distance I thought he’d swooned, but then I got closer and saw the blood on the footman’s hand…and on Russell’s head.”

Honeywell’s voice broke, but he swallowed and went on, “He’d been hit-bashed-with a rock. It was lying nearby. The footman thought he was dead-he kept saying he was-but I found a weak pulse. We got him back to the house and summoned the doctor-he’s with him now.”

“He’s alive?” Christian asked.

Honeywell nodded. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “The doctor says he thinks he’ll live. He’s regained consciousness.” Honeywell paused, then added, “It was he who insisted I send for you, and as I couldn’t think of anyone else, I did.”

“We’ll go and see him in a moment, but first, did the staff see anyone they didn’t expect to see this morning?”

Honeywell shook his head. “I asked. No one saw anything, and they’re all devoted to us, so they would say if they had.”

Christian nodded. “This walk Trowbridge took-you said he walked every morning. Always the same route?”

“Yes. It was his way of clearing his head for the day. That’s why I didn’t walk with him.”

“What about the walls?” Dalziel asked. “Are they high, glass on top-or low? Could someone have climbed over without coming through or past the house?”

Thrusting his handkerchief back into his pocket, Honeywell nodded. “Easily. The wall at the back is the boundary of the river walk-it’s chest height for a man, easy to look over. Not difficult to climb over. It’s the same for the properties on either side, so anyone could have gone down through any of the gardens along this stretch-and early morning, who would see them?-or someone could have walked up along the river path.”

“So every morning Trowbridge walked alone along a path that anyone could reach.” Dalziel grimaced.

“Anyone who knew about his habit.” Christian considered Honeywell, but elected to go to the source. “We need to speak with Trowbridge.”

Honeywell was clearly not happy in a purely protective way. However, he equally clearly knew Trowbridge wouldn’t thank him for such solicitude; tight-lipped, he turned to the door. “If you’ll come this way, we’ll see what the doctor says.”

The doctor agreed they could speak with his patient. “He’s groggy, but he won’t settle otherwise.”

In a room hung with exquisite Chinese silks, Trowbridge lay propped up on a bank of pristine white pillows in a massive four-poster bed. An even whiter bandage circled his skull; his skin was very nearly the same color. His eyes were closed, his arms lying on the covers on either side of his body.

Honeywell went around the bed and took one limp hand between both of his. “Dearne’s here.”

Trowbridge’s lashes flickered, then his lids lifted. After a moment of vagueness, his gaze sharpened. Christian was relieved to see the man’s usual acuity swimming beneath the haze of pain.

Then Trowbridge’s lids fell. “I didn’t see him.” His voice was a thin thread, but clear enough. “Coward-the bastard sneaked up on me.” Opening his eyes, Trowbridge glanced at Honeywell. “I was thinking about that latest canvas of yours, so I was far away.” Slowly, he brought his gaze back to Christian. “I didn’t get so much as a glimpse.”

Christian nodded. “Have you done anything-spoken to anyone at all-regarding the company? Or done anything else that might connect with Randall’s murder?”

Trowbridge pursed his lips, a line between his brows. “No. I haven’t discussed the company with anyone-not since I spoke with you.”

Honeywell frowned. “What about Swithin? You spoke with him when he called.”

“Oh. Yes.” Trowbridge smiled vaguely at Christian. “Forgot about him.”

Trowbridge was too dazed to notice the instant awareness, a primal tensing of muscles, that affected his three visitors at the mention of Swithin. Honeywell did; it was he who gently asked, “What did you talk to Swithin about? He doesn’t often call.”

Eyes again closed, Trowbridge carefully nodded. “About the company. About the sale and when we might go ahead with it. About how much we stood to make-because it’s such a risky business, that’s not as much as one might think given the high income. The income could end tomorrow if any number of things happened.” He moistened his lips, then went on, “I suggested that I’d be quite happy to settle for a third of the total income for a year-I vaguely recall Randall mentioning that-the income for a year-as the figure he hoped to secure.”

Trowbridge lifted his shoulders in a light shrug. “Reasonable when you think about it. Swithin agreed. That was more or less all we discussed. All perfectly innocent.”

“Not so innocent,” Christian quietly said, steel infusing his voice, “once you learn that Swithin is neck deep in debt and desperate for income to qualify for a massive loan.”

Trowbridge opened his eyes. “He’s in debt?” He frowned. “Good God. How? He was wealthy-the wealthiest of the three of us.”

“Never mind how-we don’t have time.”

Dalziel caught Christian’s arm, holding him back as, with a muttered oath, he turned for the door. Letitia was definitely in Swithin’s sights.

“One thing in all this I don’t understand.” Dalziel spoke quickly. “Why didn’t Swithin simply tell you and Randall about his need for income, and that therefore he didn’t want to sell the company?”

Christian looked back to see Trowbridge blink.

Twice. Then he shook his head. “Oh, but he wouldn’t. Indeed, Randall and I are the very last people he’d ever tell. He’d never tell us, never let on, that he’d failed with our Grand Plan.”

Seeing their incomprehension, Trowbridge struggled to sit up; Honeywell helped him. “What you have to understand about our Grand Plan was that for Randall and me it was us against them-us against society as a whole. But for Swithin, it was us against each other. He…simply couldn’t see the wider picture-for him it was always a competition.” Trowbridge searched their faces for some sign they understood. “That’s what I meant about his wealth-he took great pride in having amassed more than Randall or I had. Money was the one issue on which he could trump us-and we let him, because that-who was more wealthy among us-wasn’t important to us…”

Trowbridge’s face suddenly fell, all animation leaching away. “It was he who struck me, wasn’t it? After all these years, he tried to kill me, because in his mind he’d failed, and he couldn’t bear that. Couldn’t bear me knowing…and he killed Randall, too.”

Christian nodded curtly. “Yes, and if you’ll excuse us, we need to make sure he doesn’t kill anyone else.”

Trowbridge grasped his point. “Yes, of course.”

Christian strode for the door. Behind him, he heard Dalziel speak to Trowbridge.

“He almost certainly thinks you’re dead. We’ll send word when we have him-until then…”

At the door, Christian glanced back and saw Dalziel looking at Honeywell.

“Make sure there’s someone with him at all times.”

Mentally nodding, Christian strode out. Justin was on his heels.

Dalziel caught up with them as they bundled into the hackney, Christian having instructed the jarvey to drive hell-for-leather for South Audley Street.

The man took him at his word. They rattled through the streets, taking corners at speed; grim-faced and silent, the three of them braced themselves, each absorbed, thinking ahead.

Christian told himself that Barton was there, watching from outside-but that wouldn’t stop Swithin going in. He’d told Letitia that Swithin was a suspect, but none of them had seriously thought him the murderer-not until today.

As they raced into Mayfair, leaving curses in their wake, he prayed they’d be in time.

They arrived at South Audley Street. Leaving Dalziel to deal with the jarvey, Christian strode up the front steps, threw open the door-and stepped into outright uproar.

A cacophany of myriad feminine voices all raised, all exclaiming-all at once-assailed him. Behind him, he heard Justin mutter, “Good Lord! They’re all here.”

“Christian!” Letitia’s aunt Amarantha spotted him as he stood rooted just inside the door. “Just the man-Letitia’s disappeared.”

They came at him from all sides, more pouring from the parlor to add their voices to the din. It appeared to be an assembly of all the Vaux females, close and distant; all Letitia’s aunts and female cousins seemed to be there.

He tried to make sense of what they were telling him, but there was so much dross camouflaging the facts it was hopeless. Eventually he spotted Agnes in the parlor doorway, Hermione beside her, but he couldn’t reach them short of mowing through the crowd.

Grim-faced, he held up his hands. “Quiet!”

A sudden silence fell, if anything even more painful than the preceding cacophany. Stunned, they all looked at him with wide eyes.

Stepping farther into the hall so Dalziel could come in and close the door, he focused on Agnes. “I need one of you-only one-to tell me what’s happened. Agnes?”

She nodded. “Letitia was here-she stayed in this morning. Hermione and I went to a morning tea.” Her voice wavered but she dragged in a breath-glowered at Constance, who had opened her mouth-and went on, “She’s obviously had visitors-there’s a tea tray.” She waved into the parlor. “But when we came home, she wasn’t in there. We thought perhaps she’d gone up to her room, but then the others arrived and Hermione went up to fetch her-but she wasn’t there either. She’s not in the house. And she hasn’t left any message, which she would have if she’d been called away, or gone to Bond Street, or…”

Letitia had said she’d be waiting for him to come back to her; while he wasn’t insensible to the echoes of their past, Christian knew absolutely that this time she wouldn’t have gone anywhere-not willingly.

While Agnes had talked, he’d made his way through the crowd to her. Justin had followed; Hermione grabbed his hand.

Looking past Agnes, Christian saw the tea tray set on a low table between the sofas. Only two cups. He’d hoped…

He turned back to the hovering horde. “Where’s Mellon?”

The butler was nowhere in sight. One bright cousin slipped into the parlor and tugged the bellpull.

A moment later the baize door at the rear of the hall swung open and Mellon marched through.

Over the heads of the ladies, Christian beckoned; the ladies parted, allowing Mellon to make his way to him.

Which he did with a supercilious air. “Yes, my lord?”

Christian looked down at him. “Who called on your mistress?”

Mellon arched his brows. “A good friend of the master’s called to offer his condolences, as was proper.”

Justin made a frustrated sound. He stepped around Christian, grabbed Mellon by the throat, lifted him off his feet and slammed him up against the hall wall; the pictures hanging on it bounced. “Who called on my sister?”

Mellon goggled, hands ineffectually scrabbling at Justin’s.

Far from fainting or being scandalized by the violence, all the Vaux ladies looked on eagerly. Even encouragingly. When Mellon didn’t immediately divulge the name, Agnes pointed imperiously to the tea tray. “Who did she have tea with?”

“Come on, man-spit it out,” Constance said. “Dearne hasn’t got all day.”

“It was a Mr. Swithin,” Mellon gasped. “From what I heard, he was the master’s great friend.”

Justin’s lip curled. “Mr. Swithin-your master’s murderer.”

Mellon’s face turned ashen. “He killed Mr. Randall?”

“So we believe.” Dalziel joined them by the parlor door. “What happened after you served the tea?”

With Justin, Christian, and Dalziel facing him, Mellon looked as if he would like to faint but was too scared to. “I…ah, listened at the door for a time. Mr. Swithin was telling the mistress about Mr. Randall at school. Then I was called away to the pantry. When I came back, the parlor was empty. I thought the mistress must have gone upstairs. It seemed odd she’d seen Mr. Swithin out herself, but-”

“Did you hear the front door open and shut?” Christian asked.

Mellon shook his head. He frowned, looked back down the hall. “I should have-I was only on the other side of the door.”

Christian looked down the hall, too, past the stairs. “The study.”

Once again the sea of ladies parted, letting them through. Christian grasped the handle, tried it. “Locked.”

The door was thick, solid oak. He exchanged a glance with Dalziel, then they both stepped back, balanced on one leg, then together kicked the door hard, level with the lock.

It gave with a crack. Christian used his shoulder to force the door open, then strode in. He was relieved to find the room empty, devoid of bodies. Going straight to the window, he released the secret panel.

Crowding the doorway, the ladies looked in, oohed as Dalziel caught the hidden door and hauled it wide.

Christian followed Dalziel down into the hidden room. It was the work of a moment to verify that the door to the little yard and the lane door were both unlocked.

“Just as they were when Randall was murdered.” Dalziel stood in the lane looking toward the street. “He couldn’t come in this way-he had to come in via the front door. But he left this way, just as he did before.”

“But this time he took Letitia with him.” Christian looked the other way along the lane; it ended in a wall a few houses along. He looked back toward the street. “But the only way he could have gone was back into South Audley Street.”

Frowning, he turned and strode back into the house. “Where the devil is Barton? He was keeping watch as usual this morning-Letitia knew he’d be there. She would have tried to attract his attention.” He eased his way through the mass of females thronging the hidden room and the study to regain the now relatively free space of the front hall. Justin came up with him as he made for the door; Dalziel was close behind.

Throwing open the door, Christian halted on the front step and looked across the street-to see Barton paying off a jarvey.

“What the hell?” Justin muttered.

Barton saw them. Lifting his head, squaring his shoulders, he marched toward them.

“Where the devil have you been?” Christian demanded as the wiry runner approached the steps.

Barton halted, blinked.

Christian reined in his temper, ruthlessly squelched his panic, and ground out through clenched teeth, “Lady Letitia was kidnapped this morning-she was taken from here, almost certainly in a carriage. She would have called out, struggled-you must have seen…” The little runner had lost all color. A chill clutched Christian’s chest. “You weren’t here, were you?”

Statement more than question.

Barton shook his head. “I…” He cleared his throat, then spoke more firmly. “I was following you. I didn’t see anyone nab her ladyship.”

Christian swore-colorfully, inventively, at length.

Justin eyed him with approbation. “You were always destined to marry a Vaux.”

“I’ll have to find her first.” And he would.

Apparently judging the worst had passed, Barton reached into his coat pocket, produced his warrant card, held it up for them to see. “Lord Justin Vaux, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering your brother-in-law, Mr. George Randall.”

“Lord, you’re not still on about that, are you?” Justin frowned down at him. “You can do that later, if you’ve a mind to after we’ve found my sister and got her out of the hands of Randall’s real murderer.”

Barton’s lips thinned. “Be that as it may, I’ve found you-Lord Justin Vaux, as is my quarry-and I’m taking you into custody, as is my duty, and I’m calling on you two gents”-he indicated Christian and Dalziel-“to bear witness. I followed him in your presences to Mr. Trowbridge’s, where I heard there’s been a spot of bother. It’s clear as the day there’s something afoot, and Lord Vaux here is in the thick of it.”

“The day,” Dalziel pointed out caustically, “is cloudy. And yes, Lord Vaux is assisting in investigating Randall’s murder and exposing the real killer, and now we know who he is, you can continue to follow us and do your duty when we corner him.” He eyed Barton coldly. “At present, however, you’re in our way.”

With that, Dalziel moved down the steps. Christian fell in behind him, Justin in the rear.

Barton had to give way; he backed across the pavement, watching, faintly stupefied, as Dalziel swung off the steps and strode off toward Curzon Street. Lengthening his stride, Christian caught up; his and Dalziel’s long legs ate the distance.

Justin strode close behind. Christian heard Barton’s footsteps following, at first hesitantly, then more definitely.

Eventually the runner dared to draw level with his “quarry.” As they turned the corner into Curzon Street, Christian saw Barton tweak Justin’s sleeve. “What’s going on?”

Justin glanced down at him, faintly exasperated. “Just follow along and you’ll see.”

Barton didn’t have much option.

“Which house?” Dalziel slowed.

His face like stone, Christian pointed it out.

Dalziel halted before the front steps. He looked at Christian. “How do you want to handle this?”

Christian eyed the front door, then marched up the steps and pounded on it.

Swithin’s butler quickly opened the door.

“Where’s Swithin?” Christian demanded. He stepped forward.

Startled, the butler backed. “Ah…I’m not sure I know, my lord.”

Christian pinned him with a glare. “Think carefully.”

“And quickly,” Dalziel advised.

“Ah…” The butler stared at them, his gaze moving from one to the other.

Then Justin ranged alongside Dalziel in the doorway. “Believe me, this is not the time to hesitate-we have a Bow Street runner with us, and he’s keen to make an arrest.”

The butler goggled.

“Did your master leave in his carriage, perhaps?” Christian took another step forward so he was looming over the hapless man.

The butler looked up, into his eyes; what he saw there had him swallowing, nodding. “Yes. That’s right.” The man’s head kept bobbing. “He called for his carriage well over an hour ago-he said he was picking up one of the mistress’s friends and was taking her to visit the mistress in Surrey.”

“Surrey?” Lifting his head, Christian stared unseeing across the hall for a moment, then glanced at Dalziel. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

Dalziel nodded. “Much easier to hide a body in the country-that’s how he’d think.”

The butler paled. “Body?”

Christian ignored him, turned and strode back out of the door. Dalziel and Justin joined him; Barton hovered.

Christian felt as if his heart was being slowly fed through a mangle. He forced himself to think past the pain, to ignore the incipient panic. “We’ll have to follow as fast as we can, and pray she can slow him down enough for us to reach them.”

Dalziel said nothing, simply nodded.

“At least he’s in a carriage,” Justin said. “In curricles, we’ll close the distance.”

But not fast enough. Surrey wasn’t that far away.

“Hey!”

They all turned to see Tristan and Tony striding along the pavement.

“We called at Randall’s house to take another look at the books and walked into a madhouse,” Tony said. “Hermione told us Swithin has kidnapped Letitia and you’d come this way.” He raised his brows. “What’s afoot?”

In a few brief words, Christian told them.

“We can catch him, or come very close.” Tristan caught Christian’s eyes. “With God’s help, close enough to save her.”

“He’s got what sounds like nearly an hour’s head start,” Justin pointed out.

“True, but he’s new to the area. I’m not.” Tristan smiled intently. “There’s shortcuts he won’t know about-with luck we can make up half an hour just getting out of town.” He glanced at Christian. “We need curricles and fast horses. I’m close enough to fetch mine.”

Justin slanted a glance at Dalziel. “I can get mine.”

Dalziel nodded. “Go. I’ll travel with Dearne.”

“We’ll meet back here-at the corner,” Christian declared.

They scattered, Tony striding off with Tristan, Justin disappearing along Curzon Street with Barton trotting at his heels, Dalziel accompanying Christian back to Grosvenor Square.

She was alone-but this time Christian would come for her.

Letitia lay on her side on the seat of Swithin’s carriage and kept her eyes closed. The horrible stuff he’d used to drug her had left her nauseated, but the sensation was slowly ebbing.

Her faculties were slowly returning.

They were traveling southward; the direction from which sunlight fell through the carriage windows told her that. She recalled hearing that Swithin had a country house in Surrey; presumably he was taking her there.

Or perhaps he intended putting her on a boat to who knew where?

A possibility, but she didn’t think it likely.

She thought he meant to kill her; how, she didn’t know, exactly where, she didn’t know, but if his aim was to halt the sale of the company without saying anything-without letting anyone who knew of his descent into poverty live…then he was going to have to kill her.

Telling her he’d killed Randall, telling her why, even if it didn’t make all that much sense to her, showed very clearly what he planned for her.

Therefore her only goal until this was over was to avoid being killed.

She had to slow him down until Christian came.

Her confidence that he would was, somewhat to her surprise, rock solid. Unshakable, unwavering. He might not have come to save her years ago, but then he hadn’t known she’d needed saving. This time he would know; this time he would come.

She examined that certainty and what fed it. In her heart, locked away though it was, she no longer doubted his devotion to her. Circumstances or fate might part them, yes, but he never would.

And nor would she.

But she hadn’t yet told him that. Hadn’t found the courage or the moment…No. In light of her heart’s certainty, given her predicament, she might as well be brutally honest-she hadn’t found the backbone to set aside her pride, to relinquish the one prop she’d had left to her and openly embrace him and their love again.

To, in the eyes of their world, claim it, and him, for her own again.

Damn!

Pride had twisted Swithin into a murderer. She wasn’t, she vowed, going to let that less than admirable trait deprive her of the one thing she most wanted in life-Christian, and through him, the resurrection of their dreams.

She wasn’t going to die, and she wasn’t going to let pride retain any further hold on her.

And she certainly wasn’t going to let a sad case like Swithin take their future-the future they’d waited twelve long years for-from them.

Determined, she carefully cracked open her lids and peered through her lashes. Swithin sat dozing on the opposite seat.

Very carefully, she straightened her legs, seeking to ease her cramped muscles. Only to detect, then confirm, that he’d hobbled her. Her ankles weren’t lashed tight, but they were joined-she could part them only a few inches, not even a foot.

Faintly horrified, she tried to move her hands-and discovered her wrists were tied together. Without moving too much, she squinted down at the knots-and cursed long and vividly, if silently.

Her hands were lashed palm-to-palm with the knots on the outside of her wrists. She wouldn’t be able to ease the knots undone with her teeth; she couldn’t reach them well enough to do so.

More silent cursing ensued; she let herself indulge-temper buoyed her. Gave her untold courage, false though it might be.

At that moment she would willingly embrace anything that gave her strength. If she was going to foil Swithin’s plans long enough for Christian to rescue her, she was going to need all she could get.