When he cocked a brow at her—Randall had held no seat in either the Commons or the Lords—she shrugged. “I act as Papa’s surrogate of sorts. I keep an eye on events, and if I tell him his vote is needed, he’ll grumble but come down to cast it. These days Justin could do the job, but with their falling out, the task has remained with me.” She glanced around the table. The ladies had yet to retire, primarily because they were, one and all, too deeply involved in the discussions going on. “It’s at events such as this that one hears the true story. Not just what the news sheets say, not just what the Prime Minister might decree, but the true nature of affairs underlying the decisions, or forming the basis for those yet to come.”
She looked back at him. “Do you plan to be active in Parliament?”
He met her gaze. “Until I know more, I can’t say, but…if one holds a seat in the Lords by virtue of one’s birth, it seems incumbent on one to do what the job requires—just like any other part of the duties of a marquess.”
She considered him for a moment, then nodded. Looking about the table, she murmured, “In that case, you might want to consider…”
Over the next twenty minutes, she gave him a concise political history of those about the table, the ladies included. With the discussions still raging, Cordelia dispensed with the customary separation and the whole company rose and adjourned to the drawing room.
They circulated, then Cordelia swooped, captured Letitia and bore her off to clarify some point with two other ladies—leaving Christian to fall victim to Lady Osbaldestone.
Watching Letitia’s back—wondering if, once they left, he could persuade her to walk across the square rather than around the corner into South Audley Street—he didn’t even know that terrifying dame had him in her sights until he felt something strike his foot. Glancing down, he discovered it was her cane; he looked up and met her eyes, blacker than night, sharp and shrewd.
“You could do much worse,” she regally informed him, “than to follow what is clearly your inclination. Indeed, there are many of us who view Letitia’s previous marriage as a regrettable if unavoidable aberration, one that should be wiped from the collective conscious of the ton.” Her eyes bored into his. “We’re counting on you to accomplish that task. See you don’t let us down.”
With that, she inclined her head and moved on to her next target.
Letitia reappeared moments later. “Lady Osbaldestone said you were looking for me.”
He’d never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Indeed. I think we should leave. There’s something I should tell you, but not here.”
She agreed readily enough. They took their leave of Cordelia—who to Christian’s alerted eyes looked far too satisfied—then walked out into the night.
Once they’d gained the pavement, Letitia wrapped her shawl more snugly about her shoulders. “What did you want to tell me?”
Christian took her hand and drew her to walk beside him. He crossed the street and headed around the deserted square; the gates to the park in the center were locked at sunset. “Did you know that some of the ladies—who exactly, I don’t know, but Lady Osbaldestone at least—suspect you had some…for want of a better word, ulterior motive for marrying Randall?”
He glanced at her, saw the face she pulled. “I always worried they might—they’re so sharp-eyed, nothing much escapes them—but while Randall was alive, they kept their suspicions to themselves. I’d hoped they would continue to do so.”
“They are, they will…I think.” They would as long as he did as they wished.
“I gather she spoke to you—what did she say?”
“In her usual inimitable fashion she was cryptic, but I gathered she and they, whoever ‘they’ encompasses, were not at all happy about you marrying Randall.”
“They weren’t. But now he’s dead, so…” She shrugged. Frowning, eyes down, she kept pace beside him.
They’d reached the other side of the square. He led her up his steps, fishing in his waistcoat pocket for his latch key.
Only when they halted before the door did she look up and realize.
“This is your house.” Letitia looked at Christian.
He shrugged. “My bed’s bigger than yours.”
An unarguable point.
When he simply held her gaze, and waited, she inwardly shrugged. She waved to the door. “All right. Just as long as you remember to wake me up in time to walk me home.”
He smiled and opened the door. The truth was, she felt more comfortable there, in his house, than she ever had in Randall’s. And she had far greater faith in Percival’s discretion than she had in Mellon’s.
As it transpired, Percival wasn’t there to greet them.
Christian noticed her looking down the front hall. “I told Percival not to wait up.”
Of course he had. She caught his gaze as he drew her to the stairs. “You planned this—bringing me here.”
“Of course.” He looked ahead as they started climbing. “I told you there was something I wanted to tell you, and I can only tell you that here. Upstairs.”
She arched her brows, but he didn’t meet her gaze again, didn’t add anything as he led her to his bedroom.
He didn’t, in fact, say another word. Not for a very long time.
Instead he spoke with actions, more persuasive than any words could ever be. Both in the way his hands drifted over her body, reverently, worshipfully, in the way he reined in his desire enough to let her take the lead, for her to take her time stripping the clothes from his large frame, unwrapping him—discovering anew the heavy muscles, the strength, the hardness, the heat.
The solid reality of him, a male of her kind, in his prime—and he wanted her.
He’d never made any secret of that, yet that night when he reached for her, she sensed there was more. That this was what he’d wanted to tell her, as his lips moved on hers, as his tongue filled her mouth, as skin to naked skin his body claimed hers and his hands grasped, held while she clung.
I love you.
I need you.
Please be mine.
The litany replayed over and over in Christian’s mind. Love was a word that long ago had come very easily to them both. Now…now he knew what the word meant in all its pain and glory, he couldn’t simply say it—couldn’t let it fall from his lips like any other word.
Powerful, dominant, all-consuming. Love now burned, a strong, steady flame within him, and using a single, simple four-letter word to encompass all it was wouldn’t do.
Love had to be seen, felt, experienced.
To be fully expressed, love had to be let free, had to be allowed to burn, to claim and consume, to rack and then, in benediction, suffuse them with its gold and silver glory.
Love required surrender to be fully realized.
So he surrendered.
And let her see.
Love ruled him in the here and now, and into his future, just as it had for the past countless years, ever since he’d first laid eyes on her. Love between them was a reality that wouldn’t be denied, not by years of separation, not by Randall and his machinations.
That night, he told her. Told her he loved her with all his being—his heart, his body, his soul.
And when at last they lay in a tangled heap, racked, unable to move, satiation a heavy blanket weighing them down, he knew she’d heard, knew she understood.
Chapter 18
The next morning, as he’d promised, Christian woke Letitia in plenty of time to walk her back to South Audley Street before their respective households stirred. As they strolled arm in arm through the pearly predawn light, she wondered at the serenity, the tranquility, that held her.
The certainty. The blissful conviction.
Yesterday…rather than dismiss her fears for his safety as irrational, and therefore inconsequential, he’d accepted them. Even though he hadn’t stated it, unlike most men of their class he’d acknowledged her feelings as a consequence of her regard for him, and dealt wit
h her and them on that basis.
Although she hadn’t intended it, that moment had been a test—one he’d passed with flying colors. If they were to have a future together, then him accepting her and her love as it was—fears and all—was crucial.
That moment in Green Park, she felt, had been a sign.
As for what followed…from the moment he’d joined her in his aunt’s drawing room to now, the past night had possessed an almost dreamlike quality. Standing by his side at an event like the dinner, then leaving with him and returning to his house, his bed—all of it had been just as she’d imagined, just as she’d dreamed long ago.
Not one moment, not one word, had marred the match between expectation and reality.
But this was now, no long-ago dream.
No turning back of the clocks, but a stepping forward onto the right path at last.
She now possessed the conviction she’d earlier lacked. Now she believed—in their future, in the resurrection of their dreams.
Glancing at him as, assured, at ease, he strolled beside her, she wondered when she’d find the courage, and the right moment, to broach the matter—their future—in words. She knew he was waiting, giving her time and space to find her own feet, to come to her own determination while simultaneously giving her ample, unstinting evidence of his regard for her.
He might not have said the words—not verbally—but given the sort of gentleman he was—a nobleman for whom vulnerability was a sin—expecting a declaration was unrealistic—and anyway, actions spoke much louder, much more surely and convincingly than any words.
Over the past twenty hours he’d convinced her.
She was the expert at setting a stage; she knew he’d been doing essentially that—constructing the position he wanted her to fill, and placing her in the role, presumably hoping she’d notice how well she fitted.
Her lips quirked. Last night had been all about that—and more. But what he perhaps hadn’t realized was that in setting his stage and playing his part, he’d naturally filled the opposing role.
And that, more than any other thing, had convinced her of how he felt for her—that in his own more reserved, more controlled way, he loved her as she loved him. He hadn’t been acting, not at any time; despite his past career, she wasn’t sure emotional subterfuge had any place among his talents. As a Vaux, she would know; she was the ultimate judge of emotional sincerity, and he hadn’t feigned a moment, not one word, not one response.
They were almost at Randall’s house. She mentally shook herself into the immediate present. “I won’t go out today.” Looking up, she caught Christian’s eyes. “You said you’d come and tell me all once you leave Roscoe’s.”
His hand closed over hers on his sleeve; he smiled reassuringly. “I will. You said you’d be waiting.”
She frowned as the situation with the company resurfaced fully in her mind. “I want to sell those gaming hells—at the very least sell my share of the company—as soon as possible. Quite aside from any threat of scandal—and what a scandal that would be, Lady Letitia Randall née Vaux as the owner of such properties—it’s—” She gestured with her free hand. “—offensive to me, deeply disturbing, to know that I own a share in an enterprise that exists to lead young men of the ton astray. I’ve seen too many ton families brought to grief over gambling debts. That I should be associated with a company that preys on others’ weaknesses…” She glanced up, met his eyes. “I want to divest myself of my inheritance from Randall as soon as it can be arranged.”
When she put it like that…Christian nodded. “I’ll make sure Roscoe understands that the sale is still on.”
“Good.”
They’d reached the steps to Randall’s door.
She halted, looked at him, then to his surprise she stretched up and lightly kissed him.
He responded, touched—caught—by the sweetness, the warmth.
She drew back. Her eyes searched his briefly—as if checking to see that he understood—then she smiled, softly mysterious, and stepped back. “Take care.”
Summoning every bit of sangfroid he possessed, he smiled in reply, squeezed her hand, then reluctantly let her go. He watched as she climbed the steps, opened the door and went in.
The instant the door closed, his smile spontaneously widened into a grin—one he couldn’t contain. Turning, he started back to his house.
Spying Barton’s red head, he waved—plunging the runner into a quandary over whether to respond, and if so, how.
Christian laughed at the consternation on Barton’s face. He picked up his pace, striding along jauntily. He was closing in on Randall’s killer—all his instincts said so—and Letitia would be waiting for him to return, safely at home under Barton’s unimaginative yet unwavering eye.
And she’d made her decision—the right decision.
Matters were definitely looking up. Triumph beckoned. Victory would soon be his.
Christian alighted from the hackney he, Dalziel, and Justin had taken from the Bastion Club, joining the other two on the pavement in Chichester Street, Pimlico. As the hackney rattled away, they all stood and surveyed the large white-painted mansion that was Neville Roscoe’s residence; overlooking Dolphin Square, it was an imposing sight.
Yet there was nothing overdone about it. The house was a simple statement of solid wealth and permanence, a description that fitted the owner as well.
They trooped up the steps and rang the bell.
The butler was expecting them; he led them through halls and corridors that could very easily have graced any of their houses. Opening a door at the end of one wing, he announced them, then stepped back, allowing them to enter an airy, excellently proportioned room, well-lit by long windows and elegantly furnished as a gentleman’s study.
Tall bookcases were built into one wall. Pedestals bearing a set of superb busts stood between the windows. A large mahogany desk, its lines clean and precise, dominated the room. Various furniture polished to a lustrous gleam, green leather upholstery, brass lamps and two spindle-legged side tables completed the decor.
That the gentleman who rose from the chair behind the wide expanse of the desk belonged in such refined surrounds no one could doubt.
Neville Roscoe was an enigma. He was rumored to be the scion of a minor branch of one of the major ton houses, although no one had ever identified which. Roscoe almost certainly wasn’t the surname he’d been born with. Tall, with the same aristocratic features that marked all of them as descended from one or another of William’s nobles, long limbed and rangy, blessed with an athletic physique and the muscles to match, after a cursory glance at Christian, who he’d met before, and a curious glance for Justin, who he hadn’t, Roscoe fixed his dark gaze on Dalziel.
The only obvious difference between the two men was that Roscoe wore his dark hair in a close crop, while Dalziel’s sat in elegant waves about his head.
Watching the pair take stock of each other, Christian hid a wry grin. “I believe you haven’t previously met. Dalziel. Neville Roscoe.”
After an instant’s hesitation, both inclined their heads, the action eerily similar.
Roscoe transferred his attention to Justin. “And this, I take it, is Lord Justin Vaux.”
Justin politely inclined his head.
Roscoe didn’t offer to shake hands; he waved them to the three substantial chairs set before the desk.
Christian knew Roscoe’s history. He’d appeared in London about a decade earlier, and had made his fortune much as Randall had, although in Roscoe’s case he’d had no truck with secrecy—that wasn’t his style. The other difference was that, while Randall had worked to come up in the world, Roscoe had patently, and very deliberately, stepped down from whatever his base within the aristocracy was to run a string of select gambling hells. He was a superb card player, was known to have won fortunes, yet rarely lost more than modest amounts. Even by the ton’s jaded standards, he was a gamester extraordinaire. Yet although he was now very wealthy, rather than
attempt to rejoin the ton—something he most likely could do with reasonable ease—he continued to eschew society. Indeed, he lived a very private life.
One of the few concessions he made to his true station was his surroundings; he lived in luxury, and the way he moved within the elegance of his house verified beyond doubt that that was, indeed, the milieu to which he’d been born.
He sat as they did, then arched his brows. “And how may I help you, gentlemen?”
“At this stage,” Christian replied, “we’re interested in information about the proposed sale of the Orient Trading Company. We’ve been led to believe you were hoping to be the buyer.”
Roscoe’s eyes were watchful. “And what’s your interest in the sale?”
“I’m acting for Lady Letitia Randall née Vaux, Randall’s widow.” Christian waved at Justin. “Lord Vaux is here as her surrogate.”
Roscoe’s gaze flicked to Justin. “The one with a warrant sworn against him for Randall’s murder?” His gaze shifted to Dalziel. “But of course, you’d know that.”
“Indeed,” Dalziel replied. “We also know someone else murdered Randall.”
Roscoe’s brows rose. That was news to him.
“We’re currently pursuing the avenue,” Christian smoothly went on, “that Randall was murdered because of the proposed sale.”
Roscoe met his eyes, then dropped all pretense of nonchalance; leaning his forearms on the desk, eyes narrowing, he was suddenly all business. “If that’s the case, obviously the murderer wasn’t me.”
Christian inclined his head. “Just so. But we need to learn all we can about the proposed sale in order to identify those most affected—at present there’s possibilities aplenty as to who might actually have done the deed.”
Roscoe’s gaze turned inward.
They waited.
“First,” he eventually said, his gaze lowering to fix on his hands, clasped on the desk, “I should clarify that, as matters stand, at some point I would, almost certainly, have made an offer for the Orient Trading Company—an offer Randall and his partners wouldn’t have been able to refuse.” Lifting his gaze, Roscoe met Dalziel’s eyes, then looked at Christian. “Randall and the others had worked diligently to establish themselves. They’d come a long way.”