long memories.
Sinking his hands in his pockets, he turned to look out of one of the long gallery windows, waiting for the impulse to follow her-still pricking like a spur-to fade.
Frustration dragged at him, taunted him, on levels too numerous to count.
Minutes ticked by. He was about to turn and head for his room when he saw a light-a pinprick, no more-bobbing through the trees.
He leaned closer to the glass, watched for long enough to confirm that the light was moving steadily away from the house.
Purposefully away from the house.
He told himself it would be a maid out on a tryst.
“But if it isn’t?”
He glanced to left and right, noting landmarks in the gardens to fix the direction, then left the window and ran silently downstairs.
The gardens of Nunchance Priory were extensive and, as Christian discovered that night, if not precisely overgrown, then distinctly mature. The trees were old, large and full-canopied; they cast inky black shadows that swallowed what little light the quarter moon shed. Pounding through the formal gardens, he’d plunged into the ornamental shrubberies beyond. Thick bushes abounded; paths meandered, garden beds unexpectedly forcing them this way, then that.
He considered himself lucky when he finally glimpsed the bobbing light still moving away some distance ahead of him. Keeping it in sight wasn’t easy; in the dark, over unpredictable terrain, he couldn’t keep his eyes glued to it without risking a fall.
Mentally cursing-the constantly changing landscape no doubt looked lovely on a warm summer’s day-he forged on. Luckily, whoever was carrying the light wasn’t moving fast.
Once he reached the park proper, long stretches of sward shaded by well-spaced large trees, his way became easier. He managed to close the distance between himself and the light bearer. Eventually he made out that the light came from a lantern, partially screened, its bearer a small, dapper individual he hadn’t previously seen.
Justin’s man, perhaps. He was carrying a large tray, the lantern dangling from one hand.
They were well away from the house when the light suddenly disappeared. On a silent oath, Christian rushed forward-and only just stopped himself from falling over the edge of a bank.
The area beyond looked like a large scoop had been taken out of the side of a rise; within it, a wooden hunting lodge, small, discreet, lay bathed in the faint light of the moon.
Smoke drifted from its chimney.
He watched as the lantern bearer approached the door, halted before it, juggled the tray, knocked once, then entered.
Slowly, intently, Christian smiled, then turned and circled the bank, dropping onto the downward slope. He found the path that led through the rough grass to the lodge’s door. Silently, he circled the small building, checking for other exits. Other than shuttered windows, he saw none.
Satisfied, he stepped up to the narrow covered porch, rapped once on the door, then opened it and entered.
He stepped into the lodge’s main room-sitting room, dining room, kitchen combined. Justin Vaux sat at the main table, his hand poised above his fork, about to eat the dinner his man had just delivered.
Closing the door, Christian walked in. He nodded at Justin’s plate. “The roast beef’s excellent.”
Justin, who’d been staring, increasingly nonplussed, frowned. “What are you doing here?”
Pulling out a chair on the opposite side of the table, Christian dropped into it. “Looking for you.”
Justin picked up his fork. “Oscar just told me you’ve been searching the house. What I don’t understand is why.”
“Because Letitia asked me to find you.”
For a long moment, fork frozen in midair, Justin held his gaze. “She did?”
Christian made a “Here I am” gesture.
Justin looked rather pleased. He picked up his knife, waved at the plate. “I assume you’ve eaten, so you won’t mind if I do.”
“Not at all.” Christian settled back.
“Wine?”
“Thank you.” He hid an appreciative grin as Justin signaled to his man, who’d been eyeing Christian much in the way a duck might eye a wolf. No matter what one thought of the Vaux, they had style.
Once they were both supplied with goblets of a fine claret-doubtless culled from his father’s extensive cellar- Christian sipped, and said, “Your father wasn’t aware you were here, but unless I miss my guess, he now suspects.”
Justin shrugged. He didn’t look up.
Christian let him eat for a few minutes, then inquired, “Tell me, was the book you borrowed from his library the Seneca?”
Justin looked up, frowned. “Yes. How did you know?”
“You were reading the same book in Randall’s library that night. I noticed you were not quite halfway through. When I-and your father-saw a book missing from his shelves, I assumed it was that.”
Justin raised his brows. “So you braved the lion in his den, did you?”
Christian smiled, but declined to be diverted. “What happened that night at Randall’s house?”
Justin continued eating. Christian waited, unperturbed.
Eventually, Justin replied, “I went in to see Randall. He’d asked me to call-we’d had a disagreement about… investments. We spoke for a short time-argued-then I lost my temper, picked up the poker and struck him.”
Although naturally pale like his sister, Justin had paled further; Christian noted the haunted look in his eyes. He was twenty-six, and had almost certainly never seen a dead man before. That he’d felt forced to commit what he almost certainly viewed as a despicable act on a corpse would stay with him all of his life. In trying to protect Letitia, he’d already paid a price.
Justin lifted a shoulder and returned his attention to his plate. “I’m sure you know the rest.”
Christian sipped his wine, then said, “I know you didn’t kill Randall.”
Justin’s head came up; he frowned. “You couldn’t know that.” After a telltale second, he added, “Because I killed him.”
Christian swung to face him directly across the table. “No, you didn’t.” He held Justin’s gaze; from the corner of his eye he could see Justin’s man-Oscar-looking both more interested and more hopeful by the minute. “Randall was already dead when you found him. He was lying facedown, his head toward the desk. He’d been felled-and killed-by a single relatively weak blow to the head, delivered with the poker which was lying nearby.”
Justin simply stared at him, his expression tightly checked.
“I don’t know why you did what you did, but I can guess. Tell me if I’m wrong. When you arrived at the house, you heard Letitia arguing violently with Randall. You retreated to the library, picked up the Seneca, started to read, and lost track of time. When you realized, the house was quiet. You went to Randall’s study, found him dead, and assumed Letitia had killed him. You then set about making sure the authorities would never suspect a woman had killed Randall by obliterating his face.”
Christian paused. “It worked, by the way, at least at first. But when a more experienced surgeon examined the body, he noticed that the major blows were struck after death.” Both Justin and Oscar were hanging on his every word. “Of course, the authorities still have you in their sights. No doubt they’ll argue you delivered both sets of blows, but we, of course, know differently. However, to return to your actions, you even sacrificed one of Shultz’s creations by smearing Randall’s blood on the sleeves, then leaving it in your lodgings for the runners to find.”
He smiled, not humorously. “Runners might not be able to discern the importance of smears versus splatters, but I’m not so blind. You then left your lodgings-in a noisy rush so your landlord would notice-and headed out of town on the road to Dover, made sure you were seen at a hostelry on the outskirts of the city, then you turned around, cut straight back through town and came here. You didn’t stop at any inn, but nursed your own horses through the journey, so there was no one to say that you’d come this way.”
Christian smiled again, this time in reluctant appreciation. “You actually did quite well in making yourself look guilty. Certainly the authorities are convinced. Unfortunately for you, there were two things wrong with your plan,
