their turf, then their motivation for not wanting to exchange Roscoe-plus-Randall for just Roscoe is hard to see.”
He paused, then added, “From my own observations, if Randall’s chosen buyer was Roscoe, then I’m inclined to think Gallagher is right-the others will back away and let him have that bone.”
Dalziel looked steadily at Christian for a long moment, then nodded. “That’s your area of expertise-if you think it unlikely, then by all means let’s erase them from our list. Even then, the list is too long, and we’ve made precious little headway in defining which of the available suspects we should pursue. Apropos of that, I’ll go with you to see Roscoe. I’ve heard about the man for years, but we’ve never met. See if you can set the meeting for tomorrow morning. I’ve other appointments, but for that I’ll make time.”
Christian nodded. He glanced at Letitia.
Before he could lay his tongue to adequate words with which to broach the subject, Dalziel did.
Like Christian, he’d looked at Letitia, but then his dark gaze moved on to Justin. “We’ll take Justin with us as Letitia’s representative.” His gaze returned to Letitia. “I doubt Roscoe will talk openly about any deal without some assurance, albeit by proxy, from you.”
“No.” Letitia all but visibly bristled; the air about her seemed to sharpen and crackle. “There’s no reason for Justin to risk exposure. I’ll accompany you.”
Dalziel’s dark gaze didn’t waver. “You can’t meet with Roscoe.”
A bald statement of what all the males in the room knew to be absolute fact.
She heard, not just the words but the nuance, that in no circumstances would they take her with them, would they allow her to go.
She drew in a quick breath and looked at Christian. The question-the plea-in her eyes was plain to see.
He read it-for one instant considered-but it simply could not be. He shook his head. “You can’t accompany us.”
Her eyes flared-not just with anger but with hurt, too, and something else he couldn’t define.
Before he could look deeper, she lowered her lids. An uncomfortable, heavily charged moment ensued; more familiar with her than the others, both he and Justin knew her emotions had erupted-that that was what was roiling through the air, rippling across everyone’s nerves, the projection of her temper.
The herald of an almighty explosion.
Justin uncrossed his legs and sat up-slowly. Christian looked at him; they exchanged a glance, but before either could react-could even think of how to-she reined the unruly passions in.
Not completely, but enough to let them all realize they’d been holding their breaths.
Before anyone could say or do anything, she seized her reticule and-without looking at any of them-inclined her head. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your plans.”
She stood, swinging around so fast none of them caught sight of her face. Leaving them scrambling to their feet, head high she swept to the door, opened it and went through.
They heard her heels clattering-quickly-down the stairs, then the front door opened-and shut.
Feeling horribly awkward, and out of their depth, the five men stared at the open library door, then Justin sighed, walked forward and shut it.
The sound of the latch released them from the spell; they glanced at each other, then Dalziel looked at Christian and grimaced apologetically. “I take it I metaphorically stepped on her toes.”
Justin shook his head. “By the reaction, I’d say it was the ones with bunions.”
Christian drew in a breath; his chest felt tight, as if he were the cause of her distress. He caught Justin’s eye. “Just how”-he waved at the door-“upset is she?”
Justin grimaced and waggled his head from side to side. “She might throw a Vaux tantrum, she might be truly angry-or she might be in a rage. The last you never want to see, and unless I miss my guess, she was on the brink of that, but drew back from wreaking havoc on us-and while I thank God she did, I’ve never seen her do that. I didn’t know she could.”
Justin frowned; he met Christian’s eyes. “What worries me is that I’m not sure, if she is in a rage, that she’ll even be able to see straight.”
Christian felt an icy hand clutch his heart. “I’ll go after her.” He turned to the door. “I’ll arrange the meeting with Roscoe and send word.” Hand on the doorknob, he looked back at Dalziel. “Where will you be?”
“For my sins, at the office. If I’m to accompany you tomorrow, I’ll be there until late.”
Christian nodded and went out, closing the door behind him. Going down the stairs, he saw Gasthorpe hovering, uncharacteristically uncertain, by the front door. Without preamble he asked, “Which way did she go?”
“Toward Mayfair, my lord. On foot. I would have summoned a hackney, but she’d already…”
Stormed off. “That’s quite all right, Gasthorpe. I’ll see she gets home.”
Gasthorpe hurried to open the front door; Christian went out, went quickly down the steps, strode down the path, turned right into Montrose Place, then lengthened his stride.
He caught up to her just beyond the corner of Green Park. Head still high, reticule clutched in both hands, she was striding along-entirely forgetting her customary glide. He doubted she was paying any attention to her surroundings; people walking in the opposite direction took care to get out of her way.
Knowing well enough not to try to take her arm, he fell into step alongside her. He glanced at her face; her expression was far too stony for his liking.
She knew he was there, but she gave no sign.
Eventually, he asked, his tone the epitome of mild, “Why are you so set on seeing Roscoe?”
That was, apparently, the right question to ask to break the hold she was keeping on her temper.
She stopped walking, rounded on him; eyes blazing, she locked them on his. “It’s not
He searched her eyes, a frown in his; he was now entirely at sea.
She saw, and flung up her hands. “It’s
He recalled-belatedly-her agitation over him seeing Gallagher.
She drew in a shuddering breath. Eyes still locked on his, she spoke through clenched teeth; although she didn’t actually stamp her feet, she managed to convey that impression. “I
Waving her hands, she continued to rail at him-in the middle of Piccadilly in the middle of the afternoon, with total disregard for the interested-nay,
He stood there and let her, while understanding slowly seeped into his brain.
“Didn’t you notice the damned track I wore in your rug last night? I’m a
He suddenly-in another road-to-Damascus revelation-saw the light. Just in time to stop himself from pointing out that he’d spent the past twelve years behind enemy lines doing supremely dangerous things. That wasn’t, he now realized, her point.
He suddenly realized, fully and completely, just what that was.
He would have beamed delightedly had he not also comprehended how strung up she was, how brittlely tense.
Finally comprehended that that was a measure of how much he now meant to her.
He trapped her gaze. “About Roscoe.”
She blinked, her tirade momentarily derailed.
Moving slowly, holding her gaze, he gently took her arm. “There is no physical danger of any sort involved in meeting with him.”
She frowned, but let him turn her and guide her onto the path behind her, one leading into Green Park. “So I can go?”
He steered her on, under the leafy trees. “Let me explain. While going to see Gallagher was dangerous, that danger stemmed from the area in which he lives, not from him. He might be an underworld czar, but he’s not about
