The Edge of Desire

  She couldn’t even manage a frown. “Where are we going?” Even to her ears she sounded more interested than scandalized.

  He glanced back as he opened the door. “Upstairs. To your room.”

  When she stared at him, faintly stunned, he raised his brows. “You didn’t think I was leaving, did you?”

  She honestly didn’t know what she’d thought.

  And before she could decide what she should think—of his presumption, of his high-handed, arrogant assumption that she would, after just one kiss, be sufficiently besotted to fall in with his plans…she had.

  “This room?” He pointed to her door.

  She started to nod, stopped herself, but he’d already opened the door and was towing her inside.

  And then the door was shut and she was in his arms, and nothing else mattered.

  She was distantly aware that that shouldn’t be so, but as her clothes fell like autumn leaves to the floor and his clever hands and even cleverer mouth found her bare skin, she couldn’t remember why.

  Couldn’t summon a single reason against indulging with him.

  Couldn’t see why she shouldn’t let her starved soul free, let it rejoice in the pure sensuality he brought to her. That he offered with both hands, with his mouth, with his body.

  That he fed her with each kiss—scorching and possessive now—that reached her through each touch, each explicit caress, each frankly possessive stroking of her valleys and planes.

  In the heat and the fire that followed, in the familiar passions that she and he ignited, that raged as they always had between them, cindering reservations and all ability to think in a conflagration of need. Overwhelming and sustaining. Demanding and succoring. Needing and caring.

  The give and take between them had never been complicated. Always direct, always unmasked. Every time they came together, she could only glory that that hadn’t changed—not in the least.

  She knew why she lay back and welcomed him into her body. She wasn’t so sure she understood why he was there. But after the eight lonely years she’d spent in that bed, she was in no mood to deny herself the absolute irrefutable proof that her sensual side still lived.

  That the passionate self who delighted in physical pleasure that she’d buried when she’d married Randall hadn’t died.

  Had been resurrected in all her feminine glory.

  By him—her long-ago lover.

  Sunk deep in the slick heat of her luscious body, her long legs about his hips, her long, svelte form undulating in uninhibited concert beneath him, Christian could only close his eyes and give thanks that—in this at least—she wasn’t about to deny him. Wasn’t about to shut herself off from him.

  He hadn’t been sure. Hadn’t known whether she would suddenly pull back—whether she would let him remain this close while she made up her mind.

  To his mind, this was his only hold on her—the only certain way, the only certain times, he would have to reassure her. To make her believe in him again, that he would always be there, there to love her every night and every day.

  She raced up the peak, and dragged him with her. No matter how firmly he tried to hold back, she knew how to command him, how to shred his control. How to take his hand and leap—over the edge, into the void, into the pulsing heart of their passion.

  They burned together, shattered together, gasping, clutching, holding tight as they flew…then clinging as they slowly spiraled down to earth again.

  Into each other’s arms again.

  If last night had seen him take a new direction, tonight had given him hope. As he disengaged and, with a smothered groan, rolled onto his back and gathered her to him, felt her curl against him, he couldn’t imagine what he would do if she tried to remain apart from him. If she decided against him and tried to cut their ties.

  A week or so ago when she’d come to him for help, he hadn’t known that what ruled him now still lived within him. Now he did. Now he felt it, knew it—would, could, no longer deny it. Had no wish to deny it. A week of being with her again had brought him, if not precisely full circle, then to a similar place, a similar state of emotional acceptance to that he’d reached twelve years ago, yet now he was older, wiser, more appreciative of his needs, and hers.

  She had to see—he prayed she would see—that if twelve years ago they’d been an ideal couple, now they were even more so, not less. That the years had given them both more depth, greater strength.

  Deeper passions.

  “What do you plan to do next?”

  Her words breached the fog of pleasured aftermath. Clearly the years had also given her a greater ability for recuperation. “I…” He replayed her demand, heard the conciseness in her tone, realized she expected to be told—and she was testing to see if he would share. “I need to question all the staff, Mellon and the footmen I spoke with earlier included. Someone must have let Randall’s mysterious friend in, or if not, have some experience of him from some other time.”

  He hesitated, then, adhering to the new script he’d written wherein he held nothing back from her, said, “But first, I should call on that colleague of mine.” He glanced at her face, through the dimness met her eyes. “I don’t know if he’s in town, or has resigned his commission and gone to the country, but if he’s here and agrees, he’s one of the few I would trust to hide Justin, and he has the resources to help our investigation in other ways, too—if he’s free and so inclined.”

  She studied his eyes. “Who is this colleague?”

  He drew a deep breath, let it out with, “His name’s Dalziel. I’ll go to his office tomorrow morning—he’s usually at his desk reasonably early.”

  “I’ll come, too.” Her eyes were mysterious, but her tone carried a warning.

  He nodded, and gathered her closer. Settling his cheek on her hair, he meekly said, “We can go after breakfast.”

  Chapter 9

  It was just after ten the next morning when Christian ushered Letitia into the anteroom of an office buried in the labyrinthine depths of Whitehall. Sweeping in, head high, she noted the nondescript clerk who glanced up, then came to his feet in a rush.

  “Ma’am—I think you must be l—” The clerk broke off as Christian followed her through the door. “Ah…Major Allardyce. I’ll…ah.” The clerk’s eyes went again to Letitia, then returned to Christian. “Shall I see if he’s in?”

  Letitia found the clerk’s performance revealing, but she had an ace up her sleeve. “Kindly inform your master—I believe he calls himself Dalziel—that Lady Letitia Randall née Vaux is here to see him, together with Lord Dearne.”

  The clerk all but goggled at her. She was aware of the sharp glance Christian shot her, but when the clerk sent him an imploring look, he endorsed her request with a nod.

  “Ah…” Still the clerk hesitated. “If you’d like to take a seat…?” He gestured to three bare wooden chairs lined up along the wall opposite a plain wooden door.

  She turned her head, examined the chairs. “I don’t believe that will prove necessary.” She looked back at the clerk, saw him still dithering and, exasperated, made a shooing motion with one hand. “Go.”

  The clerk went.

  Fascinated, Christian eyed Letitia, but her face gave nothing away. Could she really know…? He’d assumed he would have to introduce her, explain his connection to Dalziel…he recalled she’d known he’d been off spying. He hadn’t told her, but she’d mentioned a certain gentleman who’d crooked his finger…somehow she’d found out about Dalziel. He turned to look at his ex-commander’s door.

  Just as it was yanked open.

  Dalziel filled the doorway. He stared across the anteroom, not at Christian—at Letitia. Not a flicker of emotion disturbed his austere features, yet Christian could clearly hear his mental cursing.

  Letitia regarded him with haughty calm. “There you are. I assume you have time to see us?”

  Dalziel’s gaze flicked to Christian, then returned to Letitia’s face. “Of course. Pray come i
n.”

  He stood back, holding the door. Letitia swept past him and entered the inner sanctum. Christian followed more slowly. When he drew level with Dalziel, his ex-commander met his eyes.

  Dalziel’s eyes were a deep dark brown; reading them was never easy. In this case, however, Christian could see his exasperation—and his resignation—quite clearly.

  Closing the door behind his clerk, who scurried out—a mouse escaping the presence of two lions and a lioness—Dalziel waved them to the chairs before his desk. As he sank into the chair behind it, he regarded them stonily. “This had better be serious.”

  Letitia raised her brows, haughtily superior. “It is. Naturally. As you’ve no doubt heard, my husband was brutally murdered and my brother is suspected of the crime.”

  Dalziel regarded her expressionlessly for a moment, then quietly corrected, “Stands accused of murder.”

  Letitia frowned, not understanding the distinction.

  Dalziel glanced at Christian. “I heard yesterday afternoon.” To Letitia, he said, “The authorities have sworn out a warrant for the arrest of Lord Justin Vaux. The charge is that he killed his brother-in-law, your husband, George Randall.”

  Letitia looked exasperated. “Drat them! Couldn’t they wait?”

  Glancing from one to the other, Dalziel raised his brows. “From which I take it you’re here to tell me Justin didn’t do it, and there’s some mystery over who did.”

  Letitia nodded. “Yes. Precisely. Helpful of you to grasp the facts so quickly.”

  There was a hint—just a hint—of sarcasm in her tone; Christian knew her well enough to know she’d intended it.

  Dalziel had heard it; he hesitated, but—to Christian’s immense surprise—declined to respond.

  Or declined to prod a thus far rational Vaux?

  The notion that his ex-commander was well acquainted with the Vaux was confirmed by Dalziel himself. His gaze on Letitia, he said, “You may spare me the protestations regarding Justin’s innocence. I may not know him well, but I know enough of him to accept that it’s highly unlikely he committed the crime as I heard it described.”

  He shifted his dark gaze to Christian. “Tell me what you know.”

  Christian complied, chapter and verse. Dalziel was particularly interested in Pringle’s report.

  “That,” he said, “isn’t common knowledge. Indeed, it weakens the authorities’ case considerably—they can’t have Justin bludgeoning Randall to death in a fit of manic temper on the one hand, only to say that he actually killed Randall first with a gentle, lucky tap on the head.”

  “Exactly.” Letitia went on, “Given that, along with everything else, it seems patently obvious that Randall was killed by some mysterious friend who saw him that night between me and Justin.”

  Dalziel regarded her, then glanced at Christian. “So who was this mysterious friend?”

  “That,” Christian said, “is what we don’t know.” He related what little they’d learned from Justin, and his own observations thus far. “So finding who Randall called friend isn’t as simple as one might suppose.”

  Dalziel was frowning. “That’s…very strange.”

  “And if you add the suspicion that Randall was attempting to lure Justin into debt, it becomes even stranger.” Letitia regarded Dalziel severely. “But the principal point here is that in order to clear Justin’s name within the ton, we need to not just prove he didn’t do the deed, but, as matters now stand—and I assume the swearing of that warrant will only make things even worse—we need to produce Randall’s real killer.”

  Still frowning, Dalziel looked at Christian. “We need to learn who else had reason to want Randall dead.”

  Christian caught his gaze. “We?”

  Dalziel’s lips twisted wryly. “The royal ‘we’—you, me, and anyone else we can call in. Who else is in town?”

  “Trentham. I doubt anyone else will have come up yet.”

  Dalziel nodded. “Enough to go on with.”

  “We have another problem—Justin is our sole albeit poor source of reliable information on Randall. He’s been closest to him—indeed watching him—for the last several years.”

  “Eight years,” Letitia supplied. “Since I married Randall.”

  Christian inclined his head. “So we need Justin here, not at Nunchance—”

  “But you have nowhere to hide him.” Dalziel held Christian’s gaze for an instant, then looked at Letitia, at her hopeful, expectant expression. He sighed. “Very well—I’ll undertake to house the whelp in secret.”

  Letitia flashed him a brilliant smile. “Excellent.”

  Dalziel looked back at Christian. “Tell him to come to your club—I’ll whisk him away from there. He’ll need to leave Nunchance in the evening so he’ll reach London in the small hours.” He glanced again at Letitia. “His description will have been circulated to the watch, and very likely to all the posting inns. He’ll need to be careful.”

  Letitia nodded. “I’ll write and tell him.”

  “As for the rest”—Dalziel transferred his attention to Christian—“I suggest we meet at the Bastion Club.” He glanced at a clock on a nearby cabinet. “Shall we say three o’clock? I’ll see what I can learn from the authorities, if they have any more information that might give us a clue as to who the real murderer might be.”

  He rose. Letitia and Christian came to their feet.

  “Until three, then.” Letitia gave Dalziel her hand.

  He took it, bowed, then released her.

  As she turned and swept to the door, Christian caught Dalziel’s eye. “No further sign of our old friend?”

  He was referring to a traitor buried deep within the ton; their group of ex-spies had run across his tracks several times over the last year, but despite their—and Dalziel’s—best efforts, he’d managed to evade them, twice by committing murder.

  Dalziel shook his head. “Not a whisper.” He looked around the room. “I need to be here for a few weeks more.” His lips twisted as he turned back to Christian. “This latest start of the Vaux should help fill in the time.”

  Christian saluted. “I’ll let Trentham know about the meeting. He’ll be there.”

  Dalziel nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

  He resat at his desk; Christian headed for the door.

  Following Letitia into the anteroom, Christian shut the door behind him. He was, he realized, on the cusp of solving a mystery that had plagued the Bastion Club members for years. Dalziel wasn’t Dalziel’s real name. His identity had always tantalized them; although they’d discovered any number of people who knew it, they’d never been able to persuade any to divulge it. Now, although Dalziel—Royce Whoever-he-was—had avoided any mention of his address, presumably where he intended to hide Justin, obviously Justin would shortly learn it, and thus learn his identity.

  Even more obviously, Letitia already knew it.

  He smiled benignly at the clerk, and rather more delightedly at her. “Come.” He waved her to the outer door. “Let’s find a hackney to take us back to Mayfair.”

  “No, I will not tell you his real name.” Letitia shook her head and stubbornly set her lips.

  Exasperated, Christian slumped back against the hackney’s seat. “Why, for heaven’s sake? It’s patently obvious you know it—that you know him, Royce Whoever-he-is. That quite a few ladies of the ton know who he is. Why can’t we know?”

  “It’s not a matter of keeping his name a secret. That’s not the point.”

  He cast her a saber-edged glance. “What is the point?”

  She heaved a huge sigh. “The point is that mentioning his name, whether to his face or otherwise, anywhere in the ton and, I suspect, even beyond, is forbidden. Absolutely not done.”

  He stared at her. “Why?”

  “Because it was so decreed years ago—even before my come-out. It was one of those things my aunts instructed me in before I came to town. I don’t know exactly how long the edict has been in place, but there
you have it—anyone caught breaking the rule can be assured of instant ejection from the ton.”

  He frowned. “Is this one of the Almack’s patronesses’ rules?”

  “No, although they certainly support it. It was a rule—an edict—laid down by all the most powerful ladies of the ton, and, as I heard it, many of the gentlemen agreed. It’s been in force for…well, it must be something like fifteen years.”

  He couldn’t fathom it. After a few minutes of slow rocking through the traffic, he asked—begged rather plaintively, “Can’t you just whisper it to me?”

  “No!” She frowned at him severely. “No one speaks his name—that’s the rule. Aside from anything else, he would know.”

  She wasn’t going to change her mind.

  He heaved a huge sigh. He’d got so close.

  The carriage slowed. They’d reached South Audley Street.

  Letitia glanced at him. “I can’t see why you’re so exercised—you’ll learn the truth soon enough.”

  Before he could question her further, the carriage halted and she leaned forward and opened the door. “I’ll meet you in Montrose Place at three. Until then…” A footman had come down the steps to assist her; she gave him her hand and alighted. On the pavement, she looked back at Christian. “I’m going to circulate and do my best to play down the rumors of Justin’s guilt.”

  He hesitated, then nodded and saluted in farewell. Dalziel’s news about the warrant had shaken her; she no doubt wished to ascertain how widely known that development was.

  With a nod she swung away—then halted, stared along the street. All but hissed. “That damned runner! Did I mention I found him in the library this morning? I’ve given orders he’s not to be admitted without my express permission, or unless he has a warrant, or both. If he wants to keep watch on the scene of the crime, he can damn well do it from outside.”

  With another fulminating glare, she swung away, forged up the steps and swept through the door Mellon was holding open.

  Christian watched the door close, then smiled. “St. James,” he called to the jarvey on the box. It was time to do a little social scouting of his own.