The Edge of Desire

When, all the details thrashed out and agreed upon, the written agreements from Trowbridge and Mrs. Swithin tendered and accepted, they all rose and Roscoe shook Letitia’s hand, there was a reluctantly admiring glint in his eyes. “I’ll have my man of business draw up the contract in conjunction with…” Roscoe cocked a brow at Christian. “…Montague?”

Christian nodded. “He’s under instruction to take over the management of Lady Letitia’s affairs.”

Roscoe’s lips quirked. “Naturally.” He looked at Letitia, hesitated, then said, “I understand felicitations are in order.” He bowed, inherently graceful. “Please accept mine.”

Letitia glowed. “Thank you.”

Straightening, Roscoe met her eyes. “And don’t try too hard to remember our previous meeting.”

She waved airily. “I doubt I’ll have time, what with all else that’s going on.”

“Good.” With that dry comment, Roscoe turned to Christian; this time he spontaneously held out his hand. “Dearne.”

Christian gripped his hand, entirely content with how the meeting had gone. “Come-I’ll walk you out.”

Roscoe bowed again to Letitia, then fell into step beside Christian as he headed for the door. While Christian opened it, Roscoe glanced back-at Letitia settling on the chaise to await Christian’s return.

Then he turned and went through the door.

As they passed down the corridors and into the front hall, Christian was aware of Roscoe glancing about-not so much taking note as breathing in the ambience. “Do you ever think you’ll return to”-he gestured about them-“tonnish life?”

Roscoe didn’t immediately reply. When they reached the front door, he turned and faced Christian. “Much as I might envy you the life you now have, I long ago realized it wasn’t in the cards for me.”

There was a finality in his tone that closed the subject.

Roscoe accepted his cane from Percival, then, when that worthy opened the door, nodded to Christian and went out into the night.

Christian watched him go, saw him disappear into the gloom before Percival shut the door. He stared unseeing at the panels for a minute more, then recalling all that awaited him in the smaller drawing room, he smiled, turned, and strolled back to embrace it.

And her. The love of his life and, God willing, the mother of his children.

Letitia’s second marriage was in no way the travesty her first had been. Consequently, their wedding was every bit as massive, noisy, and full of life as Christian had foreseen.

He didn’t mind in the least. Looking around the huge ballroom of Nunchance Priory, noting the sheer exuberance that held sway, he gave thanks that he and Letitia had won through to this, that the years and fate hadn’t bound them, chained them, to lesser existences.

To an existence apart.

He glanced at her, radiant and so vitally vibrant beside him, her dark hair gleaming, the Allardyce diamonds glittering about her throat and depending from her ears, the simple gold band he’d placed on her finger mere hours ago the only ornament she wore on her slim digits. Her long, slender frame was encased in silk the color of the palest pink rose; the scent of jasmine rose from her alabaster skin.

There was, however, an incipient frown in her eyes, a slight line between her brows.

Before he could ask, she volunteered, “That wretch Dalziel isn’t here.”

“He’s never attended any of our weddings. Didn’t the other ladies tell you?”

“They did, but given the timing, his absence today is, in my opinion, taking the whole thing simply too far.”

He hesitated, then asked, “What thing?”

She looked at him, then shook her head. “Never mind. You’ll learn all about it soon enough-any day, as it happens.”

Any day?

Christian knew well enough that he would get no more from her. Jack Warnefleet had confirmed that his wife, Lady Clarice, also knew exactly who Dalziel was. The others, including Jack Hendon, who like the rest of them had become obsessed with learning Dalziel’s true identity, had grumbled and admitted they now believed all their wives knew the truth-and none of them would say. Regardless of the persuasion, the interrogation tactics employed.

That they’d worked so closely with the man for the past decade and more yet still didn’t know his identity irked. Yet it appeared that all the ladies of the ton had colluded in keeping Dalziel’s secret.

“Which is frankly amazing,” Tony later remarked, when Christian, having left Letitia chatting with her cousins, joined the other club members. “There are so many inveterate gossips, you’d swear at least one would be unable to resist whispering his name, but no. On that one subject, total silence reigns.”

The others all grumped, and sipped their wine. They’d gathered just like this at each successive wedding, to toast the man fallen and fix their sights on the next one to go. This time, however, there were no more club members left unwed; consequently their thoughts turned to their ex-commander, who had become an all but formally declared ex-officio member.

But Dalziel wasn’t there to prod.

Justin detached himself from the throng, charmingly disengaging from two young ladies who would happily have continued to monopolize his time-and sought refuge with them. Christian cocked a brow at him.

He grimaced. “I’m seriously contemplating becoming a recluse.”

Deverell grunted. “Won’t do you any good. The more determined will still hunt you down.”

Justin didn’t look thrilled.

“You know who Dalziel is,” Christian murmured. “I don’t suppose, given all is now over and done, that you’d like to share the information?”

Justin hesitated.

They all held their breaths.

Then he shook his head. “I can’t.” He met Christian’s gaze. “The punishment is too dire. But anyway, you’ll know soon enough.”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” Jack Warnefleet complained. “‘Soon enough.’ When is ‘soon enough’ going to be?”

Justin frowned at him. “Well, obviously, any day now.”

“It’s not obvious to us,” Charles replied, his tone threatening all manner of violence.

Justin looked at him, then at the others. “It is obvious. You’ll learn who he is when he resigns his commission and returns to civilian life. And by all accounts that’s any day now.”

That gave them all something to think about. Leaving them to it, Justin slipped away. There was something he needed to do.

He knew the corridors like the back of his hand; avoiding the guests-so many of them female-flitting about, he made his way into the other wing, to the library.

In the wake of Swithin’s babbling revelations, Justin had visited Trowbridge, who had confirmed that the huge investment loss incurred by the earl eight years before, leading to Letitia’s marriage to Randall, had indeed been arranged by Randall, the scheme itself engineered by Swithin.

There was no proof to be had, or ever likely to be found, yet the simple knowledge had cured the malaise that had for years eaten at Justin’s heart.

He entered the library on silent feet. As he’d expected, his father was there, seated in his favorite armchair, a book open on his lap.

The earl had dutifully walked Letitia down the aisle, given her away, then attended the wedding breakfast and made a short speech-surprising everyone by being no more than mildly blunt. Then he’d disappeared.

Justin quietly walked to the chair opposite the earl’s. Halting beside it, he looked down on his sire. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The earl grunted; he didn’t look up. “I know. I just couldn’t prove it. And you…you and Letitia both seemed so ready to believe I’d risk such a lot-your lives, in effect.” One long finger marking his place, the earl lifted his gaze, staring across the room. “But I didn’t. I never would have.”

“No,” Justin said. “We know that now.”

The earl finally looked up, through shrewd hazel eyes scanned his son’s features, then he nodded. “Good.”

With that, he returned to his book.