The Edge of Desire (2 page)

She folded her arms beneath her breasts, haughtily lifted her chin. “It wasn’t that sort of argument.”

A cold argument, then, one without heat or passion. For her, with her husband, that struck him as odd.

He looked away, again scanning the room. In reality looking away from her so he wouldn’t focus on her breasts. Breasts he knew—or had, at one time, known well. Hauling his mind from salacious images from the past—all the more potent for being memory rather than imagination—took more effort than he cared to contemplate. He shifted. “So you left Randall here, hale and whole, and then what? What next did you know of this?”

“Nothing at all until my dresser came rushing in this morning to tell me about the body.” She turned away from the bloodstain.

He moved with her, alongside her, as she glided to the window overlooking the street; she halted before it.

“By the time I dressed and got downstairs, the butler—he’s an officious little scourge by the name of Mellon—had taken it upon himself to summon the authorities, who assigned an investigator from Bow Street—a weasely, narrow-minded man whose only concern is to close the case as soon as possible regardless of the truth.”

She fell silent, but before he could frame his next question, she volunteered, “One other thing my dresser babbled—she was in a complete tizz—was that this morning the door to the study was locked, with the key on the floor some way inside. Mellon and the footmen tried to force the door but couldn’t.” They both turned to consider the door, a heavy, inches-thick oak panel with a lock of similar ilk. “Luckily, someone in the household can pick locks. That was how they got in…and found him.”

Quitting her side, he prowled toward the door; his senses
remained distracted, but his intellect was engaged. “How far inside? Guess from what she babbled.”

“A few yards, not more. That’s what it sounded like.”

He was standing staring at the floor, absorbing the implications of the key being in that spot, when a girl appeared in the doorway. Looking up, he met her eyes, then glanced up at her hair and smiled. “Hermione.”

“Lord Dearne.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I didn’t know if you would remember me.”

He let his smile turn charming, as if he hadn’t forgotten the scrap who’d been all of four when he’d last seen her. Luckily, her hair was a telling feature; in common with, as far as he’d ever heard, all those born to the house of Vaux, she possessed luxuriant dark locks that, despite their darkness, could never be described as anything other than red. With that, combined with the evidence of her features, a softer, milder version of Letitia’s, placing her hadn’t been difficult.

Her attention shifting to her older sister, Hermione advanced into the room. Christian noted she didn’t look at the bloodstain; her focus was Letitia.

He glanced at Letitia; she was looking down, mind elsewhere. She was patently undisturbed by Hermione joining them.

Glancing at him, Letitia continued, “That’s really all I know of my own knowledge. What I gathered from the investigator—”

“No.” He held up a staying hand. “Don’t tell me. I want to hear it from him, direct.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Without my interpretations?”

He suppressed a grin. “Without your appellations.”

She humphed, a sound Vaux females had down to an art, then looked at Hermione. “Are you all right?”

Hermione blinked. “Of course. I was wondering about you.”

Letitia shrugged. “Once Justin turns up, and the fools who call themselves the authorities admit it wasn’t him and start looking for the real murderer, I’ll be fine.”

Christian inwardly blinked. No sarcasm ran beneath her words—with a Vaux, one never needed to guess—yet she’d just lost a husband of eight years in shocking circumstances….

He studied her; she was looking at Hermione, but there was nothing in either woman’s attitude beyond sisterly comfort. While Hermione was presently a less intense version of Letitia, she’d no doubt grow into her dramatic powers in time. Both sisters seemed at ease with each other, the only real difference being in age, and the suggestion of care, of viewing Hermione as a person she needed to protect and watch over, that colored Letitia’s eyes.

He recognized the emotion. Realized he knew it all too well. He stirred. “If you’ll summon the butler—Mellon, was it?—I’d like to speak with him.”

Interrogate him. He needed to focus on the matter at hand, rather than let his Jezebel play on his sympathies, however unconsciously.

Letitia crossed to the bellpull and tugged; the alacrity with which the summons was answered had her smiling cynically—and exchanging a look with Christian. Obviously Randall’s staff found his presence noteworthy, enough to hover close.

Despite that, Mellon dutifully fixed his gaze on her, ignoring Christian. “You rang, ma’am?”

“Indeed, Mellon. Lord Dearne”—she waved at Christian—“has some questions he’d like to ask you. Please answer as best you can.”

Mellon reluctantly turned to Christian, who smiled easily, charming as ever.

She could have warned him; Mellon turned rigidly frosty.

Christian saw, but chose to ignore the man’s reaction. “You’ve been Mr. Randall’s butler for…how long?”

“Twelve years, my lord.”

Long before Letitia’s marriage to Randall; Christian glanced at her, but all he could detect in her face, her stance, was a species of resigned indifference toward Mellon. She didn’t like the man, but had let him remain as head of her household staff; he had to wonder why. He returned his gaze to the butler. “How did you get on with your late master?”

Mellon puffed out his chest. “It’s a—” He broke off, blinked, then his chin firmed. “It’s been a pleasure working for Mr. Randall, my lord.”

“And the rest of the staff?”

“Feel the same, my lord. None of the staff had any problems with the master.” Mellon’s eyes shifted toward Letitia but stopped before he made contact.

The man’s antagonism was obvious; Christian wondered at its cause. The Letitia he knew was invariably kind to the lower orders; the impulse was bred into her, all but instinctive, not something she could readily change. There had to be some other reason behind Mellon’s patent dislike of her.

“Very well.” He let his voice relax. “If you could tell me what, to your certain knowledge, drawing solely from your own observations, happened last night. Start from the point where Lady Randall returned home.”

Mellon primmed his lips like an old woman, but was only too ready to oblige. “The mistress came in and the master asked to speak with her. Here, in the study. They closed the door, so I don’t know what was said, but there was a great to-do.” His gaze flashed to Letitia, then returned to a point beyond Christian’s right shoulder. “We could hear her ladyship ranting and raving, as she’s wont to do.”

Ah
.
There we have it.
Devoted to his master, Mellon resented Letitia’s treatment of Randall.

Christian paused to reassess; Randall was the gentleman Letitia had betrayed him for, yet all he’d seen thus far of her attitude to the man seemed totally inconsistent with the love match their marriage was purported to have been. He
made a mental note to learn more about Randall, especially about his and Letitia’s marriage. But first…his apparently unquenchable protectiveness prodded him to ask, “Did anything occur during the time her ladyship and Mr. Randall were arguing in the study?”

“Indeed, sir, although not in the study.” Mellon’s eyes gleamed with vindictiveness. “Lord Justin Vaux, the mistress’s brother, called to see the master. It was the master he wanted, not the mistress. He could hear the carry-on in the study, so he said he’d wait in the library. I led him there. He told me I didn’t need to wait on him—it was latish by then. Said he’d show himself in once the mistress had left.”

“So you retired?” His tone conveyed his surprise; Percival never retired while he was up and about unless he, himself, ordered him to.

Mellon looked stricken. “I wish I hadn’t now, but his lordship’s often here—makes himself at home, and the master had mentioned earlier that he was expecting him, so, well…it was clear he didn’t want me about. So I went.”

Even without glancing at Letitia, Christian had little doubt how to interpret Mellon’s statement. Justin hadn’t liked Randall, and had therefore called frequently, “making himself at home,” supporting Letitia—very likely keeping an eye on her. That was revealing in itself. Although Justin and Letitia were close, they’d never lived in each other’s pockets. And there was Hermione, too. Christian glanced at her, and wondered if Letitia’s protective attitude had some specific cause beyond basic family instinct.

Clearly, Justin had made his dislike of Randall sufficiently obvious, hence Mellon’s rabid dislike of him.

“So beyond that point you have no further knowledge of events.” He caught Mellon’s eye. “You can’t say for certain that Lord Vaux left the library, went into the study and met with your master.”

Mellon’s lips pinched. “No, but I can say he didn’t leave until more than an hour later. My room’s above the front
door, and I heard it open and shut. I got up and looked out—just to be sure—and saw Lord Vaux making his way down the steps and onto the pavement.”

“Which way did he turn?”

“Left. Toward Piccadilly.”

Christian cocked a brow at Letitia.

Arms again folded, she was glowering, quietly smoldering, but there was worry behind her eyes. When he waited, she reluctantly vouchsafed, “Justin’s lodgings are in Jermyn Street.”

Mellon had given the correct direction without hesitation; he most probably had seen Justin leave. Christian thought, then asked, “If anyone else had called on your master last night, after Lord Vaux left, or even before, would you have known?”

“Indeed, sir—my lord. If they’d rung the bell, I would have heard—it rings in my room as well as in the kitchen. Even if they’d knocked on the door, I couldn’t help but hear, my room being where it is.”

There seemed little point in suggesting he might have been deeply asleep. “Very well.” Christian turned toward the bloodstain on the floor. “Let’s move on to this morning. What happened once you came downstairs?”

“I was in my pantry seeing to the cutlery for the breakfast table, when Mrs. Crocket, the housekeeper, came to tell me that the tweeny who does the study of a morning couldn’t open the door. I went straight away, thinking perhaps the master had gone to his study early. Sometimes he does lock the door. But when I knocked, there was no reply, not even when I called. Then one of the footmen looked through the keyhole—I was surprised he could, as the key should have been in it. He turned green and said the master was lying on the floor, and there was blood.” Mellon paled.

“What happened then?”

“We tried to force the door, me and the two footmen, but it wouldn’t budge. We were thinking of breaking a window and putting someone through when one of the maids told
us the scullery boy could pick locks. We got him up here, and he managed to open the door. We rushed in…” Mellon’s eyes were drawn to the bloodstained floor. “…and we found the master there, dead. Quite dead.”

His voice quavered on the last words. Christian gave him a moment to compose himself.

He glanced at Letitia; her face was chalk white. “I realize this is distressing”—he addressed the comment more to her than Mellon, then returned his gaze to the butler—“but if you could describe how Randall was lying—on his back, or on his face?”

All color drained from Mellon’s countenance. “On his back, my lord.” His jaw worked. “There wasn’t much of his face left to speak of.”

Letitia made a small choked sound and turned away; hand at her throat, she stared out of the window. Hermione had paled but was less distressed.

Tamping down a disconcertingly strong urge to suspend the interview to spare Letitia, who would certainly not thank him, Christian forged on. “So it would seem Randall was facing the fire, and his attacker. I understand there were two glasses of brandy on the side table—had they been drunk?”

Mellon rallied at the change of subject. “Both had been sipped, but neither drained.”

“Where, exactly, was the key?”

Mellon looked toward the door, and pointed. “There, on the floor—by that knot in the wood.”

Hermione shifted. Christian glanced at her, and saw she was attending avidly. He glanced at Letitia; she was attending, too, but not with the same intensity. He looked again at Hermione. Her eyes were wide; she was definitely tense. Without looking at Mellon, he said, “Put your finger on the spot.”

Mellon obeyed. “The best I can recall, it was here.”

Hermione’s eyes hadn’t left Mellon, but as he straightened, she glanced at Christian expectantly.

Unsure what was going on, he looked at Mellon and asked the obvious question. “How do you imagine the key got there?”

“I can’t rightly say, my lord.”

“If you had to guess?”

“I think…that Lord Vaux locked the door behind him, then slipped the key back under the door.”

Christian nodded. That seemed the most likely explanation, except…“Why would Lord Vaux do that? If he’d just murdered your master in gruesome fashion, why go to the bother of locking the door and slipping the key back inside?”

Mellon frowned, unable to answer.

“To give himself time to scarper.”

The words drew all eyes to the door; they came from a whippet-thin individual who’d appeared in the hall. One glance at his ferrety features and Christian knew who he was.

Letitia had stiffened to a scarifying degree. In tones worthy of the haughtiest duchess, she said, “Dearne, permit me to introduce Mr. Barton. Of Bow Street.”

She didn’t need to say anything more; her tone effectively conveyed her contempt. Clearly Barton had already succeeded in thoroughly putting up her back.

Deliberately mild, Christian nodded to Barton. “Lady Randall has asked me to investigate the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death. Might I ask why you imagine Lord Justin Vaux has, to use your phrase, ‘scarpered’?”

Barton wasn’t at all sure how to act toward him; Christian left him to make up his own mind, which resulted in Barton opting for caution. He answered civilly. “In light of the circumstances, I’ve been around to his lordship’s lodgings. I was given to understand that her ladyship here”—Barton glanced at Letitia—“sent a message requesting his presence earlier, but had received no reply. Not surprising, as his lordship has disappeared.”