The Edge of Desire

by Stephanie Laurens

  Dalziel shook his head. “I’ve sent word to contacts I have there—they’ll visit the grammar school and see what they can find, but it’ll be a day or two yet before they send anything back. However, I also made inquiries through other, closer sources, hoping to turn up something on Randall. Unfortunately, all I turned up were negatives—he’s never been in any of the services, never attached to any government department or embassy, never had a position in any ministry, royal house, or parliamentary enterprise. Nor was he ever connected with the church—as deacon, sexton, or any such capacity.”

  Letitia wrinkled her nose. “So my late husband remains an enigma.”

  No one argued.

  Christian broke the silence. “Have any of you heard of the Orient Trading Company?” When they all shook their heads, he went on, “Randall owned a third of the company—we should find out who the other owners are. It’s possible that company affairs provided someone with a motive for murder.” He looked down at his notebook. “Letitia and I have to visit Montague anyway, to ask what he’s learned regarding the original source of Randall’s wealth, and now also to give him the details of Randall’s estate so he can give us an estimate of its worth. As part of that, he’ll need to assess the Orient Trading Company—I’ll ask him to ferret out the other owners, and whether the company is profitable, too.”

  “Do.” Dalziel looked around. “It seems we all have clues to pursue. I’ll continue to see what I can uncover regarding Randall’s background. I’ll also see what I can learn about the company.”

  Tristan nodded. “The Orient Trading Company sounds like an import-export business—I’ll see what I can learn of them around the docks and through the shipping companies. Alongside that, I’ll keep pursuing Swithin—we know far too little about him.”

  “Indeed.” Letitia glanced at Christian. “I’m sure I can arrange to come up with Trowbridge socially—that might be the best way to approach him about his connection with Randall. I could mention the bequest.”

  Christian nodded. “Good idea. I’ll go with you. We’ll concentrate on Trowbridge. Otherwise, for the company and Randall’s finances, it’s Montague we most need to alert—we’ll do that as soon as we can.”

  They all rose, pleased to have something to sink their teeth into. All except Justin, who clearly felt left out.

  “You’ll just have to grin and bear it,” Letitia informed him, “for I’ll never forgive you if you give that weasel Barton the satisfaction of taking you up.” She hugged him. “Stay…where you’re told to stay, and don’t be a nuisance.”

  Justin rolled his eyes but settled back into a chair to read a book readily enough. Dalziel had already departed, having ordered Justin to be ready to leave the club at two the next morning.

  Letitia followed Christian down the stairs. “Dalziel at least is taking the threat of the authorities seriously.”

  Christian snorted. “He should know—he’s one of the authorities’ ultimate threats.”

  Gasthorpe, as ever efficient, had a hackney waiting. Letitia climbed in; Christian told the jarvey to take them to South Audley Street, then joined her.

  To find her frowning at him. “What about going to see Montague?”

  He shook his head. “It’s nearly five o’clock. We’d never make it in time—he’ll have left his office before we reach it.”

  “But—” She stared at him. After a moment she asked, “Don’t you know where he lives?”

  Her impatience had resurfaced. “No.” Then he added, “And even if I did, I wouldn’t use the knowledge. There’s nothing he could accomplish tonight.”

  Slumping back against the seat, she grumped, “He could think.”

  Leaning back, he smiled, caught her hand and held it. “We’ll go and see him first thing in the morning. Until then, you’ll simply have to possess your soul in patience.”

  Patience was not a Vaux trait. Letitia wasn’t sure she had a patient bone in her body. However…she did have other matters to attend to—even if she hadn’t yet divined just how she was supposed to eradicate the assumption that appeared to have lodged with quite ridiculous firmness in the majority of the grande dames’ minds.

  That evening she stood in the middle of the Marchioness of Huntly’s drawing room, and wondered where—and how—to start. While she’d assumed Christian’s appearance beside her in her carriage in the park the previous afternoon would engender a certain amount of speculation, she hadn’t anticipated just how rabid and deep-rooted that speculation would be.

  Her initial intention—to simply ignore all comments—had been rendered ineligible when her hostess, one of the most influential females in the ton, had commented, in her calm, collected, commanding voice, on how pleased she was to see Letitia and Christian together again.

  Huh! They were together in the sense he’d escorted her there—but together in the wider, long-term sense, in the sense of having a future together…as to that, she still didn’t know.

  And the last thing she wanted was to get hemmed into a corner by the ton’s expectations. To have her decision effectively taken out of her hands—she was perfectly aware that could happen if the ton’s assumptions were allowed to grow unchecked. Admittedly, as a Vaux she could ultimately do whatever she pleased and the ton be damned—something the ton, perversely, would accept as perfectly normal for a Vaux—but she currently had enough scandal in her life; she didn’t need to court more.

  And she would infinitely prefer that the grande dames stopped watching her and Christian like beady-eyed eagles.

  Or was that gossipy vultures?

  Regardless, the conclusion was obvious—she needed to pour ice-cold water all over the ideas blossoming beneath the various coiffures bobbing about the room.

  Around her, the guests at the extremely select soiree filled the elegant room with a multitude of murmuring voices. With Randall so recently dead, soirees of this nature were the only “entertainments” she felt it was permissable for her to attend. Of course, ever since Randall’s sensational demise, the flow of invitations had dramatically increased, ladies she barely knew inviting her to afternoon teas and the like.

  Much good would it do them. She’d chosen to attend the marchioness’s event because she’d known all the most influential ladies—those whose thoughts she most needed to monitor—would be present. Beyond managing the opinions society held of her, Justin, and her family in general, she had little interest in social affairs, not with Justin in hiding and Randall’s killer as yet unmasked.

  And Randall proving even more peculiarly secretive in death than he had in life.

  She’d left Christian with a bevy of gentlemen discussing political affairs; neither he nor she needed support in this arena.

  Surveying the company, she wondered which grande dame she ought to approach first.

  A sharp rap on her arm—not from a hand but the head of a cane—answered her question. Summoning a delighted smile—perfectly genuine; she knew who her accoster was, and no lady was more relevant to her task—she turned and met a pair of obsidian eyes. “Lady Osbaldestone! How lovely.”

  She didn’t curtsy—Lady Osbaldestone’s title was inferior to her own; instead she grasped her ladyship’s beringed fingers, squeezed gently as she leaned in to touch cheeks.

  “Well, miss.” Lady Osbaldestone transfixed her with an incisive gaze. “So you’re a miss again, after a fashion, and not a moment too soon in my opinion. You wasted enough years with that man—I can’t say I view his demise as any great loss. And I see Dearne’s come to his senses, which is exactly as it should be.”

  “Dearne’s been a great support in tracking down Randall’s murderer.” Letitia knew she had to adhere firmly to that line; her ladyship had one of the shrewdest brains in the ton. “I fear I wouldn’t have known where to start.”

  Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes regarded her unblinkingly. A second ticked past, then her ladyship said, “To be blunt, my dear, I’d heard that the authorities had your brother firmly at the

top of their list.”

  Letitia waved dismissively. “You know what the authorities are like—they have to have some name on their list, so they put Justin’s on it. As his is the only name they have, ergo he’s at the top, but that will change once they have the correct suspect.”

  “And Dearne is helping you locate this suspect?”

  “Indeed. He was kind enough to agree to assist. With his background, he’s the perfect gentleman for the job.”

  Her ladyship’s lips quirked. “Indubitably.” A subtle smile curved her lips. “I doubt, my dear, that you’ll find many who will argue that point.”

  Letitia blinked, replayed her words—and inwardly cursed. She hadn’t been referring to Christian’s past with her. She quickly said, “His experience in…er, covert operations, as I believe they’re termed, has proved very valuable—”

  She broke off; from the amusement glowing in Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes, she wasn’t advancing her cause. Where were the right words? Ones that weren’t ambiguous?

  “I quite understand, dear.” Lady Osbaldestone patted her hand in a way that suggested she truly did. “And here comes Helena—you must tell her precisely what you told me. She won’t have been so entertained in years.”

  Letitia had to fight to keep her eyes from narrowing as they both turned to greet the shorter, slighter—but no less powerful—Duchess of St. Ives, or Dowager Duchess as she preferred to be styled in a very public attempt to spur her only son, now the duke, into marrying.

  “My dear Letitia!” The duchess enveloped her in an exuberant, scented embrace, touching first one cheek, then the other, to hers. “Such a happening! I would offer my condolences, but then again, while I did not know your late husband well, one cannot imagine that his absence is devastating.”

  The duchess was French. Outrageous was her middle name. She could give—and over the years had at times given—the Vaux a run for their money.

  “Letitia was just telling me that Dearne’s been helping her find Randall’s murderer.” Lady Osbaldestone leaned on her cane.

  “Excellent!” The duchess opened her lovely pale green eyes wide. “So useful to have a gentleman about who has more than one string to his bow, nein?” She beamed at Letitia.

  Who inwardly sighed. If she decided to break with Christian, she would simply have to weather the scandal.

  Nevertheless, while she chatted with Lady Osbaldestone and the duchess, then after parting from them, with various others, she continued to adhere to her story that he was merely helping with the investigation into Randall’s death. Nothing more.

  Much good did it do her. Her aunts Amarantha and Constance were a case in point; they cornered her, literally, and demanded to be told all.

  “Such a wonderful thing—well, I know one is not supposed to say that over a death,” Constance quickly amended, “but really it’s very hard to mourn Randall. I’ve tried to think of him, but it seems we hardly knew him.”

  It seemed no one had, Letitia thought.

  “And anyway,” Amarantha declared, “he’s dead—and you and Dearne aren’t.” She fixed her intent hazel gaze on Letitia. “So what’s afoot? Randall murdered, Justin vanished, and Dearne hovering protectively—you can’t tell me that’s not going to be the story of the season.”

  Letitia set her jaw. “I don’t wish to feature as the story of the season.”

  “Pshaw!” Amarantha waved aside the comment. “You’re a Vaux—you can’t simply suspend your heritage. The haut ton expect us to entertain them—and I have to say that currently you and Justin are doing a fine job of it.”

  “Indeed—I haven’t had so much attention in years,” Constance stated. “I vow I’m mobbed wherever I go, with ladies—and gentlemen—wishing to know ‘the Truth.’” Constance edged closer; Letitia all but had her back to the wall. “So what should we say?”

  Letitia told them precisely what she wished them to say.

  Much to their disappointment.

  Constance picked at her spangled shawl. “I can’t imagine why you think people are going to swallow such a tale—that the only thing between you and Dearne is this investigation.”

  “And anyway,” Amarantha informed her, “the investigation’s not what they want to hear about. Randall being murdered and Justin having to disappear until the real murderer is caught and the authorities get themselves straightened out is all very well, but it’s the romance everyone really wants to know of.”

  “Indeed?” Letitia arched one brow. In her haughtiest manner—not all that effective against her aunts—she stated, “If and when—and I do stress that if—there is anything to report on the romance front, rest assured I will let you know.” She inclined her head to them both. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I must find the withdrawing room.”

  Grudgingly, they stepped aside and let her go; she retreated to lick her wounds—or more specifically, to soothe her aggravation.

  On the opposite side of the room, Christian found himself in his aunt Cordelia’s sights. Ermina had fluttered about him earlier but hadn’t settled; Cordelia, in contrast, looked determined on an interrogation.

  She trapped his gaze, her own unflinching. “Is Justin Vaux guilty or not?”

  That one was easy. “Not.”

  “Indeed?” One brow arching, Cordelia turned and pointedly looked across the room.

  Following her gaze, he had no difficulty locating Letitia as she glided through the guests; her height, combined with the fabulous richness of her dark red hair, made her easy to spot.

  “If that’s the case, then I suggest you move smartly to establish that point. More, to prove his innocence. Otherwise…suffice it to say you might well find yourself facing a hurdle you won’t wish to front.”

  He let his lips curve although there was no real amusement in the gesture. “Thank you, Aunt.” On a murmur he added, “What would I do without your sage counsel?”

  Cordelia snorted. “Indeed. While I’m sure you’ve seen the point yourself, in your usual arrogant fashion you won’t let it bother you. But if you’re anything like your father, you’ll have forgotten that it’s not just you involved—you might be perfectly willing to stare down the ton, but will she let you?”

  Christian blinked.

  “Exactly. Think about that—and then, if you’re serious about claiming her, you’d better get cracking on proving to all the world that Justin Vaux is utterly blameless in the matter of his brother-in-law’s murder.”

  Having said her piece, with a regal nod, Cordelia swanned off.

  Leaving Christian with the uncomfortable realization that she was right. He knew the ton would be shocked beyond measure if he—Dearne—married the sister of a convicted murderer. But as Justin wasn’t guilty…and, moreover, as Letitia was so keen to clear Justin’s name—to ensure he was known to be innocent rather than simply not proven to be guilty—there had seemed no problem, no hurdle in his path.

  The problem, the hurdle, would however eventuate if they weren’t successful, and Randall’s killer slipped through their fingers.

  If that happened, then even if Justin was no longer suspected of the murder, he would still, in the ton’s eyes, be assumed to be guilty.

  And his sister…

  “Damn!” He muttered the word beneath his breath. Much as it pained him to admit it, Cordelia was entirely correct. While he wouldn’t let society dictate whom he married, the plain fact was, in such circumstances, Letitia wouldn’t marry him.

  She would refuse to fill the position of his marchioness. She would not—he knew beyond question that she would not—allow him to bring disgrace to his family in that way—through her.

  He looked for her, searched the crowd, but couldn’t see her. She must have stepped out; he wasn’t worried—she’d be back. He’d used his town carriage to bring them there; the butler knew him and her, and would send word if she tried to leave on her own, which she knew.

  So she’d be back soon—and then they would leave.

 ; He would take her back to South Audley Street. Although he’d much rather take her to Grosvenor Square, he doubted he could win that argument yet. One night soon he would, but not tonight.

  Tonight he would stay with her in Randall’s house, no matter how much that irked him. Regardless, he would be spending every night henceforth with her, the better to wear down any resistance she might have to accepting her future as his wife.

  He was perfectly prepared for any battles on that front, perfectly confident of winning them, but as his aunt had reminded him, there were other aspects to this engagement.

  Cordelia was right—he needed to prove Justin innocent.

  He needed to find Randall’s killer—soon.

  Chapter 12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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