The Edge of Desire

him.

Which he did with a supercilious air. “Yes, my lord?”

Christian looked down at him. “Who called on your mistress?”

Mellon arched his brows. “A good friend of the master’s called to offer his condolences, as was proper.”

Justin made a frustrated sound. He stepped around Christian, grabbed Mellon by the throat, lifted him off his feet and slammed him up against the hall wall; the pictures hanging on it bounced. “Who called on my sister?”

Mellon goggled, hands ineffectually scrabbling at Justin’s.

Far from fainting or being scandalized by the violence, all the Vaux ladies looked on eagerly. Even encouragingly. When Mellon didn’t immediately divulge the name, Agnes pointed imperiously to the tea tray. “Who did she have tea with?”

“Come on, man-spit it out,” Constance said. “Dearne hasn’t got all day.”

“It was a Mr. Swithin,” Mellon gasped. “From what I heard, he was the master’s great friend.”

Justin’s lip curled. “Mr. Swithin-your master’s murderer.”

Mellon’s face turned ashen. “He killed Mr. Randall?”

“So we believe.” Dalziel joined them by the parlor door. “What happened after you served the tea?”

With Justin, Christian, and Dalziel facing him, Mellon looked as if he would like to faint but was too scared to. “I…ah, listened at the door for a time. Mr. Swithin was telling the mistress about Mr. Randall at school. Then I was called away to the pantry. When I came back, the parlor was empty. I thought the mistress must have gone upstairs. It seemed odd she’d seen Mr. Swithin out herself, but-”

“Did you hear the front door open and shut?” Christian asked.

Mellon shook his head. He frowned, looked back down the hall. “I should have-I was only on the other side of the door.”

Christian looked down the hall, too, past the stairs. “The study.”

Once again the sea of ladies parted, letting them through. Christian grasped the handle, tried it. “Locked.”

The door was thick, solid oak. He exchanged a glance with Dalziel, then they both stepped back, balanced on one leg, then together kicked the door hard, level with the lock.

It gave with a crack. Christian used his shoulder to force the door open, then strode in. He was relieved to find the room empty, devoid of bodies. Going straight to the window, he released the secret panel.

Crowding the doorway, the ladies looked in, oohed as Dalziel caught the hidden door and hauled it wide.

Christian followed Dalziel down into the hidden room. It was the work of a moment to verify that the door to the little yard and the lane door were both unlocked.

“Just as they were when Randall was murdered.” Dalziel stood in the lane looking toward the street. “He couldn’t come in this way-he had to come in via the front door. But he left this way, just as he did before.”

“But this time he took Letitia with him.” Christian looked the other way along the lane; it ended in a wall a few houses along. He looked back toward the street. “But the only way he could have gone was back into South Audley Street.”

Frowning, he turned and strode back into the house. “Where the devil is Barton? He was keeping watch as usual this morning-Letitia knew he’d be there. She would have tried to attract his attention.” He eased his way through the mass of females thronging the hidden room and the study to regain the now relatively free space of the front hall. Justin came up with him as he made for the door; Dalziel was close behind.

Throwing open the door, Christian halted on the front step and looked across the street-to see Barton paying off a jarvey.

“What the hell?” Justin muttered.

Barton saw them. Lifting his head, squaring his shoulders, he marched toward them.

“Where the devil have you been?” Christian demanded as the wiry runner approached the steps.

Barton halted, blinked.

Christian reined in his temper, ruthlessly squelched his panic, and ground out through clenched teeth, “Lady Letitia was kidnapped this morning-she was taken from here, almost certainly in a carriage. She would have called out, struggled-you must have seen…” The little runner had lost all color. A chill clutched Christian’s chest. “You weren’t here, were you?”

Statement more than question.

Barton shook his head. “I…” He cleared his throat, then spoke more firmly. “I was following you. I didn’t see anyone nab her ladyship.”

Christian swore-colorfully, inventively, at length.

Justin eyed him with approbation. “You were always destined to marry a Vaux.”

“I’ll have to find her first.” And he would.

Apparently judging the worst had passed, Barton reached into his coat pocket, produced his warrant card, held it up for them to see. “Lord Justin Vaux, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering your brother-in-law, Mr. George Randall.”

“Lord, you’re not still on about that, are you?” Justin frowned down at him. “You can do that later, if you’ve a mind to after we’ve found my sister and got her out of the hands of Randall’s real murderer.”

Barton’s lips thinned. “Be that as it may, I’ve found you-Lord Justin Vaux, as is my quarry-and I’m taking you into custody, as is my duty, and I’m calling on you two gents”-he indicated Christian and Dalziel-“to bear witness. I followed him in your presences to Mr. Trowbridge’s, where I heard there’s been a spot of bother. It’s clear as the day there’s something afoot, and Lord Vaux here is in the thick of it.”

“The day,” Dalziel pointed out caustically, “is cloudy. And yes, Lord Vaux is assisting in investigating Randall’s murder and exposing the real killer, and now we know who he is, you can continue to follow us and do your duty when we corner him.” He eyed Barton coldly. “At present, however, you’re in our way.”

With that, Dalziel moved down the steps. Christian fell in behind him, Justin in the rear.

Barton had to give way; he backed across the pavement, watching, faintly stupefied, as Dalziel swung off the steps and strode off toward Curzon Street. Lengthening his stride, Christian caught up; his and Dalziel’s long legs ate the distance.

Justin strode close behind. Christian heard Barton’s footsteps following, at first hesitantly, then more definitely.

Eventually the runner dared to draw level with his “quarry.” As they turned the corner into Curzon Street, Christian saw Barton tweak Justin’s sleeve. “What’s going on?”

Justin glanced down at him, faintly exasperated. “Just follow along and you’ll see.”

Barton didn’t have much option.

“Which house?” Dalziel slowed.

His face like stone, Christian pointed it out.

Dalziel halted before the front steps. He looked at Christian. “How do you want to handle this?”

Christian eyed the front door, then marched up the steps and pounded on it.

Swithin’s butler quickly opened the door.

“Where’s Swithin?” Christian demanded. He stepped forward.

Startled, the butler backed. “Ah…I’m not sure I know, my lord.”

Christian pinned him with a glare. “Think carefully.”

“And quickly,” Dalziel advised.

“Ah…” The butler stared at them, his gaze moving from one to the other.

Then Justin ranged alongside Dalziel in the doorway. “Believe me, this is not the time to hesitate-we have a Bow Street runner with us, and he’s keen to make an arrest.”

The butler goggled.

“Did your master leave in his carriage, perhaps?” Christian took another step forward so he was looming over the hapless man.

The butler looked up, into his eyes; what he saw there had him swallowing, nodding. “Yes. That’s right.” The man’s head kept bobbing. “He called for his carriage well over an hour ago-he said he was picking up one of the mistress’s friends and was taking her to visit the mistress in Surrey.”

“Surrey?” Lifting his head, Christian stared unseeing across the hall for a moment, then glanced at Dalziel. “He would, wouldn’t he?”