The Edge of Desire (45 page)

She knew, looking into his eyes, that she’d met him before—long ago, when they’d been in their teens.

She let her smile widen, and sensed his wariness grow. “I believe we’ve met before, Mr. Roscoe, although I can’t at the moment recall where. But then I expect you would rather I didn’t recall at all, so perhaps”—retrieving her hand from his suddenly slack grasp, she waved to the armchair opposite the chaise—“we should get down to business before I do.”

Roscoe cast Christian a look, then moved to comply.

Still smiling delightedly, Letitia sat and promptly took charge of the negotiations.

Much to Roscoe’s disquiet.

Realizing that the threat of her knowledge of his identity, plus the inherent difficulty a man like Roscoe faced in negotiating business with a female of Letitia’s class, played heavily into her hands—and that she was supremely well-qualified to capitalize on the fact—Christian sat back and left her to it.

She did well, extracting both a higher price and more favorable payment terms than Roscoe had expected to have to concede; that much was clear from the irritation that briefly shone in his dark eyes.

But he took it well.

When, all the details thrashed out and agreed upon, the written agreements from Trowbridge and Mrs. Swithin tendered and accepted, they all rose and Roscoe shook Letitia’s hand, there was a reluctantly admiring glint in his eyes. “I’ll have my man of business draw up the contract in conjunction with…” Roscoe cocked a brow at Christian. “…Montague?”

Christian nodded. “He’s under instruction to take over the management of Lady Letitia’s affairs.”

Roscoe’s lips quirked. “Naturally.” He looked at Letitia, hesitated, then said, “I understand felicitations are in order.” He bowed, inherently graceful. “Please accept mine.”

Letitia glowed. “Thank you.”

Straightening, Roscoe met her eyes. “And don’t try too hard to remember our previous meeting.”

She waved airily. “I doubt I’ll have time, what with all else that’s going on.”

“Good.” With that dry comment, Roscoe turned to Christian; this time he spontaneously held out his hand. “Dearne.”

Christian gripped his hand, entirely content with how the meeting had gone. “Come—I’ll walk you out.”

Roscoe bowed again to Letitia, then fell into step beside Christian as he headed for the door. While Christian opened it, Roscoe glanced back—at Letitia settling on the chaise to await Christian’s return.

Then he turned and went through the door.

As they passed down the corridors and into the front hall, Christian was aware of Roscoe glancing about—not so much taking note as breathing in the ambience. “Do you ever think you’ll return to”—he gestured about them—“tonnish life?”

Roscoe didn’t immediately reply. When they reached the front door, he turned and faced Christian. “Much as I might envy you the life you now have, I long ago realized it wasn’t in the cards for me.”

There was a finality in his tone that closed the subject.

Roscoe accepted his cane from Percival, then, when that worthy opened the door, nodded to Christian and went out into the night.

Christian watched him go, saw him disappear into the gloom before Percival shut the door. He stared unseeing at the panels for a minute more, then recalling all that awaited him in the smaller drawing room, he smiled, turned, and strolled back to embrace it.

And her. The love of his life and, God willing, the mother of his children.

Letitia’s second marriage was in no way the travesty her first had been. Consequently, their wedding was every bit as massive, noisy, and full of life as Christian had foreseen.

He didn’t mind in the least. Looking around the huge ballroom of Nunchance Priory, noting the sheer exuberance that held sway, he gave thanks that he and Letitia had won through to this, that the years and fate hadn’t bound them, chained them, to lesser existences.

To an existence apart.

He glanced at her, radiant and so vitally vibrant beside him, her dark hair gleaming, the Allardyce diamonds glittering about her throat and depending from her ears, the simple gold band he’d placed on her finger mere hours ago the only ornament she wore on her slim digits. Her long, slender frame was encased in silk the color of the palest pink rose; the scent of jasmine rose from her alabaster skin.

There was, however, an incipient frown in her eyes, a slight line between her brows.

Before he could ask, she volunteered, “That wretch Dalziel isn’t here.”

“He’s never attended any of our weddings. Didn’t the other ladies tell you?”

“They did, but given the timing, his absence today is, in my opinion, taking the whole thing simply too far.”

He hesitated, then asked, “What thing?”

She looked at him, then shook her head. “Never mind. You’ll learn all about it soon enough—any day, as it happens.”

Any day?

Christian knew well enough that he would get no more from her. Jack Warnefleet had confirmed that his wife, Lady Clarice, also knew exactly who Dalziel was. The others, including Jack Hendon, who like the rest of them had become obsessed with learning Dalziel’s true identity, had grumbled and admitted they now believed all their wives knew the truth—and none of them would say. Regardless of the persuasion, the interrogation tactics employed.

That they’d worked so closely with the man for the past decade and more yet still didn’t know his identity irked. Yet it appeared that all the ladies of the ton had colluded in keeping Dalziel’s secret.

“Which is frankly amazing,” Tony later remarked, when Christian, having left Letitia chatting with her cousins, joined the other club members. “There are so many invet
erate gossips, you’d swear at least
one
would be unable to resist whispering his name, but no. On that one subject, total silence reigns.”

The others all grumped, and sipped their wine. They’d gathered just like this at each successive wedding, to toast the man fallen and fix their sights on the next one to go. This time, however, there were no more club members left unwed; consequently their thoughts turned to their ex-commander, who had become an all but formally declared ex-officio member.

But Dalziel wasn’t there to prod.

Justin detached himself from the throng, charmingly disengaging from two young ladies who would happily have continued to monopolize his time—and sought refuge with them. Christian cocked a brow at him.

He grimaced. “I’m seriously contemplating becoming a recluse.”

Deverell grunted. “Won’t do you any good. The more determined will still hunt you down.”

Justin didn’t look thrilled.

“You know who Dalziel is,” Christian murmured. “I don’t suppose, given all is now over and done, that you’d like to share the information?”

Justin hesitated.

They all held their breaths.

Then he shook his head. “I can’t.” He met Christian’s gaze. “The punishment is too dire. But anyway, you’ll know soon enough.”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” Jack Warnefleet complained. “‘Soon enough.’ When is ‘soon enough’ going to be?”

Justin frowned at him. “Well, obviously, any day now.”

“It’s not obvious to us,” Charles replied, his tone threatening all manner of violence.

Justin looked at him, then at the others. “It
is
obvious. You’ll learn who he is when he resigns his commission and
returns to civilian life. And by all accounts that’s any day now.”

That gave them all something to think about. Leaving them to it, Justin slipped away. There was something he needed to do.

He knew the corridors like the back of his hand; avoiding the guests—so many of them female—flitting about, he made his way into the other wing, to the library.

In the wake of Swithin’s babbling revelations, Justin had visited Trowbridge, who had confirmed that the huge investment loss incurred by the earl eight years before, leading to Letitia’s marriage to Randall, had indeed been arranged by Randall, the scheme itself engineered by Swithin.

There was no proof to be had, or ever likely to be found, yet the simple knowledge had cured the malaise that had for years eaten at Justin’s heart.

He entered the library on silent feet. As he’d expected, his father was there, seated in his favorite armchair, a book open on his lap.

The earl had dutifully walked Letitia down the aisle, given her away, then attended the wedding breakfast and made a short speech—surprising everyone by being no more than mildly blunt. Then he’d disappeared.

Justin quietly walked to the chair opposite the earl’s. Halting beside it, he looked down on his sire. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The earl grunted; he didn’t look up. “I know. I just couldn’t prove it. And you…you and Letitia both seemed so ready to believe I’d risk such a lot—your lives, in effect.” One long finger marking his place, the earl lifted his gaze, staring across the room. “But I didn’t. I never would have.”

“No,” Justin said. “We know that now.”

The earl finally looked up, through shrewd hazel eyes scanned his son’s features, then he nodded. “Good.”

With that, he returned to his book.

Justin looked down on his sire’s white head, then his lips curved in a slow smile.

Surveying the nearby shelves, he crossed to one, pulled out a book, glanced inside it.

Then returning to the armchair opposite his father’s, he sat, opened the book on his knee, and started to read.

Back in the ballroom, Letitia swept up to Christian’s side where he stood with his fellow Bastion Club members. They were toasting the last man to fall into wedlock—Christian; she linked her arm with his, smiled graciously, and allowed them to toast her as well.

Christian looked down at her. “One point you can clarify—Dalziel, Royce Whoever-he-is, isn’t married, is he?”

She looked at him, then at them all, eagerly waiting on her answer; she clearly debated whether that information could be shared, then said, “No. He’s not.”

“But,” Charles put in, “he’s the sort of gentleman who has to marry, isn’t he? If he’s a marquess, then that follows as night follows day.”

“So,” Tony suggested, “there’s really one more wedding to come.” He caught Letitia’s eye. “Isn’t there?”

She returned Tony’s gaze; anticipation bloomed, then grew until it gleamed in her eyes. “Yes, indeed.” She smiled ecstatically. “He’ll have to marry. And quite soon—at least if he wants any peace.”

“Once he ends his commission…?” Jack Warnefleet prompted.

She nodded. “Once he goes back to being who he really is, there won’t be a matchmaking mama in London, or indeed the country, who won’t have him squarely in her sights.”

The members of the Bastion Club exchanged a communal glance.

“Now
that
,” Tristan said, “is a toast we can make with alacrity.”

“Indeed.” Charles, their unofficial toastmaster, raised his glass high. “To the end of Dalziel’s commission. It can’t come too
soon
.”

With a cheer, they all raised their glasses high and drank.

“And to Dalziel’s bride,” Christian added. “Whoever and wherever she might be.”

Two days later
London

S
tanding in the center of the study in his elegant town house, Royce dropped the last of the files he’d cleared from his desk into a storage trunk. Chances were he’d never look at them again, but they were, in effect, all that remained as proof of his existence over the past sixteen years.

He stood looking down at the trunk. Felt the full weight of all he’d done, all he’d ordered to be done, over those sixteen years. Knew the price—exacted on so many different levels—he’d paid that it all should be so.

Faced with the same choice, he would pay that price again, regardless.

He’d been barely twenty-two when he’d been approached and asked—all but begged—to take on a very particular commission with His Majesty’s Secret Service. Despite his lack of years, there were few others with connections in Europe the equal of his, still fewer with his talents, with his inherent ability to command, along with the zeal to inspire others with similar background and skills, to willingly go into extreme danger, trusting in him to be their anchor, their only contact, their sole lifeline to safety.

Few who could have, as he had done, readily recruited the best, brightest, and most able of a generation of Guards.

Especially when they hadn’t, quite, known who he was.

Memories threatened to claim him; abruptly shaking free, he stalked back to his desk. Rounding it, he dropped into the leather-covered chair behind it. Once again his thoughts circled; he would have preferred not to indulge them, yet the hour was, it seemed, one for taking stock.

He’d never lost an agent, not one solely under his command. That, he felt, was his greatest triumph.

His greatest failure was equally easy to define; he’d never succeeded in identifying his “last traitor,” a fiend he and his ex-colleagues now knew to be flesh and blood, a man they’d come within a whisker of catching a month ago, but, as always, he’d slipped through their—his—fingers.

Although it went very much against his grain, he’d accepted that he would have to let that failure lie; he’d run out of time.

But as for all the rest—all the years of keeping strictly to himself, a social pariah of his own making, while ruthlessly and relentlessly managing the reins of the agents he’d deployed far and wide across the Continent—he was more than satisfied with what he’d achieved, the contribution he and those men had made to England’s safety over the last fraught decade.

They’d been good men all; some—the seven members of the Bastion Club—he would now consider friends. They’d consistently included him in the adventures that had befallen each of them in returning to civilian life.

Now he faced the same prospect, although he seriously doubted there would be any interesting adventure attached.

Fate, in his experience, was rarely that kind.

His resignation from his commission was effective from that day. He’d spent the last weeks tidying up, writing and delivering the inevitable reports to various ministers and government functionaries.

Many had requested a briefing, seeking to remind him that they existed, to establish a connection with his alter ego—his real self. He’d viewed such requests with due cyni
cism, but in the main hadn’t denied them, knowing he’d have to make the transition to his other self sooner rather than later.

That as of today, the individual known as Dalziel had ceased to exist.

He snorted softly. Steepling his fingers, he set them before his face. Relaxed in the chair, he stared across the room. And consciously tried to bring his other self to mind. To life.

But sixteen years was a long time.

And a name changed nothing of what a man truly was.

Distantly, beyond the solid walls, he heard a horse clatter up and come to a stamping halt in the street outside; although his mind recognized and identified the sound, sunk in a survey of the past he didn’t register its import.

The front door knocker was another matter; plied with considerable force, it jerked him from recollections—some painful—of his distant past.

Hauled from his reverie, he focused on the door. Ears straining, he heard his butler, Hamilton, cross the front hall. An instant later, muffled by doors and walls, came the sound of men’s voices—Hamilton’s and one other’s. Presumably the rider’s.

The cadence of the unknown rider’s accent unexpectedly kicked premonition to life.

Had his heart pumping just a tad faster, had him steeling himself against what was coming.

His mind raced, imagining what the message might be, what latest hurdle was to be erected in his path.

What else his father might think to throw at him.

He was waiting, tense inside but outwardly at ease, his hands, long fingers relaxed, draped over the end of each chair arm, when Hamilton approached the study door, knocked briefly, and entered.

Royce’s gaze went to his butler’s hands, expecting to see his silver salver with a missive lying upon it.

But Hamilton’s hands were empty.

Raising his gaze to Hamilton’s face, Royce read his expression with the barest glance.

Felt like he’d been kicked in the chest.

His features grave, Hamilton bowed—lower than usual. “Your grace. A rider has arrived from Wolverstone.”

No further explanation was necessary; the title said it all.

It could only be his if…

Somehow he gathered enough wit to speak. “Thank you, Hamilton. Please see to the comfort of whoever it is. I’ll speak with him shortly.”

Once he’d absorbed the latest blow.

Once he had the rage roaring through him contained.

Hamilton bowed. “Indeed, your grace.” He silently withdrew.

Leaving Royce to face a prospect he hadn’t, despite all his experience of dicing with fate, ever contemplated.

His father had been a constant in his life—over the last decade a constant foe. One to whom he’d owed filial obedience, but filial obedience had stretched only so far.

Paternal command hadn’t stopped him from serving his country in the way his country had needed, in the way he was so uniquely qualified to do.

Paternal denunciation—one step short of outright disinheritance, but socially even more damning—had seen him adopt a name from a distant branch of his mother’s family tree.

His father had drawn his line short of disinheritance purely because he’d had only one son.

So he’d had to make do with Royce, a son who openly chose to live by his own creed, by an interpretation of loyalty, honor, courage, and service to his country that was significantly different from that of the generation of noblemen to which his father belonged.

Had belonged.

It was from his mother’s family he’d inherited that finer,
more selfless creed; they’d always been warriors. His father’s family had been the money-makers, the power brokers, the kingmakers; serving their country had, for them, had a different meaning.

Brought up beneath his father’s heavy hand, but with his mother, strong and vibrant, an equal influence, he’d always been aware of the distinction.

When his father had learned of the exact nature of his commission, he’d been forced to choose between his father’s creed or that other. Forced to make a choice between his father’s approval and his country.

He’d chosen, and his father had made his stand—in the main room of White’s, of all places. Carefully chosen to be a bastion of his generation, a perfect setting to support him in bringing his errant son to heel.

Only the encounter hadn’t gone as his father had expected.

He’d never expected Royce to take all his fury, then, with a face carved from stone, simply turn and walk out.

Out of society, out of his father’s life.

His reentry into both had been imminent for the last month. He’d been putting off the moment, finding reasons to delay resigning his commission, which, while overdue, his superiors had been in no hurry to receive.

He’d chosen the Monday after Christian Allardyce’s wedding as the first day of his return to his past life, the first day of becoming once again the Marquess of Winchelsea, the courtesy title bestowed upon the first son and heir of the Duke of Wolverstone.

It had seemed appropriate to choose the first weekday after the last of his seven ex-colleagues of the Bastion Club had wed. He’d assumed he would drive north, walk into his father’s presence and see what came next.

Instead…

There wasn’t going to be any “next.” No reconciliation, no understanding.

Certainly no apology.

Given the events of the past decade, let alone the commendations, royal and otherwise, he and his men had earned, even his father would have been hard-pressed to deny him the latter.

Except he, and fate, had, in the one way Royce had no power to control.

Staring across his study, he all but snarled as, fingers now locked white about the chair’s arms, he sat up.
“Damn you!”

Whether he was addressing fate or his dead father wasn’t entirely clear.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Biting off the words, he surged to his feet. Swinging around, he stalked to the wall and tugged the bellpull.

When Hamilton appeared, he delivered his orders in a crisp, even tone, one that brooked no question, much less invited any. “Have my curricle brought around—I’ll want the blacks. Tell Henry I won’t need him with me—he’s to follow with the luggage.” Henry was his personal groom who’d followed him from Wolverstone, disregarding his father’s edict against anyone in his households giving his errant son succor.

“Tell Trevor to pack everything and travel up to Wolverstone with Henry as soon as he can. For now, all I’ll need is a small bag—he’ll know what to pack.” Trevor was his valet—another hangover from his father’s days, but one he’d never had the heart to dismiss. And Trevor was useful in more ways than the purely sartorial. With both Henry and Trevor behind the scenes, he’d be well placed to handle whatever waited for him at Wolverstone.

He hadn’t set foot on the property—on any of his father’s diverse and numerous holdings—since that scene in White’s sixteen years ago; he had absolutely no idea who was managing what, or if they were competent. While he could have asked any number of people for information—which they would have given him, conflict of interest or not—he’d been too nice, and too proud, to drag others into the firing line between himself and his father.

“Tell Handley when he comes in that I’ll need him at Wolverstone, too. As soon as he can arrange it.” Handley was his amanuensis, another he could rely on to see his orders carried out to the letter.

“And I suppose I’d better check that someone has remembered to notify Collier, Collier and Whiticombe.” His father’s solicitors. “I’ll write a letter before I go, and there’ll be another I’ll want delivered to Montague in the city.”

“Yes, my l—” Hamilton caught himself. “Your grace.”

Royce’s lips twisted. “Indeed. We’re both going to have to get used to that.”

Mentally reviewing his preparations, he could think of only one thing he’d missed. “And if anyone calls, you may tell them I’ve gone north, and that I have no notion of when I’ll be back.”