The Edge of Desire

  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 w
as 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 too
k 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’?”