The Edge of Desire

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 within 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