The Edge of Desire

Chapter 6

He bowled through the Nunchance Priory gates at mid-afternoon the next day. The long, winding drive was, he noted, in excellent repair, the trees shading it old but well-trimmed. The lawns and gardens that surrounded the house were neat, but not rigidly so, comfortable and colorful with rambling roses tumbling over walls, their perfumed blooms nodding in the warm breeze.

Beyond the changes expected of the years, all was as he remembered it.

He pulled up in the circular forecourt before the huge, rambling, late Tudor mansion. It had indeed been a priory, one linked to the abbey at Dearne; whereas the abbey hadn’t withstood the ravages of time and the various assaults visited upon it, the priory had escaped the old wars relatively unscathed, and succeeding generations of Vaux had preserved and added to its red-brick magnificence.

Leaving his curricle and horses in the care of a suitably reverent groom, Christian looked up at the long facade, at the many leaded windows that winked and blinked at him. The Allardyces and the Vaux were neighbors of sorts; while they didn’t share any boundaries, they were the two most senior families in the area and throughout the generations had been close acquaintances, if not always as close as friends.

That had been one reason both families had looked upon his and Letitia’s long-ago romance with benign approval, if not outright encouragement. No Vaux and Allardyce had married before, but once the idea bloomed, everyone had concurred that it was high time the families established a closer bond.

Then he’d gone to war, and Letitia had married Randall, and all thought of closer ties in this generation had faded. But the underlying acquaintance had not.

Climbing the shallow front steps, Christian tugged the bellpull.

When the butler, a thoroughly imposing specimen, opened the door, Christian smiled easily. “Good afternoon, Hightsbury. Is your master at home?”

Hightsbury recognized him and unbent enough to return his smile. “Indeed, my lord. Do come in. And may I say what a pleasure it is to see you here again. If you’ll wait in the drawing room, I’ll inquire as to the master’s pleasure.”

Christian consented to cool his heels in the elegant, formal drawing room; naturally, being a Vaux domain, it was also a cornucopia of rich and colorful visual and textural delights.

He barely had time to absorb their combined impact before Hightsbury returned.

“If you’ll come this way, my lord. His lordship is in the library.”

Following Hightsbury down the long, wood-paneled corridors, remembering what little Letitia had said about Justin’s falling out with their father, he considered how to approach the coming interview.

Hightsbury opened a tall door, went in, and announced, “Lord Dearne, my lord.”

“Heh?” A white-haired figure hunched over a large desk swung around to peer at the door.

Christian was momentarily taken aback; the earl appeared swathed in a dressing gown-then he realized it was a long, soft, dun-colored coat of the sort serious scholars wore to protect their clothes from ink stains.

He smiled and went forward.

The earl peered at him from under bushy white brows. His hair stood up in tufts, as if he’d tugged at it; Christian saw the odd ink stain in the tumbled locks. All in all, the earl’s reputation as an irascible, unpredictable eccentric appeared well-founded.

But there was nothing at all vague in the sharp hazel eyes that met his.

The earl inclined his head; his expression was relaxed but his eyes were watchful. “Christian, my boy-good to see you again.”

Christian half bowed. “Sir.”

Lord Vaux studied him, increasingly intent. They exchanged a few words about Christian’s aunts, then the earl waved him to a chair to one side of the desk. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, heh?”

Christian sat, his gaze skating over the papers scattered across the long desk. Most appeared to be rough notes, others looked more like treatises, extensively annotated and overwritten. He returned his gaze to Lord Vaux’s face. “I’m unsure how much you’ve heard from London, sir, but I believe Letitia informed you of her husband’s murder.”

Lord Vaux nodded, his gaze increasingly sharp. “She did. And I’ve since heard that some have cast my son as the murderer.”

Christian inclined his head. “Unfortunately, that ‘some’ encompasses the better part of the ton, and, I believe, the authorities.”

“Nonsense!” Lord Vaux scowled. “My son may be many things, but a murderer he is not.”

“Indeed. However, it appears Justin has deliberately cast himself as the most likely candidate.” Christian smoothly went on, “I understand you and he have had a falling out.”

When he waited, pointedly polite, for some response, the earl’s eyes sparked and his lips thinned. Eventually he barked, “We don’t speak. That’s common knowledge. The why concerns no one but ourselves. What’s that got to do with Randall’s death?”

Christian inclined his head placatingly, hiding his surprise at the strong undercurrent of bitterness in Lord Vaux’s voice. “I have no idea. However, I believe you should know…” Sticking strictly to what he knew for fact, he outlined what he’d discovered and why he’d concluded that Justin had acted as he had to divert suspicion from Letitia.

As he spoke, Lord Vaux’s bitterness receded, but his scowl grew darker. He did not, Christian noted, find Justin’s supposition of Letitia’s guilt of sufficient note to comment. Indeed, his lordship followed and accepted his son’s logic without protest.

Christian ended his recital with a summation of their lack of success in locating Justin. Somewhat to his surprise, Lord Vaux’s expression turned thoughtful; he cast a quick, surreptitious glance at a bookcase across the room. From the corner of his eye, Christian saw a gap-a space where a tome was missing from the regimented row.

There were books aplenty lying on various tables and chairs around the room, but he would have taken an oath that Lord Vaux knew where every single volume in his extensive library was-except for the missing book.

Remembering the book left open on the table in Randall’s library, Christian longed to ask if the missing work was Seneca’s Letters from a Stoic, but he was as yet unsure-all personal feuds aside-just where Lord Vaux stood when it came to protecting his son.

Indeed, once he’d reached the end of his report, Lord Vaux regarded him with a wary, faintly suspicious air. “If I might ask, just how did you come to be drawn into this, Dearne?”

Not his name, but his title. Christian held his lordship’s hard gaze. “Letitia, realizing-correctly, as it transpired-that Justin was going to be the prime suspect, appealed to me for help in proving his innocence.”

“She did?” That information had Lord Vaux regarding him in an entirely different light; hope, along with blatant interest and curiosity, now colored his tone.

Although he’d never formally spoken, never asked for Letitia’s hand, his interest in her had been common knowledge twelve years before. “Indeed.” Studiously bland, Christian continued, “She and I have been working together, both to locate Justin and, as I believe will become increasingly necessary, to discover who killed Randall.” He considered his now relaxed host. “Apropos of the former, I thought it might be useful to visit here and ask if you have any idea where Justin might be.”

The earl’s eyes started to shift toward the gap on the shelves, but he suppressed the impulse. He fixed his gaze on Christian. “No.” His gaze remained steady and direct. “I have absolutely no notion where my son might be.”

He was telling the literal truth, but, as Christian now did, he suspected his son and heir was somewhere close by. At the very least he’d dropped in on his way to wherever he’d gone.

Christian felt certain Justin hadn’t gone far. “I fear that you might shortly hear some rather distressing reports from the capital.”

“Faugh!” Reverting to his usual Vaux temperament, the earl pulled a face and made a dismissive gesture, conveying his absolute contempt for such reports. “I’ve friends in the capital-I know what’s being said. Absolute poppycock! The very notion…”

Christian inwardly smiled, and settled back to enjoy his lordship’s more colorful side.

When Lord Vaux realized he wasn’t in the least perturbed by his blunt and in some cases rather strong language, the earl relaxed even more and continued his rant, encouraged by having an appreciative audience.

Christian listened and learned; his lordship had much the same style of temper as Letitia and, if his memory proved correct, Justin-sharp, incisive, informed by a ruthless ability to see beneath most people’s surfaces. It seemed increasingly obvious that the earl cherished his scholarly life and had used his supposedly infamous temper to protect his privacy. And still did. Ruthlessly and relentlessly, with a full measure of Vaux stubbornness.

He eventually ran down, appearing oddly energized from having vented so much spleen on the distant ton. He eyed Christian approvingly. “A great pity you and Letitia didn’t tie the knot all those years ago. But…well, water under the bridge, I suppose.” He looked down, and with one liver-spotted hand, shuffled his papers.

When Christian made no comment, the earl glanced at the windows, beyond which the shadows had started to lengthen. He looked at Christian. “I would take it kindly if you would consent to dine with me-and remain for the night, of course. I don’t get many visitors.” He snorted. “Well, the plain truth of it is I neither encourage nor abide many visitors, but you’d be doing me a favor if you would stay-Hightsbury and the rest of them worry so when I go for long periods without speaking with anyone. Must be…well, weeks since anyone called.”

Christian muted his grin to an easy smile of acceptance. “I’d be delighted to join you. Better than driving back to Dearne in the dark.”

“Indeed. Precisely. Obviously you should stay.” That settled, the earl pointed to a bellpull on the wall. “Ring that, would you? Hightsbury will show you to a room. Tell him we’ll dine at seven.”

With that, the earl turned back to his papers. Letting his grin widen, Christian rose and crossed to the bellpull, having achieved exactly what he’d intended when he’d arrived.

He waited until he was walking down a corridor from the gallery in the majestic Hightsbury’s wake to ask, “Hightsbury, have you or any of the other staff seen Lord Justin recently?”

The tension that instantly infused the butler’s already rigid spine was answer enough.

Halting beside a door, Hightsbury set it wide, revealing a comfortable bedchamber. He fixed his gaze on a point above Christian’s head-no mean feat-and replied, “No, my lord. We haven’t seen Lord Justin for some time.”

“I see.” Christian nodded amiably and walked into the room.

“I’ll have your bag brought up immediately, my lord.”

Walking to the wide window, Christian looked down, then glanced back and smiled. “Thank you, Hightsbury. I believe I’ll go for a walk around the grounds until it’s time to dress.”

That news did not make Hightsbury happy; the struggle he waged to find some acceptable way to dissuade Christian-a marquess-from a perfectly acceptable pastime showed in his face. Eventually accepting that there was nothing he could do, he bowed low. “As you wish, my lord.”

Christian watched as Hightsbury departed, pulling the door closed behind him. Brows rising, he turned back to the window and looked out on the extensive gardens and, beyond that, the even more extensive park that he now recalled surrounded the priory. “You’re here somewhere, Justin-the question is where.”

He started his search in the stables, using the excuse of checking on his valuable pair to confirm that Justin hadn’t left his precious horses-apparently his sole tonnish vice-or his curricle in the care of his father’s stableman.

Christian wasn’t surprised to discover that he hadn’t; that would have been foolish, and Justin was no fool.

Nevertheless, judging from the head stableman’s dark looks, Justin and his horses were not far away.

Leaving the stables, Christian walked toward the house, studying it from the rear. It was not a true Elizabethan manor, lacking the classic E shape. Instead it had many and varied wings and additions, making it difficult to be sure, once inside, just where in the structure one was.

Lots of unexpected rooms tucked here and there in which to hide.

And that wasn’t taking into account priest holes and the like.

Resigned, Christian strolled slowly around the house, taking note of every window. Most on the first floor-all the bedchambers and apartments-had their curtains drawn to preserve the furnishings inside from the sun. He located only two sets of uncurtained windows on that level-those of the bedchamber he’d been given, and a set at one end of a short wing, no doubt the earl’s apartments.

On the second floor, some windows were curtained, others not. He would have to check the rooms on that floor. Many of the uncurtained rooms might be empty, stripped of furnishings, yet others…

He changed direction and headed for the house. The attic rooms, above the second floor, were universally uncurtained, but they would be servants’ quarters, nurseries and the like; aside from all else, he didn’t like his chances of finding his way through the maze that was certain to exist up there.

Going in through the open front door, he climbed the main staircase to the second floor and, taking due note of landmarks so he wouldn’t get lost, started to work his way through the rooms.

It didn’t take long to realize the staff were keeping a eye on him. A procession of maids with empty chamber pots, footmen with extra tapers, and in one case an empty coal shuttle, all passing him on the way to nowhere in particular, was a fairly clear sign. At first he considered it encouraging, but as the minutes passed, he realized that they were more curious than concerned.

The conclusion was obvious: Justin wasn’t inside the house, or at least not on the second floor.

Quitting that field, he started down a secondary stair. Glancing out of the landing window, he saw a conglomeration of buildings tucked away behind a stand of mature trees. The buildings-barns and similar structures, most likely the home farm-weren’t visible from the house except from certain vantage points.

Continuing down the stairs, he strode outside. As a landowner himself, he could always ask intelligent questions about crops and yields.

But it soon became apparent from the amused gleam in the farmer’s eyes that Justin wasn’t cowering in any barn, or anywhere else amid the farm buildings. As for the farmhouse itself, Christian couldn’t stand upright inside without constantly dodging beams, and if anything, Justin was a touch taller.

Accepting defeat for the moment, Christian headed back to the main house. Despite his lack of success, he remained convinced-increasingly so-that Justin was somewhere on the priory lands.

Twilight was spreading its subtle fingers across the landscape when he reached the house and entered through the garden hall. The instant he turned into the corridor that joined the front hall, he heard Letitia’s voice.

“How long has he been here?”

Out of habit, he’d been walking silently. He halted and listened.

“He arrived this afternoon, my lady,” Hightsbury replied.

“Not last night?”

Christian raised his brows and started walking once more. She was asking after him, not her missing brother.

He turned a corner; the front hall lay directly ahead.

He was still cloaked in shadows, some twenty feet from her, when, as if alerted by some sixth sense, Letitia turned and looked at him.

“There you are.”

“As you see.”

As he emerged from the shadows, she searched his face.

He raised his brows faintly, resigned.

Correctly divining that he’d yet to find Justin, she grimaced, and turned back to Hightsbury. “I assume Mrs. Caldwell has my room ready.”

“Of course, my lady. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“Please do. And tell her I’d like a bath. Esme is with me-no need for a maid. But please send up the water as soon as you can.”

Hightsbury bowed. “Indeed, my lady.”

Letitia turned and took Christian’s arm. “Come walk me to my room.”

He settled her hand on his sleeve and, without argument, fell in with her wishes.

As they climbed the stairs, he murmured, voice low, “What took you so long? I thought you’d be here before me.”

“I assume you stopped at the abbey, so I would have been, except that I couldn’t leave yesterday-I’d promised to attend Martha Caldecott’s dinner, and if I’d cried off at that late stage, she would have been left with thirteen, and in this season finding another to fill the gap would have been difficult, and-” She paused to draw breath. “-when we find Justin and prove he’s innocent, Martha’s one of the ladies I’ll need on my side to spread the word.”

“Ah. I see. In that case, might I suggest we join forces and devote ourselves to the task?”

They’d reached the long gallery, well out of Hightsbury’s hearing. She halted; drawing her hand from his sleeve, she faced him. “Hightsbury said you’d gone wandering about the house. Where have you searched?”

“Inside and out, but only as far up as the second floor.”

“No sign?”

“None. In fact, I’m fairly certain from the way the staff have been behaving that I haven’t even got close.”

She frowned.

He studied her face, then asked, “Could you ask them, appeal to them? Would they tell you?”

Grimacing, she shook her head. “Their loyalty, first and last, is to my father, and after that to Justin. If he’s told them not to tell me, they won’t. Nothing I can say or do will sway them-they’ll adhere to Justin’s orders come what may.”

“But you know this house well, all the nooks and crannies, all the hidden and half-hidden rooms. You probably know this place better than Justin-you’ve spent more of your life here than he.”

She tilted her head. “That’s true. So what do you suggest?”

He looked up. “The attics. I haven’t even seen the attic stairs yet.”

“You won’t. They’re hidden.” She thought, then said, “It’s too late to go up there now-it’s almost time to dress for dinner.”

Christian studied her face, her focused expression. “And your bath will grow cold.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Indeed. Regardless, our best time to search the attics is after dinner, while the servants are gathered in the hall belowstairs, having theirs. Papa is all but guaranteed to retreat to the library the instant the covers are drawn. We can pretend to have tea in the drawing room, pretend to be fatigued after our journeys, and retire as soon as we can.”

He saw nothing in her plan with which to quibble. “Very well.” He met her eyes. “I’ll see you in the drawing room.”

Letitia nodded and left. Christian stood in the gallery and watched her walk away down a corridor; absently he noted which door she chose. Without real thought, he stored the information in his memory, then turned and headed for his room.

The one part of the evening Letitia hadn’t foreseen was her father’s contribution. She wasn’t the least surprised that her eccentric sire evinced not the smallest degree of grief over Randall’s demise. What stunned her was that instead he appeared to have stepped back twelve or so years-or rather, seemed intent on behaving as if those intervening twelve years hadn’t existed.

Not for any of them.

Especially not for her and Christian.

The instant her father stumped into the drawing room and set eyes on the pair of them standing before the empty hearth, his eyes lit. He chuckled as he came to her and offered his cheek. And proceeded to comment on what a handsome couple they made.

By the time she’d shaken off her shock-he was usually guaranteed to grumble and grouse and grump through any meal-he and Christian were engaged in a discussion of her finer points.

As if she’d been a horse.

She immediately took charge of the conversation.

And her father immediately tried to wrest the reins back.

Christian, of course, understood perfectly. Amused, he walked between them, her hand on his sleeve, to the dining room.

There was no telling what, if given free rein, her outrageous sire might say. The only way Letitia could think of to distract him was to focus the conversation firmly on his bête noir, namely Justin.

“I tell you it’s simply unbelievable what the ton are saying. I even heard someone remark…” She prattled on, deliberately choosing comments that would most effectively ignite her sire’s ire.

Christian, of course, did nothing to help; he sat back as course followed course, his eyes on her, occasionally switching to her father when he grew colorfully irate, but his gaze always returned to her, with a glint of amusement lighting the slaty gray, a subtle smile curving his lips, and his ears flapping.

He’d expected her to follow him, had expected to sit at a table with her and her unpredictable father; it seemed clear he’d hoped to discover, uncover, rather more than just her brother.

If she could have, she would have boxed his ears, verbally at least, but she had to keep her wits focused on her father.

“I honestly can’t believe that Justin had the gall to think I’d murdered Randall. Do I look like a murderess? Do I have an evil glint in my eye? It can’t be the color of my hair. But regardless, I can’t help see what’s happened as anything other than ironic-the ton believing it was he for precisely the same reason he believed it was me…” She glanced swiftly at Christian, saw he’d noted the point. Mentally cursed.

“Humph!” Her sire sat back, waving aside a vegetable tureen. “Regardless, can’t say I blame anyone for believing it of either of you, all things considered.”

To her horror, Christian looked up from helping himself to another serving of roast beef. “What ‘things’?”

“Well…”

Letitia tried desperately to catch her father’s eye, but he was looking at Christian, opposite her.

Then her father waved generally. “Randall, of course.” To Letitia’s relief, her father’s peripatetic attention swerved back to her. “I still can’t believe you married the bounder.”

She glared at him. She’d married the bounder to save him and the family, as he damned well knew. For one finite moment her temper threatened to snap its leash for good and all, but then she glanced at Christian-waiting, hovering, wanting to know-and she forced it down, drew a huge breath, held it for an instant, then calmly-awfully-stated, “I do not believe we should continue this conversation. Randall is dead, after all.”

Her father, from whom she’d been very careful to hide the depths of her hatred for Randall-and equally, thankfully, the heights of her love for Christian-grumped, but subsided.

Christian narrowed his eyes at her, then gave his attention to his beef. She looked around, saw the platter was empty, and dispatched a footman to the kitchen for more. Anything to keep the twin banes of her life occupied.

At last the meal ended and, as she’d predicted, her father excused himself and returned to his library.

Christian dutifully refused her offer to retreat and leave him to enjoy a solitary brandy; he prowled at her heels as she led the way back to the drawing room. Claiming to be exhausted after the journey from London, she requested the tea trolley be brought in immediately. She and Christian made a show of pouring and sipping, then left the trolley in the drawing room and headed for the stairs.

It was only as she was climbing them with Christian beside her that she solved the riddle of the strange look on Hightsbury’s face as they’d passed him in the front hall and she’d airily informed him they were retiring immediately.

Hightsbury, and no doubt the rest of the staff, assumed she and Christian were “retiring” to the same bed.

Conscious of a wayward stirring of her interest, she shot a sidelong glance at Christian. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was thinking-or assuming-much the same as the staff, but she’d drawn a line and intended to stick to it.

No more payments until after he’d found Justin. Aside from all else, she couldn’t afford more-not yet. Not while there was Justin’s safety between them, complicating things.

She hadn’t yet decided how they should go on, didn’t even know what more-a brief affair, a longer liaison-he might want of her. Such matters were potentially too fraught to be dealt with now, not with Randall’s murder and all its possible ramifications hanging over them all.

Christian noted her silence-not so much unusual for her as unusual in its absorption. He wished he knew what she was wrestling with; even more, he wished he knew what the circumstances of her marriage to Randall-the earl’s “things”-were.

He’d hoped having her and her father together might lead to some revelation, however small, but all he’d gained was that tantalizing reference; all else was ongoing frustration.

Letitia’s marriage to Randall was the central pivotal issue behind all that had occurred. It was the reason for Justin’s actions. It was the reason Letitia and her father weren’t entirely in accord.

He wouldn’t be surprised if it was also the critical issue underlying Justin’s rift with his father. As far as he could make out, the timing fitted.

Not much else did. Letitia’s self-confessed hatred of Randall-in no way assumed-didn’t explain why she’d married the man. Likewise, the earl’s assertion that he couldn’t understand why she had made no sense. Admittedly that last had set Letitia off, so was probably an exaggeration, but there had to be some kernel of truth or she wouldn’t have been so irate.

They reached the gallery. Letitia halted and faced him.

He met her eyes, let his gaze travel slowly down until it rested on her skirts. “There’s sure to be heaps of cobwebs up there. Do you want to change your gown?”

“All bombazine gowns are the same, in my opinion.” Her brisk tone testified to her impatience. Having checked the gallery for lurking footmen, she turned and beckoned. “Come on. I’ll show you the attic stairs.”

The most interesting aspect about the attics at Nunchance Priory were the stairs leading to them. That, at least, was Christian’s opinion when, an hour later, they descended said stairs and, dusty and not a little dirty, returned to the gallery.

“Nothing.” Letitia looked both disgusted and vindicated. “I had hoped I was wrong and he’d holed up in the old nurseries, but clearly no one has been there for years.”

“Judging by the dust, decades.” He brushed a clinging cobweb from his sleeve.

“Yes, well, you wanted to look. So we’ve looked. Everywhere. Justin-as I warned you-isn’t here.”

He told her of the missing book in her father’s library.

She frowned. “That does sound as if he were here. But he must have been just passing through.” She glanced up at his face through the shadows. “Do you think he might have fled to Scotland?”

“He’s a Vaux-anything’s possible.”

She humphed, looked down-looked anxious.

He inwardly sighed. “I honestly think he’s somewhere close. I just don’t know where.” When she looked up again, he asked, “What about nearby buildings, further out from the house?”

When nothing registered in her face, he suggested, “What about the farms? Would he claim refuge with your workers, those he grew up with?”

She frowned, didn’t immediately reply, but then shook her head. “I’m sure there are some who would happily hide him, but he won’t go there.”

He tilted his head. “You sound very sure.”

“I am.” She met his gaze. “He won’t go to them because he’ll know that by now he might be a wanted felon. He won’t put other people-people who trust him-at risk by asking them for help.”

He grimaced. That rang only too true. The Vaux were honorable and chivalrous to a fault.

Except for Letitia breaking her vow to him.

He looked at her through the gloom. “Why did you marry Randall?”

Even in the poor light, he saw her shields-shields she’d largely dropped over the last days-snap back into place. Shutting her off from him.

“That, as I’ve told you, is none of your business.”

It felt as if a wall had sprung up between them, the separation was that absolute. Given their history, given she was otherwise open and straightforward, that wall was unsettling, disturbing.

She held his gaze, direct and determined, then inclined her head and turned away. “Good night. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

He watched her walk away through the shifting shadows, and debated whether, despite her chilly dismissal, despite-or even because of-that wall, he should follow. Her “not until you’ve found Justin” still rang in his brain; regardless, he doubted she’d deny him. Refuse him. When it came to what flared between them, she was as caught, as addicted, as he.

And it wasn’t as if she was promiscuous. No lovers, not a one, yet she’d accepted him back as her lover with neither resistance nor hesitation. She still felt something for him; he was still special to her.

Yet…

After his visit to the abbey, he was no longer certain just what he wanted of her. More, yes, but how much more?

While he didn’t know the answer, he’d be wise to tread carefully with her. The Vaux had tempers; they also had long memories.

Sinking his hands in his pockets, he turned to look out of one of the long gallery windows, waiting for the impulse to follow her-still pricking like a spur-to fade.

Frustration dragged at him, taunted him, on levels too numerous to count.

Minutes ticked by. He was about to turn and head for his room when he saw a light-a pinprick, no more-bobbing through the trees.

He leaned closer to the glass, watched for long enough to confirm that the light was moving steadily away from the house.

Purposefully away from the house.

He told himself it would be a maid out on a tryst.

“But if it isn’t?”

He glanced to left and right, noting landmarks in the gardens to fix the direction, then left the window and ran silently downstairs.

The gardens of Nunchance Priory were extensive and, as Christian discovered that night, if not precisely overgrown, then distinctly mature. The trees were old, large and full-canopied; they cast inky black shadows that swallowed what little light the quarter moon shed. Pounding through the formal gardens, he’d plunged into the ornamental shrubberies beyond. Thick bushes abounded; paths meandered, garden beds unexpectedly forcing them this way, then that.

He considered himself lucky when he finally glimpsed the bobbing light still moving away some distance ahead of him. Keeping it in sight wasn’t easy; in the dark, over unpredictable terrain, he couldn’t keep his eyes glued to it without risking a fall.

Mentally cursing-the constantly changing landscape no doubt looked lovely on a warm summer’s day-he forged on. Luckily, whoever was carrying the light wasn’t moving fast.

Once he reached the park proper, long stretches of sward shaded by well-spaced large trees, his way became easier. He managed to close the distance between himself and the light bearer. Eventually he made out that the light came from a lantern, partially screened, its bearer a small, dapper individual he hadn’t previously seen.

Justin’s man, perhaps. He was carrying a large tray, the lantern dangling from one hand.

They were well away from the house when the light suddenly disappeared. On a silent oath, Christian rushed forward-and only just stopped himself from falling over the edge of a bank.

The area beyond looked like a large scoop had been taken out of the side of a rise; within it, a wooden hunting lodge, small, discreet, lay bathed in the faint light of the moon.

Smoke drifted from its chimney.

He watched as the lantern bearer approached the door, halted before it, juggled the tray, knocked once, then entered.

Slowly, intently, Christian smiled, then turned and circled the bank, dropping onto the downward slope. He found the path that led through the rough grass to the lodge’s door. Silently, he circled the small building, checking for other exits. Other than shuttered windows, he saw none.

Satisfied, he stepped up to the narrow covered porch, rapped once on the door, then opened it and entered.

He stepped into the lodge’s main room-sitting room, dining room, kitchen combined. Justin Vaux sat at the main table, his hand poised above his fork, about to eat the dinner his man had just delivered.

Closing the door, Christian walked in. He nodded at Justin’s plate. “The roast beef’s excellent.”

Justin, who’d been staring, increasingly nonplussed, frowned. “What are you doing here?”

Pulling out a chair on the opposite side of the table, Christian dropped into it. “Looking for you.”

Justin picked up his fork. “Oscar just told me you’ve been searching the house. What I don’t understand is why.”

“Because Letitia asked me to find you.”

For a long moment, fork frozen in midair, Justin held his gaze. “She did?”

Christian made a “Here I am” gesture.

Justin looked rather pleased. He picked up his knife, waved at the plate. “I assume you’ve eaten, so you won’t mind if I do.”

“Not at all.” Christian settled back.

“Wine?”

“Thank you.” He hid an appreciative grin as Justin signaled to his man, who’d been eyeing Christian much in the way a duck might eye a wolf. No matter what one thought of the Vaux, they had style.

Once they were both supplied with goblets of a fine claret-doubtless culled from his father’s extensive cellar-Christian sipped, and said, “Your father wasn’t aware you were here, but unless I miss my guess, he now suspects.”

Justin shrugged. He didn’t look up.

Christian let him eat for a few minutes, then inquired, “Tell me, was the book you borrowed from his library the Seneca?”

Justin looked up, frowned. “Yes. How did you know?”

“You were reading the same book in Randall’s library that night. I noticed you were not quite halfway through. When I-and your father-saw a book missing from his shelves, I assumed it was that.”

Justin raised his brows. “So you braved the lion in his den, did you?”

Christian smiled, but declined to be diverted. “What happened that night at Randall’s house?”

Justin continued eating. Christian waited, unperturbed.

Eventually, Justin replied, “I went in to see Randall. He’d asked me to call-we’d had a disagreement about…investments. We spoke for a short time-argued-then I lost my temper, picked up the poker and struck him.”

Although naturally pale like his sister, Justin had paled further; Christian noted the haunted look in his eyes. He was twenty-six, and had almost certainly never seen a dead man before. That he’d felt forced to commit what he almost certainly viewed as a despicable act on a corpse would stay with him all of his life. In trying to protect Letitia, he’d already paid a price.

Justin lifted a shoulder and returned his attention to his plate. “I’m sure you know the rest.”

Christian sipped his wine, then said, “I know you didn’t kill Randall.”

Justin’s head came up; he frowned. “You couldn’t know that.” After a telltale second, he added, “Because I killed him.”

Christian swung to face him directly across the table. “No, you didn’t.” He held Justin’s gaze; from the corner of his eye he could see Justin’s man-Oscar-looking both more interested and more hopeful by the minute. “Randall was already dead when you found him. He was lying facedown, his head toward the desk. He’d been felled-and killed-by a single relatively weak blow to the head, delivered with the poker which was lying nearby.”

Justin simply stared at him, his expression tightly checked.

“I don’t know why you did what you did, but I can guess. Tell me if I’m wrong. When you arrived at the house, you heard Letitia arguing violently with Randall. You retreated to the library, picked up the Seneca, started to read, and lost track of time. When you realized, the house was quiet. You went to Randall’s study, found him dead, and assumed Letitia had killed him. You then set about making sure the authorities would never suspect a woman had killed Randall by obliterating his face.”

Christian paused. “It worked, by the way, at least at first. But when a more experienced surgeon examined the body, he noticed that the major blows were struck after death.” Both Justin and Oscar were hanging on his every word. “Of course, the authorities still have you in their sights. No doubt they’ll argue you delivered both sets of blows, but we, of course, know differently. However, to return to your actions, you even sacrificed one of Shultz’s creations by smearing Randall’s blood on the sleeves, then leaving it in your lodgings for the runners to find.”

He smiled, not humorously. “Runners might not be able to discern the importance of smears versus splatters, but I’m not so blind. You then left your lodgings-in a noisy rush so your landlord would notice-and headed out of town on the road to Dover, made sure you were seen at a hostelry on the outskirts of the city, then you turned around, cut straight back through town and came here. You didn’t stop at any inn, but nursed your own horses through the journey, so there was no one to say that you’d come this way.”

Christian smiled again, this time in reluctant appreciation. “You actually did quite well in making yourself look guilty. Certainly the authorities are convinced. Unfortunately for you, there were two things wrong with your plan, both to do with your sister.”

Justin looked wary. “Letitia?”

Christian nodded. “She refused to believe you were guilty. And she didn’t kill Randall either.”

Justin blinked. His gaze grew distant, the frown on his face indicating that he was going back through the events of that fateful evening.

Christian gave him a moment, then said, “Justin, I need you to tell me exactly what happened that night. Letitia won’t rest until you’re exonerated, and, if it comes to that, neither will I.”

Justin flicked him a look that was part irritation, part assessment. After a moment he said, “If I tell all I know, Letitia will look guilty. If it wasn’t me, then she’s the most likely.” He frowned more definitely. “I still don’t understand how-”

When he broke off, Christian supplied, “How it couldn’t be she? How it could be anyone else?”

Justin met his eyes, then pulled a face and nodded.

“I have to admit, I don’t at this point either, but then I’m missing some of the most pertinent facts.” Christian sat back. “Some of which you have. If you tell me all, I might be able to work it out.”

Justin studied him-his face, his eyes-for a long moment, then said, his eyes steady on Christian’s, “I’ll tell you all if you promise one thing. You have to swear on your honor that you’ll keep Letitia out of this-that you’ll keep her safe. I couldn’t bear it if she had to sacrifice anything more for the family, and especially not for me.” Justin held his gaze. “Will you give me your word?”

Christian returned his unwavering regard. “You may take that as read.”

A large part of the tension that had held Justin faded. He searched Christian’s face one last time, then nodded. He forked up the last morsel on his plate, chewed, swallowed, then set down his knife and fork and pushed the plate aside; Oscar stepped in and whisked it away.

“In that case…” Justin reached for his goblet. “It happened much as you said. What more do you need to know?”

“You said Randall had asked you to call. Why, and at what time was he expecting you?”

Justin paused, then, eyes on Christian’s face, replied, “He sent a message that morning. Said he wanted to talk to me about some investment and asked me to call after two.”

Christian frowned. “He was advising you about investments?”

Justin shook his head. “He was trying to lure me into debt. He’d tried to encourage me to gamble. When that didn’t work, it was collecting. Investments was his most recent tilt.”

“Why?”

Justin tipped his head in the direction of the house. “He wanted Nunchance.” When Christian looked his befuddlement, Justin continued, “Randall was very wealthy, but he didn’t have a country estate. He wanted one, but once he’d seen Nunchance, nothing else compared. So he was looking at ways to become the next owner. I know he’d made inquiries into breaking the entail. It’s difficult, but it’s not impossible-not if you’re connected to the family, have unlimited funds, and the present incumbent is in Newgate.”

“He was trying to bankrupt you?” Christian was having a hard time comprehending.

“Yes. Just as…well, never mind that. But that was what he wanted to chat to me about. I, of course, didn’t appreciate the summons, but I was curious to learn what he would say this time, so I called that evening. I knew he’d be in because I’d met Letitia earlier and she told me he’d cried off from going to some dinner with her.”

“But when you called, Letitia was with Randall.”

Justin nodded. “She’d come home, and was already in full flight. I knew what it was about.” His gaze flicked to Christian’s face.

Christian nodded, rather grim. “Hermione.”

“Another case of Randall trying to use our family to his own social-climbing ends. Regardless, on that topic, I knew I could leave him to Letitia-she wasn’t going to budge. I could hear how serious she was.”

“So you went to the library.” Christian leaned forward. “Do you know what time that was?”

“I left White’s at ten, so it was after that…” Justin’s frown cleared. “The clock in the library struck ten-thirty as I was settling with the Seneca.”

“Good. So at half past ten Letitia was screeching at Randall, and you were in the library. What time was it when you left?”

“It was the silence that finally registered. I was surprised it was so quiet and I looked at the clock.” Justin met Christian’s eyes. “It was after eleven-thirty-eleven-forty, give or take a minute. I remember because I was amazed at how deaf I’d been-I’d sat through both the hour and the half-hour chimes and hadn’t noticed.”

Intent, Christian nodded. “What happened next?”

“I set aside the Seneca and went to see if Randall was still downstairs. The house was totally silent, all the other rooms dark. The door to his study was shut, but I could see light beneath the door-a lamp was still burning. I thought he was still working-he often worked late. I opened the door expecting to see him sitting behind his desk. Instead…”

After a moment, frowning, Justin went on, “At first I thought he’d swooned and fallen. I went in, touched him, then saw the dent in the back of his head. If the lamp hadn’t been on that end of the desk, I wouldn’t have seen it-there wasn’t much to see. I checked for a pulse and then looked into his eyes-he was dead. Then I saw the poker lying on the other side of him.”

Justin fixed his eyes on Christian’s face. “Given the whole…” Searching for words, he gestured. “…situation between Letitia and Randall, and how that had echoes in this business about Hermione, I honestly thought he’d pushed her one step too far. That she’d seen red, picked up the poker when he turned away from her, and struck him. And killed him.”

“You didn’t think to go up and ask her-see her, find out, what state she was in?”

Justin grimaced. “I honestly didn’t know if she knew she’d killed him-as I said, the blow wasn’t that easy to see. She might just have struck him, not realized she’d struck so hard, then just flung down the poker and stormed out. Not the most likely thing, not with anyone else, but with her and Randall…well, it wasn’t inconceivable.”

“And you weren’t really thinking all that clearly.”

“Well, no. All I could think about was that she’d killed him, and all because of her marriage to him-all to protect the family, and that even then, she was protecting Hermione…” Justin’s jaw hardened. “I just thought it was time someone in the family protected her.”

Christian had question upon question crowding his mind-about Letitia, her marriage, the “situation”-but he forced himself to concentrate first on clarifying what had happened that night. “Let’s say it was eleven forty-five when you entered the study and found Randall dead. Mellon saw you leave the house, and he admitted he’d already been in bed for a time.”

Justin nodded. “I told him to take himself off, that I’d see myself in.”

“So he said. But Letitia must have left Randall shortly after that. You know your sister-she might rant, but the longest she’ll go for is ten minutes, then she runs out of steam, runs out of temper-and usually storms out and away from whoever she’s screeching at. In this case Randall. And that’s exactly what she says she did-so she must have left Randall at, say, ten thirty-five. Ten-forty at the latest.”

Frowning, Justin nodded for him to continue.

“So you find Randall at eleven forty-five, and wield the poker-but according to my knowledgeable surgeon, while Randall was definitely dead before you struck him, he’d only been dead for fifteen to thirty minutes at most. Not the hour that would have been the case if Letitia had killed him.”

Justin looked incredulous. “Someone else was there?”

Christian nodded. “It appears someone else saw Randall between she and you.”

“I didn’t hear anyone else arrive.” Justin grimaced. “Not that I necessarily would have.”

“Mellon swore no one did.” Christian reviewed what he now knew. “We’ll have to follow that up later, once we’re back in London.” He refixed his gaze on Justin’s face. “Let’s leave the mechanics of Randall’s death aside and concentrate on motives. What is it about Randall’s marriage to Letitia that explains all this?”

Justin blinked, then stared, expressionless, at him. Then he blinked again. “You don’t know?”

“Obviously not.”

Justin let his puzzlement show. “But why hasn’t she told you?”

A rhetorical question, but he gritted his teeth and replied, “You’ll have to ask her. But for now, why don’t you tell me.”

Justin’s perplexity turned to a frown. After a long moment he said, “It’s not my place.” His frown deepened, then he shook his head. “I can’t understand why she hasn’t told you. Before, I can understand-you never went near her, and so never gave her the chance…not that if she’d wanted to she couldn’t have created a moment. But now she’s asked you for help, and you’ve been seeing her for what? Six, seven days? And she still hasn’t told you?”

Christian looked at him. “Just tell me.”

There was that in his voice that brooked no further argument.

Justin met his eyes, raised his brows fleetingly, then capitulated. “I knew you and Letitia planned to marry, that she’d sworn to wait for you to return from the wars.”

He wasn’t surprised; Justin and Letitia had always been close.

“All was well until eight years ago. All just rolling along as it usually did, then suddenly-no warning whatever-m’father informed us, Letitia and me, that we-the Vaux, the family-were bankrupt.”

Christian blinked.

Justin saw and grimly nodded. “Indeed. Somehow, he’d run through the entire fortune, and it wasn’t a small amount.”

“How?”

“Investments.” Justin’s lips curled, and Christian knew what had turned him so conservative. “Somehow or other-it was never clear-the whole lot had gone. Worse, we were in debt, and sinking fast. There was no way back, no way out. Except…at just that time, Randall, who Letitia had met but only in passing, made an offer for her hand. The pater refused, of course-when Randall pressed, Papa intimated that the family weren’t flush with funds. Not long after, Randall came back-with a complete and accurate summation of the family’s finances, and a plan to resurrect them.”

“Let me guess-the plan included Letitia marrying him.” He heard himself ask the question, but part of his mind had already disengaged. Was already absorbed with another, quite different question.

“Not included-the plan was contingent upon their marriage. And not just that. There were conditions. Some of them I don’t know-once she’d decided she had to do it, Letitia took it upon herself to finalize those with Randall. I do know that part of the agreement was that there would be no hint whatever that Letitia had married to secure the money-that he’d bought her, as it were. He insisted, and she ultimately agreed, that to the ton and the world, the marriage had to appear to be a love match.”

“Was there any chance Randall was in any way connected with the bad investments your father made?” Again the words fell from his lips perfectly sanely; inside his skull, a chant of Why, why, why? was starting to pound.

Justin met his eyes. “There was no hint of it.” Then he added, “Not then.”

That recaptured his attention; he narrowed his eyes. “But now?”

“When Randall started proposing investments to me, I got suspicious. Knowing why he was doing it, there was just too much of an echo with the past. I started asking around. I haven’t found anything definite, but…the feeling’s still there. That if all those years ago we’d looked more carefully, we would have found a connection.”

“Is that what’s behind your rift with your father?” Some small part of his mind persisted in filling in the gaps. The rest was consumed with more pressing issues.

Justin sighed, closed his eyes. “Yes. I couldn’t-still can’t-forgive him for losing all that money. For putting all our futures at risk, for being the reason Letitia sacrificed herself-her happiness, the future she should have had-to secure ours.” He opened his eyes. “That’s what I can’t stand-it still rankles. Every time I see him.”

Christian nodded absently.

A moment ticked past. He was about to push back from the table-to pursue the urgent need building inside him-when Justin, who’d been broodingly studying him, said, “You know, I take it back. I can understand why Letitia hasn’t told you. You should have known how it was. She loved you. The only thing that might have swayed her was duty to the family-you had to have known that.”

The observation gave him pause. He hadn’t known that because…

Regardless, a lack of faith on his part didn’t excuse the oversight-the slight-implicit in Justin’s story. He dragged in a huge breath. “I…see.”

He could hardly speak-couldn’t think. The emotions churning inside him were so powerful he wasn’t even sure he could stand. He pushed up from the table. “If you’ll excuse me…I’ll see you in the morning.”

Puzzled, curious, but after one glance at his face not about to detain him, Justin nodded.

As he reached the door, Justin called, “You may as well bring Letitia with you tomorrow. She’ll be happier once she sees me.”

He raised a hand in acknowledgment but made no reply. He had no idea what state Letitia would be in come morning.

He might just have strangled her by then.

Leaving the lodge, he strode swiftly, increasingly quickly, back to the house.