She told him.
“How much damage did she cause?”
She glanced at the archway, but Hermione hadn’t returned. “Considerable, unfortunately. Some of the most avid gossips, finding that I wasn’t about to feed the scandal, had passed from me to her. She largely undid what I’d done, and then went further.”
She frowned, imagining the outcome and how she might deal with it.
“What are you planning?”
She glanced up, met his eyes. “I’ll have to appear rather more than I would like, but it has to be done.” Raising a hand, she brushed back a loosened lock from her temple, noted that his eyes followed her hand. She turned away. “As I told Hermione, I need to seed doubt—and now I need to do it in far more minds. If the ton grow convinced beyond shaking that Justin is guilty, proving him innocent won’t be enough to clear his name. Even if he’s officially exonerated he’ll never recover his standing. I can’t let that happen. One day he’ll be the Earl of Nunchance and head of the House of Vaux.”
When Christian didn’t reply, she glanced at him. Hands on his hips, he was staring at the floor, a frown marring his handsome face. She grasped the moment to study it, felt as always a visceral tug—searched for distraction and recalled that he’d come to ask for information. “What did you want to ask me?”
He glanced up. She saw him think back—clearly whatever had caused that frown had been something else.
“I need to know the names of Justin’s friends and associates. However many names you know.”
She grimaced. “That’s not all that many.” She thought, then recited, “Ludwell and Arkdale. Geoffrey Amberly. Rittledale. And Banningham. Those are all I know for certain, at least over the last years.”
Christian nodded; he lowered his arms. “I’ll ask around and see what I can learn.” He stepped closer. “We need to locate Justin and get him to tell us what went on. Tell Hermione that’s what I intend to do.”
Letitia’s eyes widened, but she held her ground. Inclined her head. “I will. But she’s stubborn.”
He held her green-gold gaze. “Aren’t you all?”
Once again they were close; once again excruciating awareness arced and all but crackled between them. The past seemed tangible, a web of feeling threatening to snare them anew. Yet…seeing the deep worry clouding her eyes, he couldn’t resist lifting one hand and gently touching the back of one finger to her pale cheek.
Her eyes flared. Ruthlessly suppressing his answering response, he lowered his hand and stepped back. “I’ll let you know what I learn.”
With a brisk salute, he turned—then turned back. “One thing. Barton’s outside, keeping watch. If Justin sends word, or by some chance you find you can get a message to him, warn him not to go to his lodgings, or to come to this house.” He hesitated, then said, “Tell him to come to mine.”
She studied his eyes, then nodded “All right.”
With a vague wave, he turned and left her—standing before her husband’s empty hearth.
Christian swung down the steps into the street and set off for Grosvenor Square.
All those who caught a glimpse of his face gave him a wide berth.
One part of him—the vengeful part—couldn’t believe what he was doing. That, once again, he was falling under the spell of Letitia Vaux, the Jezebel who’d ripped his heart from his chest and then later thrown it away.
Wanting to knock Barton’s teeth down his throat was one thing; given how the runner had behaved, he would probably have felt as strongly had it been any gently bred lady. Or so he’d tried to tell himself.
But today…it was one thing to discover that he still lusted after her as intensely as he ever had, but to allow himself to feel tender toward her—what sort of self-flagellating moron was he?
Even more to the point, how had his plans of revenge, admittedly vague and unformed, degenerated to such a degree? To where he now wanted to comfort her, to soothe her and ease her way?
A scowl darkening his features, he strode along and couldn’t think of an answer. The truth was, when he’d seen her today, bowed down not only with worry for her brother but having to battle the ton’s perceptions, and then shouldering the additional burden Hermione had unwittingly created, all because she understood that for them, in their circle, family came first…he’d understood, to his soul he’d been touched, and he’d felt…
Something he hadn’t felt in years.
Reaching the pavement before his front door, he halted and stared at the highly polished panels.
The truth was…even though he knew that she hadn’t truly loved him, that contrary to what he’d believed, all that they’d shared in the past had been nothing more than a passing fancy to her, it didn’t seem to matter.
He’d loved her then.
And he still did.
Dragging in a breath, he slowly let it out, then marched up the steps and let himself into his house.
Chapter 3
Christian spent the rest of that day trawling through the likely haunts Justin Vaux might have retreated to, innocently or otherwise. That Justin’s man had gone with him suggested a stay somewhere; when nothing came of inquiring at the obvious places—White’s, Boodle’s, Crockfords, and the smattering of other clubs a nobleman of Justin’s age and ilk might frequent—Christian turned to more serious scouting.
Later that evening, using the Bastion Club as a base, along with the support Gasthorpe provided by means of his small army of messengers and footmen, Christian sent out inquiries along the main highways out of London, especially those leading to the ports in the south and southeast, searching for some sighting of Justin’s curricle.
Since returning to London, he’d glimpsed Justin numerous times in the clubs, but hadn’t spoken to him. Letitia’s brother hadn’t made any effort to speak with him either, but courtesy of those vignettes gained across crowded rooms, Christian knew Justin had grown into his family’s legacy; few seeing him, even in a greatcoat, would forget him, and with his striking good looks, his height, and that hair, most could be counted on to remember if asked.
Unfortunately, as he discovered the next morning when he returned to breakfast at the club, no one recalled sighting Justin over the last days along any of the stretches of highway he’d targeted.
He was finishing his breakfast and mulling over his options when Tristan, Lord Trentham, another club member, strolled into the dining room. His eyes lit at the sight of the maps Christian had spread over the table. “Gasthorpe mentioned you were involved in something. Anything I can help with?”
Christian grinned and waved to a chair. “I didn’t expect anyone else would be in town yet.”
Sitting, Tristan sighed. “Lenore apparently needs new gowns, and of course she needs to check on her uncle and brother.” He hooked a thumb in the direction of the house next door. “She’s over there at the moment, but then she’s heading to Bond Street.” He brightened. “So I’m at loose ends, and therefore yours to command.”
Smiling understandingly—all of them missed the action of their former lives—Christian gave him a brief outline of the issues surrounding Randall’s murder, omitting all mention of his previous association with Letitia.
Tristan saw through his ploy. “And you’ve been drawn into this because…?”
Christian held his gaze steadily. “I know the family of old. Our estates are in the same region.”
Tristan studied his face, then smiled. “I see.”
But to Christian’s relief, he said nothing more.
Transferring his attention to the maps, Tristan asked, “Where have you searched so far?”
Christian told him.
After some discussion, pooling their contacts they organized a network of more detailed inquiries, effectively drawing a tight circle around London. After dispatching Gasthorpe’s messengers, Christian surveyed the map and their lists with grim satisfaction. “That, at least, should tell us whether he’s left town, or has gone to ground somewhere withi
n our circle.”
Tristan met his gaze. “You think he’s hiding?”
Christian nodded. “Yes, I do. What I don’t know is why.”
That evening, Letitia attended a select soiree at the home of Lady Lachlan, one of her multitude of connections. A family gathering, more or less. Garbed all in black with a filmy veil shading her features, she relentlessly projected the stance she wished to establish—that while she would pay all due observance to the ton’s sensibilities regarding mourning dress, that while she would not dance, nor indulge in any other form of entertainment, she had absolutely no intention of hiding herself away.
Aside from all else, hiding herself away wouldn’t help Justin.
Events such as this provided her only real opportunity to gauge what the gentlemen of the ton thought. Unfortunately, as she quickly discovered, they, one and all, had followed the ladies’ lead.
“Dreadful business,” Sir Henry Winthrop, a distant cousin, opined. “Can’t think what got into Justin’s head.”
“Justin’s head?” Letitia looked perplexed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Sir Henry blinked, then smiled avuncularly and patted her wrist. “I don’t suppose you do, m’dear. Not the sort of thing a gentlewoman should think about, heh?”
Before she could disabuse him of that ludicrous notion, he was hailed by someone from across the room; excusing himself, he left her side.
The younger gentlemen were even worse.
“That temper, you know. Always thought it would get the better of him one day.” That from a Lachlan acquaintance.
The reply, from Mr. Kenneally, an Irishman known for his dissolute ways, “I heard he can be quite ferocious when roused. No holding him,” left Letitia literally speechless.
When Christian unexpectedly appeared by her side, she fell on him as the only safe outlet for her increasing ire.
“They’re making Justin sound like a madman!” Facing Christian, she fought to keep her voice down. “The way they’re talking, it’s as if the infamous Vaux temper is an affliction. A prelude to insanity!”
Christian eyed her cynically. “The family, you included, have been perfectly content to be known as the vile-tempered Vaux for generations. You can’t expect people to suddenly forget.”
She sent him a glittering glance. “You know we’re not that bad.”
“Yes. But then I know the Vaux rather well.” The subtle emphasis he placed on the latter words might have had her blushing, but through the veil he couldn’t tell. “It was your great-grandfather who started it, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and he truly was a bona fide terror. From the stories my grandfather related, he must have had the most vicious tongue known to man. Not that my grandfather was all that much better, but by all accounts he was an improvement. My father, as you know, could never be described as a comfortable person, but no matter how verbally violent we might be, we’re not—never have been—physically dangerous.”
“Except when you throw things.”
“We never throw things at people, and our aim is good. You can’t ask for more.” She dragged in a breath. “But none of that—the truth—seems to matter!”
Clutching his sleeve, she swung around and pointed at a youthful gentleman. “Do you know what Finley Courtauld said?”
Through her grip on his arm, Christian sensed just how strung up she was. She proceed to relate numerous comments either made to her or that she’d overheard, all confirming the ton’s solidifying belief that Justin Vaux had, in a fit of the famous—or infamous—Vaux temper, beaten his brother-in-law to death.
Her own temper was not just showing but spiraling—to a dangerous degree.
He closed his hand over hers on his sleeve, squeezed until she stopped her escalating rant and looked at him. When she did, he said in a perfectly even voice, “You’re feeling unwell. Come—I’ll take you home.”
Through the filmy veil she narrowed her eyes at him; her lips had firmed into a thin line.
He returned her gaze steadily; they both knew that if she remained in Lady Lachlan’s drawing room and continued in her present vein, she would risk reaching the stage where her temper slipped its leash and took over.
And they both knew how histrionically violent, how dramatic and sensational, the outcome was all but guaranteed to be.
She humphed, and looked across the room, locating their hostess. “Only because I can’t afford to create a scene at this moment, on this topic.”
“Indeed,” he replied dryly. “The ton really doesn’t need a demonstration of just how violent—verbally or otherwise—a Vaux can be.”
She humphed again, but consented to be led across the floor, to make her farewells, rather brittlely, to Lady Lachlan, then to walk with him into the front hall, where they waited while her carriage was fetched.
Although Letitia preserved a rigid silence, he knew that her temper, once aroused, wasn’t that easy to deflect. To douse. The Vaux temper didn’t respond to logic, reason, or control, not once a certain point was reached, a point she’d already passed. There were a few distractions that would work, but although one—the most effective—occurred to him, given their public location, it wasn’t a viable option.
When he handed her into the carriage and then sat beside her, he could sense the storm building within her, increasingly potent for being suppressed.
She waited until they’d started rolling to release it. “I can’t imagine why everyone—simply everyone—is being so willfully obtuse! Can’t they see…”
She ranted and raved, calling into question the mental acuity of a sizable portion of the ton, ruthlessly stripping bare their foibles, exposing all, the shallowness and jealousy, to a relentlessly clinical verbal dissection.
Much of what she said was correct. She was a highly intelligent observer of her world, and her memory for minor details of people’s lives was remarkable in its depth and clarity. He sat back and listened, knowing she needed nothing more than the occasional monosyllable from him.
The journey to South Audley Street wasn’t long enough for her to run down. As the carriage slowed, then halted before her—Randall’s—door, she cut off her tirade, hauled in a huge breath and held it. Let him hand her down and escort her up the steps and into the house without a word.
He followed her into the front parlor.
She halted, half turned and cast a rapier glance back, not at him but at Mellon. Randall’s butler plainly recognized the signs of an impending explosion; he’d paled and remained hovering in the hall, making no attempt to come closer.
“You may retire.” She spoke quietly, slowly, each word bitten off. “I require nothing more from you tonight.”
Under her gaze—one promising all manner of dramatic retribution should he remain an instant longer—Mellon paled even more, bowed and scurried away, his alacrity testifying to prior experience of such unvoiced threats.
The instant he disappeared, Letitia made a hissing sound; swinging around, she stalked back to the door, slammed it shut, then turned to Christian. “Did you see? Outside? That ghastly weasel of a runner is across the road, still keeping watch.”
Raising a hand, she ripped off her veil, along with the comb anchoring it. She flung it on a chair. “I’d like to strangle Mellon”—she curled her hands as if fastening them about the butler’s neck—“for visiting this whole nightmare upon us. Then again, he has the intellect of a flea. Presumably he can’t help being a dolt. Regardless, I don’t know where the authorities’ brains are—how they can countenance…”
She paced, ranted and raved. Hands were flung freely, skirts were kicked out of her way, fingers were wagged and stabbed for emphasis.
Christian stood in the center of the parlor and watched the show. As always, he was the rock, unaffected by the storm, while she was the lashing waves, the fury and tempest. She circled him, all fire and brimstone, lightning and raw emotion. He waited, knowing she’d talk herself to a standstill, or at least to a point where her mind
reasserted control and she refocused on the here and now.
He had time to study their surroundings. This was her room—the difference between it and the rest of the house, at least all the other reception rooms, was pronounced. This was Vaux territory, her domain, richly and sumptuously furnished, a feast for the senses. Two sofas faced each other across the fireplace; matching sofa tables across the back of each held large crystal vases filled with flowers. Other tables and two armchairs were arranged about the room. The candelabra and most ornaments were of gleaming silver. Silks and satins were the primary fabrics, the colors jeweled-toned blues and greens touched with gold—vivid and dramatic hues to create the perfect setting for a vivid and dramatic lady. The effect was of unabashed sensual luxury.
Yet her presence was restricted to this room. He wondered why.
Eventually she halted and frowned at the fabulous green and gold rug. Then she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes still sparked; her temper had yet to die. “And then there’s you.” Her lips curved, as cynical as he often was. “Playing your own game.” She swung closer, halting directly before him. She looked into his face, studied his eyes. “What have you learned?”
He arched one brow. Let a moment tick past before answering. “We finally found someone who saw Justin in his curricle in the early hours of the morning after Randall was killed. An ostler at an inn on the outskirts of the city—on the Dover Road.”
“Dover?” Looking down, she frowned. “There’s nothing at Dover.”
Other than the packet to Calais. Christian saw no value in stating the obvious.
She shook her head. “He won’t be going to Dover.”
Which, despite appearances to the contrary, was his—and Tristan’s—experienced conclusions. “We think he’s deliberately laying a trail to make it appear he fled the scene, and then the country.”
She looked up at him, still frowning. “He’s deliberately making himself look guilty?”
“That’s the way it…feels.” Instinct more than fact had informed his and Tristan’s opinions.