The Edge of Desire (29 page)

It didn’t take much thinking to concede she was right.

Once Letitia came out of mourning—and given she was a Vaux and not inclined to sit quietly at home, even before then—she would all but instantly become a gazetted prize; she was the sort of woman men fought over.

Although he was sharing her bed, he was well aware he had no guarantee she would, in the end, agree to marry him. To be his again, unreservedly.

A letter opened but unread in his hand, he considered what his life would be like if she decided against him.

Cordelia had also been right in that he needed Letitia to show him what passion was. In that respect, only she would do—only she had ever succeeded.

If he didn’t have her…

Hearing a crinkling sound, he glanced down. He’d crushed the letter he was holding. Opening his fist, he smoothed the sheet out and laid it on the blotter.

His aunt had been right in all respects.

Tie her up fast.

Wise advice, he felt sure.

T
hey gathered at the Bastion Club later that afternoon. Christian met Letitia at the gate; they climbed the porch steps to find Gasthorpe receiving a packet from a messenger.

“Ah—here he is.” The majordomo bowed to Christian and Letitia, then extended the packet to Christian. “From Mr. Montague, my lord.”

“Excellent.” Christian took the packet, handed it to Letitia, and hunted in his waistcoat pocket. He tipped the messenger and dismissed him. The boy clattered down the steps just as Dalziel came walking up the path.

Dalziel exchanged nods with them, then waved Letitia and Christian into the house. After a few murmured words with Gasthorpe, he followed them up the stairs and into the library.

Tony, Jack, and Tristan were already there. They got to their feet as Letitia swept in; she smiled and waved them back to their chairs. Appropriating one of the armchairs by the hearth, she sank into it, laying the packet, which she’d retained, on her lap.

Entirely unexpectedly, the door opened again and Justin sauntered in. Although partly disguised in a heavy, nondescript overcoat with a cap pulled low over his face, with his height, build, outrageously handsome features, and distinctive coloring, he remained readily identifiable.

Christian sensed his fellow club members come alert. They exchanged glances with each other and with him; they
were all dying to ask Justin where he’d been staying—and more to the point, who his host really was.

Justin flashed a smile around the room, then seeing Letitia’s surprise give way to ire, he held up his hands placatingly. “I came in through the back alley—no one saw me.”

She humphed, cast him, and then Dalziel, a darkling look, and subsided. She looked down at the package in her lap.

Christian was about to suggest she open it when Dalziel, sinking into one of the deeply padded wing chairs, stated, “I heard from my Hexham contact.”

All attention swung his way. He smiled, all teeth. “As we suspected, Swithin was indeed a peer of Randall and Trowbridge at Hexham Grammar School. They entered the school in the same year, and all three were governors’ scholars—the only three that year. They banded together from the first, no doubt to ward off the inevitable bullying. Randall as we know was a farmer’s son. Trowbridge’s father was a goldsmith—quite a talented one by all accounts—and his mother was a potter. His liking for artwork presumably grew from that. Trowbridge’s parents are still alive—he visits them occasionally, although the more he’s gone up in the world, the more awkward that’s become. However, the elder Trowbridges are proud of their son, if a trifle in awe. He’s risen far from his humble beginnings—in many ways his life is now beyond their comprehension.”

Settling his shoulders in the chair, Dalziel continued, “Which brings us to Swithin. His father was a merchant in the town. He’s still alive, but unlike Trowbridge, Swithin has cut all ties. Swithin the elder knows nothing about his son, not even his current address.”

“So Randall lost all ties to his past when his parents died,” Letitia remarked, “Swithin cut his ties, but Trowbridge didn’t.” She frowned. “Does that tell us anything?”

No one seemed to know.

“Why don’t we see what Montague’s sent?” Christian nodded to the packet in her lap.

“Yes, of course.”

While she broke the seal and spread out the sheets, Christian explained to the others what tack they were now following to locate the company’s customers. “Given that cash payments can’t be traced back to the payer, the direct approach is the only one left to us.”

Letitia was scanning Montague’s communication; from her expression it was clear the news was good. She glanced up, saw them all watching, and beamed. “Montague’s a wonder. He’s traced three of the large regular payments—all made on Mondays, one to each of the company’s three accounts—and all invariably made at the following three banks—Rothchild’s in Piccadilly, Child’s in Oxford Street, and Barkers in the Strand.”

Triumph glowed in her eyes as she lowered the sheet and looked across at Christian.

Tony leaned forward in his chair. “So on Monday, at each of those three banks, someone will come in and go to the teller and make a cash payment into an Orient Trading Company account?”

Letitia nodded. “On Monday, two days from now.”

“So”—Jack’s voice, too, held a note of anticipation—“if we’re there, at each of those three banks keeping watch—”

“And the tellers have been asked to tip us the wink when a particular payment is made to the relevant account”—Tony took up the evolving plan—“we can identify and follow the person making the deposit—”

“And learn what, exactly, their business is.” Tristan beamed back at Letitia. “Excellent!”

The sense of building excitement was pervasive; they were all, including Letitia and Justin, constitutionally better suited to action than waiting.

“We don’t even need to follow them, at least not far.” As ever, Letitia was inclined to directness. “We can simply ask them what they’re paying the Orient Trading Company for.”

“Damn!”

They all looked around at Justin’s muttered oath.

He looked at his sister, disgust in his face. “I can see
where this is leading—while you all get to hunt, I’ll have to stay indoors and wait.” He glanced at Dalziel, a hopeful expression replacing the disgust. “I don’t suppose—”

“No.” Letitia uttered the single syllable in a tone that brooked absolutely no argument. “You cannot go out, not even in a much better disguise.”

She directed her statement not solely at Justin but at Dalziel as well. He held up his hands in a gesture signifying that he wasn’t going to get involved.

Satisfied, Letitia turned her gaze pointedly on her brother.

Justin looked mulish.

Christian caught his eye.

After a moment of inner railing, Justin surrendered. “Oh, all right.” He slumped back in the chair. “I’ll sit at home, safe by the fire, while you have all the fun.”

Entirely satisfied—sufficiently calmed—Letitia glanced at Christian. “So on Monday, how should we proceed?”

They made their plans, eagerness returning in full measure.

“So,” Christian summarized, “Tony and Jack will take Barkers in the Strand, Dalziel and Tristan will be at Child’s, and Letitia and I will keep watch at Rothchild’s. Having two pairs of eyes at each location should ensure we don’t miss our quarries.”

“It’s also easier to remain undetected when following someone if you’re walking with another and talking.” Tony grinned, and spoke for them all. “It’ll be good to be on the street again, rather than leafing through files.”

Feeling better—more buoyed and confident—than she’d felt since she learned of Randall’s death, Letitia stood. “Well, gentlemen.” She cast an appreciative glance around the circle. “On Monday we’ll learn what the Orient Trading Company actually does—and then we’ll approach Trowbridge, and hopefully learn a great deal more.”

It was Saturday—Monday was two days away.

Bearing that and his aunt Cordelia’s warning in mind, Christian saw Letitia home, then repaired to his aunt’s house to ask her advice.

Cordelia and Ermina were laid down upon the twin sofas in the drawing room, but when he walked in, were quite content to open their eyes and wave him to a chair.

“What brings you here?” Cordelia inquired, surprise edging her voice.

He outlined his dilemma.

After due discussion and deliberation back and forth between the pair, Cordelia pronounced judgment. “While attending the theater is in general
not done
while in deep mourning, in the case of the Vaux, suffice to say that if Letitia were seen suitably gowned and veiled in a private box at the Theatre Royal, such a sighting would provoke neither excessive surprise nor scandal.”

Christian smiled. “Thank you, dear aunts.” He rose, inclined his head to them both. “I’ll leave you to your…musings.”

With a salute, he turned and walked from the room; he could hear the buzz of their gossiping before Meadows closed the door behind him.

Later that evening, after an entirely unexpected excursion to the Theatre Royal with Christian, Hermione, and Agnes, where the drama and farce had succeeded in diverting her for more than two hours, Letitia paced restlessly across the library in the house in South Audley Street.

She glanced at Christian as he settled into one of the armchairs, a glass of brandy in his hand. She summoned a grateful, perfectly sincere smile. “Thank you for the evening. I truly appreciated the gesture. And the…” She waved.

He smiled and raised his glass. “Distraction?”

“Precisely.”

Agnes and Hermione had retired when they’d returned,
yawning and sleepy. She, in contrast, felt far too wide-awake to contemplate her bed.

Even with him in it.

She knew he intended to be there, to sleep beside her tonight—to make love to her first, and probably later as well.

And she had absolutely no intention of dissuading him, much less arguing. That didn’t, however, mean she’d made her final decision about letting him back into her life—into her heart and soul, as well as her body.

Her reticence over making that commitment surprised her. Left her a touch uneasy. Emotional caution didn’t come naturally; she normally knew exactly what she wanted, yet with him…she knew what she wanted, but she still couldn’t make herself believe it would be, not with her whole heart and mind and soul. In the deepest recesses of her mind, she hadn’t yet accepted that what she truly wanted was still there, that if she embraced him again, totally and completely, admitted him again into her heart as her one and only love, that he would stay.

When it came to him, her reactions were complex and complicated. Difficult to unravel even for her.

Knowing how futile dwelling on that subject would be, especially with him in the same room, she cut off that train of thought and sent her mind in another direction.

Reaching the end of her track, she lifted her head, let her gaze travel the room as she slowly swung around. “I still think of this house as Randall’s. I never did consider it mine—which in retrospect was odd. Even now, it’s just a house I’m staying in.”

Christian was silent for a moment, then murmured, “If you never considered yourself his, then you never accepted what was his as yours.”

Looking down, she paced, nodded. “I daresay you’re right.

Casting about for another—safer—topic, she remem
bered the scene she’d witnessed as they were leaving his club. “I had no idea you were
all
so obsessed with learning Dalziel’s identity.”

On quitting the library, Jack and Tony had cornered Justin at the top of the stairs. Tristan and Christian had gone ahead, flanking Dalziel, talking to him—distracting him and making noise. She’d been descending in their wake when she’d heard, behind her, Jack ask, oh so innocently, “So where exactly does Dalziel live?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Justin had replied, “London.”

She hadn’t needed to look to know that Jack and Tony had been disappointed. But apparently they’d realized Justin had given his word and so wouldn’t be swayed. They’d accepted defeat with good grace—and huge sighs.

“It just seems unfair,” Christian said, “that he should know so much about us, even things we’d rather he didn’t, yet we know absolutely nothing about him, not even his real name.”

“You don’t need to know his name—you know the man.” She hesitated, then added, “I rather think that was his point.”

“What point?”

“The reason he uses that name.”

Christian snorted and they let that subject fall.

She kept pacing back and forth as the minutes ticked by.

He sighed. “You do realize that the entire purpose of this evening was to distract you?”

“Yes, I know. But I can’t get my mind off what, come Monday, we might learn. I have a very bad feeling about the Orient Trading Company’s business.”

So did Christian.

“I mean,” she went on, one arm sweeping wide as she turned, “why
did
Randall—and Trowbridge and Swithin, too—go to such lengths to keep the company so hidden? I can understand not wanting to be openly associated with any mercantile trade—they certainly wouldn’t have wanted
that if their underlying purpose was to be accepted within the haut ton—but distancing themselves from any legitimate enterprise could easily have been done by appointing an agent, or man-of-business. Lots of others do that—why didn’t they? Why did they instead work so hard, with codes no less, to keep the whole enterprise an absolute secret?”

Sweeping up to where he sat, she halted dramatically and fixed him with an uncompromising stare. “The business of the Orient Trading Company has got to be something scandalous. That’s the only viable conclusion. You all think so, I know.”

He held her gaze. “As Jack pointed out, given the incoming sums are so large, it can’t be what we all thought.”

Folding her arms, she looked down her aristocratic nose at him. “The sums being so large might also be because whatever scandalous doings Randall and his cohorts were—are—involved in, and have now involved
me
in, is run on a grand scale.”

It was pointless to argue, especially when she might well be right. Yet her restless energy was still building; unless it subsided, she’d never sleep.

He’d tried distraction. He’d tried talking.

That left…

She humphed and swung away, pacing once again across the room.

Soundlessly, he rose and followed her.

The next time she swung around, she turned into his arms.

He caught her to him, bent his head and kissed her. Given distraction was his aim, he didn’t hold back; he parted her lips, surged into her mouth and laid claim.

She was passive for all of two heartbeats, then her hands were in his hair, holding his head while she kissed him back.

Voraciously.

Her mouth was as hungry as he was, her lips pliant and wantonly seductive, flagrantly demanding. She stepped into
him, pressed her slender body to his, wordlessly communicated her desire.

In that, at least, they were as one.