The Edge of Desire

to grow unchecked. Admittedly, as a Vaux she could ultimately do whatever she pleased and the ton be damned- something the ton, perversely, would accept as perfectly normal for a Vaux-but she currently had enough scandal in her life; she didn’t need to court more.

And she would infinitely prefer that the grande dames stopped watching her and Christian like beady-eyed eagles.

Or was that gossipy vultures?

Regardless, the conclusion was obvious-she needed to pour ice-cold water all over the ideas blossoming beneath the various coiffures bobbing about the room.

Around her, the guests at the extremely select soiree filled the elegant room with a multitude of murmuring voices. With Randall so recently dead, soirees of this nature were the only “entertainments” she felt it was permissable for her to attend. Of course, ever since Randall’s sensational demise, the flow of invitations had dramatically increased, ladies she barely knew inviting her to afternoon teas and the like.

Much good would it do them. She’d chosen to attend the marchioness’s event because she’d known all the most influential ladies-those whose thoughts she most needed to monitor-would be present. Beyond managing the opinions society held of her, Justin, and her family in general, she had little interest in social affairs, not with Justin in hiding and Randall’s killer as yet unmasked.

And Randall proving even more peculiarly secretive in death than he had in life.

She’d left Christian with a bevy of gentlemen discussing political affairs; neither he nor she needed support in this arena.

Surveying the company, she wondered which grande dame she ought to approach first.

A sharp rap on her arm-not from a hand but the head of a cane-answered her question. Summoning a delighted smile-perfectly genuine; she knew who her accoster was, and no lady was more relevant to her task-she turned and met a pair of obsidian eyes. “Lady Osbaldestone! How lovely.”

She didn’t curtsy-Lady Osbaldestone’s title was inferior to her own; instead she grasped her ladyship’s beringed fingers, squeezed gently as she leaned in to touch cheeks.

“Well, miss.” Lady Osbaldestone transfixed her with an incisive gaze. “So you’re a miss again, after a fashion, and not a moment too soon in my opinion. You wasted enough years with that man-I can’t say I view his demise as any great loss. And I see Dearne’s come to his senses, which is exactly as it should be.”

“Dearne’s been a great support in tracking down Randall’s murderer.” Letitia knew she had to adhere firmly to that line; her ladyship had one of the shrewdest brains in the ton. “I fear I wouldn’t have known where to start.”

Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes regarded her unblinkingly. A second ticked past, then her ladyship said, “To be blunt, my dear, I’d heard that the authorities had your brother firmly at the top of their list.”

Letitia waved dismissively. “You know what the authorities are like-they have to have some name on their list, so they put Justin’s on it. As his is the only name they have, ergo he’s at the top, but that will change once they have the correct suspect.”

“And Dearne is helping you locate this suspect?”

“Indeed. He was kind enough to agree to assist. With his background, he’s the perfect gentleman for the job.”

Her ladyship’s lips quirked. “Indubitably.” A subtle smile curved her lips. “I doubt, my dear, that you’ll find many who will argue that point.”

Letitia blinked, replayed her words-and inwardly cursed. She hadn’t been referring to Christian’s past with her. She quickly said, “His experience in…er, covert operations, as I believe they’re termed, has proved very valuable-”

She broke off; from the amusement glowing in Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes, she wasn’t advancing her cause. Where were the right words? Ones that weren’t ambiguous?

“I quite understand, dear.” Lady Osbaldestone patted her hand in a way that suggested she truly did. “And here comes Helena-you must tell her precisely what you told me. She won’t have been so entertained in years.”

Letitia had to fight to keep her eyes from narrowing as they both turned to greet the shorter, slighter-but no less powerful-Duchess of St. Ives, or Dowager Duchess as she preferred to be styled in a very public attempt to spur her only son, now the duke, into marrying.

“My dear Letitia!” The duchess enveloped her in an exuberant, scented embrace, touching first one cheek, then the other, to hers. “Such a happening! I would offer my condolences, but then again, while I did not know your late husband well, one cannot imagine that his absence is devastating.”

The duchess was French. Outrageous was her middle name. She could give-and over the years had at times given-the Vaux a run for their money.

“Letitia was just telling me that Dearne’s been helping her find Randall’s murderer.” Lady Osbaldestone leaned on her cane.

“Excellent!” The duchess opened her lovely pale green eyes wide. “So useful to have a gentleman about who has more than one string to his bow, nein?” She beamed at Letitia.

Who inwardly sighed. If she decided to break with Christian, she would simply have to weather the scandal.

Nevertheless, while she chatted with Lady Osbaldestone and the duchess, then after parting from them, with various others, she continued to adhere to her story that he was merely helping with the investigation into Randall’s death. Nothing more.

Much good did it do her. Her aunts Amarantha and Constance were a case in point; they cornered her, literally, and demanded to be told all.

“Such a wonderful thing-well, I know one is not supposed to say that over a death,” Constance quickly amended, “but really it’s very hard to mourn Randall. I’ve tried to think of him, but it seems we hardly knew him.”

It seemed no one had, Letitia thought.

“And anyway,” Amarantha declared, “he’s dead-and you and Dearne aren’t.” She fixed her intent hazel gaze on Letitia. “So what’s afoot? Randall murdered, Justin vanished, and Dearne hovering protectively-you can’t tell me that’s not going to be the story of the season.”

Letitia set her jaw. “I don’t wish to feature as the story of the season.”

“Pshaw!” Amarantha waved aside the comment. “You’re a Vaux-you can’t simply suspend your heritage. The haut ton expect us to entertain them-and I have to say that currently you and Justin are doing a fine job of it.”

“Indeed-I haven’t had so much attention in years,” Constance stated. “I vow I’m mobbed wherever I go, with ladies-and gentlemen-wishing to know ‘the Truth.’” Constance edged closer; Letitia all but had her back to the wall. “So what should we say?”

Letitia told them precisely what she wished them to say.

Much to their disappointment.

Constance picked at her spangled shawl. “I can’t imagine why you think people are going to swallow such a tale-that the only thing between you and Dearne is this investigation.”

“And anyway,” Amarantha informed her, “the investigation’s not what they want to hear about. Randall being murdered and Justin having to disappear until the real murderer is caught and the authorities get themselves straightened out is all very well, but it’s the romance everyone really wants to know of.”

“Indeed?” Letitia arched one brow. In her haughtiest manner-not all that effective against her aunts-she stated, “If and when-and I do stress that if-there is anything to report on the romance front, rest assured I will let you know.” She inclined her head to them both. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I must find the withdrawing room.”

Grudgingly, they stepped aside and let her go; she retreated to lick her wounds-or more specifically, to soothe her aggravation.

On the opposite side of the room, Christian found himself in his aunt Cordelia’s sights. Ermina had fluttered about him earlier but hadn’t settled; Cordelia, in contrast, looked determined on an interrogation.

She trapped his gaze, her own unflinching. “Is Justin Vaux guilty or not?”

That one was easy. “Not.”