The Edge of Desire

by Stephanie Laurens

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

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

  Letitia sat transfixed. One o’clock?

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

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

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

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

  He took her to the museum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It was a vision that stole his breath.

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

  And she wouldn’t expect him to.

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

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

  He let his smile widen. “Just…this.”

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

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

  He drew back before she could react.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She looked up at him. “What, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No.”

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

  He glanced down briefly. “Not yet.”

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

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

  He didn’t even reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  A little window in the door flew open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Although old and undistinguished, everything was clean and neat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Christian stepped between Letitia and the door.

  Abruptly, silence fell, then the door opened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The woman clearly knew the name.

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

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

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

  “From the hell,” the woman replied.

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

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

  Letitia sank into the chair. “And Randall?”

  “Owned it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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