The Edge of Desire

the words but every nuance they conveyed, and could have kissed him.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t, not now, not ever again, but he clearly still cared, somewhere in his heart, for her. She’d spent all her life among men like him; she knew how to read their signs.

Under Christian’s hard gaze, Barton nodded. “As you wish, my lord.”

Christian inclined his head. “Good.” He paused, then added, “Rest assured that any pertinent information we find that sheds light on Randall’s murder will be conveyed to you at the earliest opportunity.”

Letitia turned her head and stared at him. He was being conciliatory-to the enemy! That was an olive branch if she’d ever seen one. She was about to draw breath and unleash some of her suppressed feelings-on which of them, Christian or Barton, she hadn’t made up her mind-when Christian caught her eye.

Just a look-one pointed, intent glance-and, inwardly grumbling, she grudgingly shut her lips.

Folding her arms again, she fixed Barton with a chilly-icily furious-look.

He glanced her way, then returned his gaze to Christian and nodded. “I’ll be on my way, then.” He bobbed a general bow, then turned and left.

At a nod from Christian, Mellon followed, closing the door-the inches-thick oak door-behind him.

The instant it shut, Letitia let her temper loose. “How dare he!” She drew a huge breath. And raved on.

Christian glanced at Hermione. Although she remained silent, she clearly egged her sister on, agreeing with every dramatically and forcefully elucidated sentiment. Her enthusiastic “Hear, hear!” was clear in her eyes, in her whole being.

Resigned, he leaned back against the edge of the heavy desk and watched Letitia rant and pace, then rant some more. No one ranted like a Vaux-they had the activity down to a fine art. He was quietly amazed at how inventive she still was; colorful phrases and strikingly adverse comparisons-“addlepated, imbecilic moron with less wit than a dormouse”-tripped from her tongue with barely a pause for breath.

Better to let her get it out of her system. That was the Vaux’s folly, their foible; all that natural energy had to be released.

Eventually finishing her dissection of Barton, his progenitors, and potential offspring, she swung around.

And fixed him with a fiery glare. “And as for you-how could you? You slapped him down well enough to begin with-and I thank you for that-but after one agreement, one halfway reasonable comment, you patted him on the head and let him go! Worse-you all but promised to share whatever we find!” Halting a pace away, she glared into his eyes; with him propped against the desk, hers were level with his. “What the devil were you thinking?”

“That he might learn something we need to know.” Christian kept his voice mild; it reflected how he felt. He smiled, as always amused; he’d never been affected by Vaux histrionics, which was one point that always fascinated the Vaux. Almost without exception others got extremely nervous when they let their tempers loose; most tended to edge away, or escape if they could. Not him. He found their unbounded, unleashed energy refreshing. For all their apparent venom, they were never intentionally malicious; contrary to what many thought, they were neither dangerous nor insane.

Their temper tantrums were all fireworks; not in the least harmful if handled with care, and capable of being highly entertaining.

Especially as no Vaux had ever held his immunity against him. Certainly not Letitia.

His calm words had given her pause. She considered him through eyes in which the searing flame of her temper was slowly dying; he could almost feel the energy in the air around her fading.

“There’s an old but wise saying,” he offered. “‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’”

Something changed in her face; a coolness slid into her expression. “Well, as to that, you would surely know.”

There was a quality in her tone he neither recognized nor could place. She held his gaze for an instant, then turned away. Her gaze passed over the bloodstain on the floor, then she started for the door. “If you’ve finished here?”

He straightened, glanced around. “Yes.” He fell in in her wake, pausing to allow Hermione to proceed him through the doorway. “But I have more questions for you two.”

Without comment Letitia led him across the front hall into the room diagonally opposite the study. She gestured as she swung to face him. “The front parlor. I tend to sit here more than in the drawing room.”

To his left lay an archway leading deeper into the house; through it he saw ranks of bookshelves packed with books. He pointed. “The library?”

When she nodded, he headed that way. Letitia and Hermione followed.

The library was a good-sized room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering much of the walls; halting in the middle of the room, he surveyed the books filling them. “Randall?”

“Yes. Not that he ever read them.”

He glanced at Letitia. “He bought them, but didn’t read them?”

She shrugged. “He didn’t read. He could read, of course, but he never read a book, not that I saw.”

Christian glanced again at the shelves. Many of the Vaux were bibliophiles. Most read voraciously; even Letitia would occasionally be found with her nose in a book. The idea of a total nonreader marrying into the family seemed…odd. And while it wasn’t unheard of for a gentleman to set up a library just for show, there were a lot of books in that room.

As if sensing his thoughts, Letitia said, “Perhaps he saw them as an investment.”

Walking past him, she went to a wing chair by the fireplace. A book had been left open on the small table beside it. She picked it up, then softly snorted. “Justin. This is what he was doing while he waited for me to leave Randall.”

He’d followed her and looked over her shoulder. “Seneca-Letters from a Stoic.” His lips quirked. “Appropriate reading for a male Vaux.”

She laid the book aside and turned to face him. “What else did you want to know?”

He gestured to the wing chair; she sank into it as he waved Hermione to its mate. Once they were both seated, he looked down at them. “If we want to shift suspicion from Justin, we need to reconstruct the crime and demonstrate that someone else had the opportunity to kill Randall.”

Step by step he took them over what they knew, from the time Letitia returned home through the chaos of the following morning. The exercise got them nowhere.

He grimaced. “Barton’s right-the most obvious suspect is Justin.”

“Perhaps,” Letitia grimly conceded. “But he didn’t do it.”

“The key,” Hermione said. “Don’t forget that. You said it yourself.” She fixed Christian with large eyes. “Why would Justin do such a thing? It makes no sense, not if he were the murderer. So he can’t be the murderer.”

Christian looked into her eyes, and wondered, not if but what she was hiding; that wasn’t the first time she’d spoken in Justin’s defense.

He glanced at Letitia; after spending a few hours in her and Hermione’s company, he felt increasingly certain that the Vaux temperament was as he remembered it. They hadn’t changed. Letitia’s betrayal of him aside, loyalty, especially of the familial variety, was ingrained. Letitia had-he felt certain with no real thought for herself-walked across the gulf between them, braving whatever wrath he might seek to visit on her-whatever price he might ask-to gain his help in clearing Justin. Hermione demonstrably felt the same. The question in Christian’s mind was whether she’d acted on that feeling, and if so, how.

He fixed Hermione with a direct look. “Do you know anything more about what happened last night?”

She blinked, slowly, then shook her head. “No. Only what I told you.”

He didn’t believe her. From the corner of his eye he noticed Letitia was also now regarding her sister with a slight frown. But she said nothing.

Both, he felt perfectly certain, would lie through their teeth if that’s what was needed to protect Justin, even though the Vaux rarely lied…and family loyalty worked both ways.

It was very possible Justin was acting to protect…

He looked at Letitia, waited until she felt his gaze and raised her eyes to his. He studied those eyes, eyes he knew very well in all their green and gold splendor, eyes he’d in the past always been able to read. “Tell me you didn’t kill Randall.”

She blinked, but continued to return his steady regard. He saw her make the connection, her mind following the