The Edge of Desire

wouldn’t thank him for such solicitude; tight-lipped, he turned to the door. “If you’ll come this way, we’ll see what the doctor says.”

The doctor agreed they could speak with his patient. “He’s groggy, but he won’t settle otherwise.”

In a room hung with exquisite Chinese silks, Trowbridge lay propped up on a bank of pristine white pillows in a massive four-poster bed. An even whiter bandage circled his skull; his skin was very nearly the same color. His eyes were closed, his arms lying on the covers on either side of his body.

Honeywell went around the bed and took one limp hand between both of his. “Dearne’s here.”

Trowbridge’s lashes flickered, then his lids lifted. After a moment of vagueness, his gaze sharpened. Christian was relieved to see the man’s usual acuity swimming beneath the haze of pain.

Then Trowbridge’s lids fell. “I didn’t see him.” His voice was a thin thread, but clear enough. “Coward-the bastard sneaked up on me.” Opening his eyes, Trowbridge glanced at Honeywell. “I was thinking about that latest canvas of yours, so I was far away.” Slowly, he brought his gaze back to Christian. “I didn’t get so much as a glimpse.”

Christian nodded. “Have you done anything-spoken to anyone at all-regarding the company? Or done anything else that might connect with Randall’s murder?”

Trowbridge pursed his lips, a line between his brows. “No. I haven’t discussed the company with anyone-not since I spoke with you.”

Honeywell frowned. “What about Swithin? You spoke with him when he called.”

“Oh. Yes.” Trowbridge smiled vaguely at Christian. “Forgot about him.”

Trowbridge was too dazed to notice the instant awareness, a primal tensing of muscles, that affected his three visitors at the mention of Swithin. Honeywell did; it was he who gently asked, “What did you talk to Swithin about? He doesn’t often call.”

Eyes again closed, Trowbridge carefully nodded. “About the company. About the sale and when we might go ahead with it. About how much we stood to make-because it’s such a risky business, that’s not as much as one might think given the high income. The income could end tomorrow if any number of things happened.” He moistened his lips, then went on, “I suggested that I’d be quite happy to settle for a third of the total income for a year-I vaguely recall Randall mentioning that-the income for a year-as the figure he hoped to secure.”

Trowbridge lifted his shoulders in a light shrug. “Reasonable when you think about it. Swithin agreed. That was more or less all we discussed. All perfectly innocent.”

“Not so innocent,” Christian quietly said, steel infusing his voice, “once you learn that Swithin is neck deep in debt and desperate for income to qualify for a massive loan.”

Trowbridge opened his eyes. “He’s in debt?” He frowned. “Good God. How? He was wealthy-the wealthiest of the three of us.”

“Never mind how-we don’t have time.”

Dalziel caught Christian’s arm, holding him back as, with a muttered oath, he turned for the door. Letitia was definitely in Swithin’s sights.

“One thing in all this I don’t understand.” Dalziel spoke quickly. “Why didn’t Swithin simply tell you and Randall about his need for income, and that therefore he didn’t want to sell the company?”

Christian looked back to see Trowbridge blink.

Twice. Then he shook his head. “Oh, but he wouldn’t. Indeed, Randall and I are the very last people he’d ever tell. He’d never tell us, never let on, that he’d failed with our Grand Plan.”

Seeing their incomprehension, Trowbridge struggled to sit up; Honeywell helped him. “What you have to understand about our Grand Plan was that for Randall and me it was us against them-us against society as a whole. But for Swithin, it was us against each other. He…simply couldn’t see the wider picture-for him it was always a competition.” Trowbridge searched their faces for some sign they understood. “That’s what I meant about his wealth-he took great pride in having amassed more than Randall or I had. Money was the one issue on which he could trump us-and we let him, because that-who was more wealthy among us-wasn’t important to us…”

Trowbridge’s face suddenly fell, all animation leaching away. “It was he who struck me, wasn’t it? After all these years, he tried to kill me, because in his mind he’d failed, and he couldn’t bear that. Couldn’t bear me knowing…and he killed Randall, too.”

Christian nodded curtly. “Yes, and if you’ll excuse us, we need to make sure he doesn’t kill anyone else.”

Trowbridge grasped his point. “Yes, of course.”

Christian strode for the door. Behind him, he heard Dalziel speak to Trowbridge.

“He almost certainly thinks you’re dead. We’ll send word when we have him-until then…”

At the door, Christian glanced back and saw Dalziel looking at Honeywell.

“Make sure there’s someone with him at all times.”

Mentally nodding, Christian strode out. Justin was on his heels.

Dalziel caught up with them as they bundled into the hackney, Christian having instructed the jarvey to drive hell-for-leather for South Audley Street.

The man took him at his word. They rattled through the streets, taking corners at speed; grim-faced and silent, the three of them braced themselves, each absorbed, thinking ahead.

Christian told himself that Barton was there, watching from outside-but that wouldn’t stop Swithin going in. He’d told Letitia that Swithin was a suspect, but none of them had seriously thought him the murderer-not until today.

As they raced into Mayfair, leaving curses in their wake, he prayed they’d be in time.

They arrived at South Audley Street. Leaving Dalziel to deal with the jarvey, Christian strode up the front steps, threw open the door-and stepped into outright uproar.

A cacophany of myriad feminine voices all raised, all exclaiming-all at once-assailed him. Behind him, he heard Justin mutter, “Good Lord! They’re all here.”

“Christian!” Letitia’s aunt Amarantha spotted him as he stood rooted just inside the door. “Just the man- Letitia’s disappeared.”

They came at him from all sides, more pouring from the parlor to add their voices to the din. It appeared to be an assembly of all the Vaux females, close and distant; all Letitia’s aunts and female cousins seemed to be there.

He tried to make sense of what they were telling him, but there was so much dross camouflaging the facts it was hopeless. Eventually he spotted Agnes in the parlor doorway, Hermione beside her, but he couldn’t reach them short of mowing through the crowd.

Grim-faced, he held up his hands. “Quiet!”

A sudden silence fell, if anything even more painful than the preceding cacophany. Stunned, they all looked at him with wide eyes.

Stepping farther into the hall so Dalziel could come in and close the door, he focused on Agnes. “I need one of you-only one-to tell me what’s happened. Agnes?”

She nodded. “Letitia was here-she stayed in this morning. Hermione and I went to a morning tea.” Her voice wavered but she dragged in a breath-glowered at Constance, who had opened her mouth-and went on, “She’s obviously had visitors-there’s a tea tray.” She waved into the parlor. “But when we came home, she wasn’t in there. We thought perhaps she’d gone up to her room, but then the others arrived and Hermione went up to fetch her-but she wasn’t there either. She’s not in the house. And she hasn’t left any message, which she would have if she’d been called away, or gone to Bond Street, or…”

Letitia had said she’d be waiting for him to come back to her; while he wasn’t insensible to the echoes of their past, Christian knew absolutely that this time she wouldn’t have gone anywhere-not willingly.

While Agnes had talked, he’d made his way through the crowd to her. Justin had followed; Hermione grabbed his hand.

Looking past Agnes, Christian saw the tea tray set on a low table between the sofas. Only two cups. He’d hoped…

He turned back to the hovering horde. “Where’s Mellon?”

The butler was nowhere in sight. One bright cousin slipped into the parlor and tugged the bellpull.

A moment later the baize door at the rear of the hall swung open and Mellon marched through.

Over the heads of the ladies, Christian beckoned; the ladies parted, allowing Mellon to make his way to