The Edge of Desire

by Stephanie Laurens

  “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 s
teadily 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?”