The Edge of Desire (37 page)

The carriage drew to a halt before the club’s gate. Christian alighted and helped Letitia down. Inside, they discovered Justin in the library, along with Dalziel, Tristan, and Tony.

“Jack sends his regrets,” Tony informed them.

But Letitia’s gaze had fixed, fulminating, on her brother. “What are you doing here?”

Her tone suggested there was no answer she would find acceptable.

Justin merely raised his brows. “Better I come here than get eaten by boredom to the extent I slip my leash and go on the town.”

Christian watched as Letitia narrowed her eyes, but an inability to bear boredom was something she understood. In the end she sniffed and turned away—fixing Dalziel with a look dark enough to have him defending himself with, “He’s safe enough.”

Letitia’s expression said he’d better be. She consented to sit; with, Christian suspected, identical inward sighs of relief, all the men sank into armchairs.

“We spoke with Trowbridge, and then later with Swithin.” He seized the stage and outlined what they’d learned, especially the concept of the men’s Grand Plan, which made sense of many things.

“I heard back from Oxford and Cambridge,” Dalziel said. “I can confirm those hells of theirs are still operating, and are known to rake in large sums from the more well-heeled students. Both hells are tolerated because they don’t encourage
excessive
drinking, actively discourage woman
izing, and by and large keep the students off the streets.”

“So both Trowbridge and Swithin told exactly the same story,” Christian concluded, “which suggests that, at least in what they told us, they were telling the truth.”

A knock on the door heralded Gasthorpe. He bore his silver salver, which he presented to Christian. “From Mr. Montague, my lord.”

“Thank you, Gasthorpe.” Christian opened the missive with the small knife on Gasthorpe’s salver; while the majordomo retreated, he unfolded the note and read, then looked up. “I sent to Montague earlier to ask how many different regular payments were made into the company’s accounts. The answer is fourteen, which matches the number of hells.”

“Twelve hells in London, and one each in Cambridge and Oxford.” Tristan raised his brows. “Anything else?”

Christian nodded. “Montague confirms that those fourteen regular payments—the profits from the hells—account for the entire income of the Orient Trading Company. It appears that once established, as all the hells now are, each hell runs its own books for upkeep and all day-to-day running costs. What appeared in the fourteen property ledgers we found were the initial costs to set up each hell—the furniture, decorating, salaries, and so on for a time, until the hell could pay its way. Subsequently, all profits were paid into the three company accounts. Those fourteen hells form the sum total of the company’s assets—there’s nothing else within the company we need consider.”

“Nothing
else
?” Letitia muttered. “I would have thought fourteen gambling hells was quite enough.” She looked around the group. “Did anyone learn anything about this sale Randall was organizing?”

“I heard rumors, whispers, and so did Jack,” Tony reported. “But neither of us could unearth anything definite.”

Tristan nodded. “I found much the same—the prospect of a sale of fourteen highly profitable hells has naturally caused ripples in the murky pond of the underworld, but while my
contacts had caught whispers, including some names, none move in the right circles to have heard anything certain.”

The London underworld was Christian’s arena, as all his colleagues knew. He thought, then said, “There are only so many operators who could aspire to buy such a portfolio of properties. I doubt any of the others would band together, so that leaves us with Edson, Plummer, Netherwell, Gammon, Curtin, Croxton, and of course Roscoe.”

Tony’s, Jack’s, and Tristan’s contacts had mentioned all the above except for Gammon and Croxton.

“No hint who the leading bidder might be?” Dalziel asked.

Tristan shook his head. “No one even seemed sure that a sale had as yet been agreed upon.”

Christian glanced at Dalziel. “There’s a wealth of suspects in that list alone. Together with the others—Trowbridge, Swithin, any disgruntled managers, employees, or patrons—we have a plethora of potential murderers.”

“All of which suggests,” Letitia acerbically said, “that selling the holdings of the Orient Trading Company with all possible speed, so I can wash my hands of this entire business, is the most sensible thing to do.”

All the men looked at her.

Leaving it to Christian to, very mildly, say, “Actually, no. All we’ve learned argues for extreme caution, and that you should avoid any mention, however slight, of any intention to sell until we catch Randall’s murderer.”

She looked at him, harassed frustration plain in her face.
“Why?”
She delivered the single word with a level of dramatic force only a Vaux could command.

“Because,” he replied, clinging to his mild, unchallenging tone, “as things stand, it remains very likely that Randall’s move to sell was what provided the motive for his murder.”

For a long moment she held his gaze, then she pulled a face. “Very well.” Her tension left her. “So what now?”

“Now,” Dalziel said, “we need to learn, definitively and absolutely, if Randall had chosen a buyer. If his negotiations
had proceeded to the point where he’d made a decision, and even perhaps taken the first steps toward formalizing the sale.”

“Trowbridge and Swithin both made it clear Randall was the primary active agent when it came to running the company, and Montague confirmed that,” Christian reminded them. “So the fact they don’t know any details about a pending sale doesn’t mean it hadn’t progressed to the point that Randall had shaken hands on a deal.”

“If he had,” Tony said, “then given the hells and their profits, I’d place the bidder who missed out at the top of my suspect list.”

“Possibly,” Christian replied. “But I know who to ask for definite information, at least as to who the interested parties were and how far the sale had progressed.”

Dalziel cocked a brow at him. “Gallagher?”

Christian nodded.

“If you’re going to visit Gallagher,” Tristan said, “you’ll need someone to watch your back. I’ll come, too.”

“And as two is always better than one,” Tony quipped, “so will I.”

Letitia frowned and tried to catch Christian’s eye.

But he was looking at Tony and nodding. “Tonight, then. Let’s meet here at eight.”

Tristan and Tony agreed. “Eight,” Tony said as the men all stood. “Ready for an evening in the stews.”

“What did Torrington mean—an evening in the stews?”

Swiveled on the seat of her carriage, Letitia looked into Christian’s face.

He waved. “Just a figure of speech. A joke of sorts.”

She frowned direfully. “I
know
you’re not planning an evening of dissipation. What I wish to confirm is that you are, indeed, planning on going into some dangerous, far from salubrious area of the slums, there to meet with some man named Gallagher, who’s the sort of acquaintance with whom both Trentham
and
Torrington judged you need phys
ical support.” She glared at him. “
That’s
what I’m asking—as you damned well know!”

Christian’s lips lifted; he tried to straighten them. Reaching out, he closed a hand around one of hers. “Sssh. You’ll scare your coachman.”

“He’s been with me for years. I could scream and he—and his horses—would simply plod on. Don’t change the subject.”

“Which subject was that?”

“The subject of you swanning off on some dangerous enterprise at the first opportunity.” She wasn’t sure why the point so exercised her; it simply did. “Bad enough you were gone for twelve years plunging into God knows what dire situations, but there’s no reason—none whatever—that you need do so now, and certainly not on my account.” Perhaps that was it? Yes, obviously. “I don’t want you on my conscience. All very well to have Torrington and Trentham at your back—who’s going to be protecting your front? You men never think. I want you to promise me you won’t—absolutely will not—take any unnecessary risks. Any undue risks—for that matter I think this whole excursion qualifies as an undue risk. Learning about the likely buyer might be important—especially as I wish to pursue the sale—but I’m sure if we just wait, he’ll contact us, or Trowbridge or Swithin.
You
don’t have to go and consult some nefarious underworld figure—I assume from the fact that Torrington and Trentham both knew his reputation that he’s some sort of criminal magnate—who knows what he’ll demand in return?”

Her voice was rising, growing suspiciously unsteady. Christian squeezed her hand. “Meeting Gallagher’s price won’t be a problem.”

“He’ll have a
price
? Great heavens—he should help you for the honor of it, in repayment of his debts. You’re a damned war hero, and I’m quite sure he—whoever he is—has never bestirred himself in the service of his country.” She barely paused for breath. “I’m really not happy about
any
of this.”

“Yes. I know.” Raising her hand, Christian placed a kiss on her fingers just as the carriage rocked to a halt outside the house. He’d always wondered how she’d viewed his secret service; now he knew—she thought him a hero. He’d always wondered if she’d worried about him while he’d been on the Contintent; apparently she had. To now hear her so agitated over him perversely left a warm glow about his heart.

Releasing her, he opened the door, stepped down, then helped her to alight. Meeting her gaze levelly, he calmly stated, “Regardless, I’ll be meeting with Gallagher tonight.”

She made a frustrated sound like steam escaping. She went to wave her arms, but he’d kept hold of her hand.

Smiling, he raised it and kissed her fingers again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and tell you what I learn.”

She blinked at him. “
Tomorrow
? What about tonight?”

Releasing her, he stepped back and saluted, battling a grin. “No telling what time I’ll get back. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Turning, he sauntered off up South Audley Street. He could feel her dagger gaze boring into his back, but he didn’t glance back.

He didn’t whistle, but he felt like it.

Seeing Barton’s carroty head peeking over the edge of another set of area steps, he waved and, surprisingly content, continued on his way home.

A
t ten o’clock that night Christian, with Tristan at his heels and Tony a few paces behind, walked down a narrow alley in the labyrinth of lanes between Cannon Street and the Thames. In Mayfair’s wide streets the moon shone down, but here the tenements and warehouses hemmed the lanes in; it was nearly pitch-dark. This close to the river, fog had already thickened, wisps wreathing about their greatcoated shoulders, clinging as they passed. Their boots fell softly on ancient cobbles.

“I’m glad you know where you’re going.” Tristan’s voice came in a whisper from behind. “I just hope you know the way back.”

Christian’s lips quirked.

Five yards farther on he halted and faced a plain wooden door. Raising a fist, he knocked once, waited a heartbeat, then knocked twice.

A moment passed, then a small screened window in the door slid open. There was no light within. Another silent moment ticked past, then a hoarse voice demanded, “Who is it?”

“Grantham.”

The window slid shut.

Tristan tapped his arm. Christian glanced his way, saw Tristan’s raised brows, whispered, “Previous title.”

“Ah.”

They waited, patiently, for several minutes, then they heard heavy bolts sliding back.

A huge bruiser hauled open the door. He nodded to Christian. “The master’ll see you.”

Christian’s lips twitched. “Good evening to you, too, Cullen.” He stepped over the threshold.

Cullen snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Here—who’s these two with you?”

Christian glanced back at Tristan and Tony. “They’re just that—‘with me.’ Gallagher won’t mind. Incidentally, how’s his mood?”

Cullen scowled at Tristan and Tony, but allowed them inside, then shut the door and bolted it. He turned back to Christian. “He’s prepared to be entertained—which I’m thinking is just as well for you.”

Christian inclined his head. “We’ll see. I know the way.” He strolled down a barely lit corridor, then, ducking his head, stepped through an open doorway into a room that never failed to surprise.

It was Gallagher’s domain, and he’d set it up as a gentleman’s study, glaringly incongruous given what lay beyond the polished oak door, yet although no expense had been spared and the room was indeed luxurious, someone—Christian had always suspected Gallagher himself—had exercised restrained good taste.

Straightening, he walked farther in, nodding to the gargantuan presence behind the massive mahogany desk. “Gallagher.”

“Major.” Gallagher dipped his head a fraction—the best he could do by way of a nod. He had some condition that made his body store excessive amounts of fat, making the simplest movement difficult. But there was nothing wrong with his brain. He studied Tristan and Tony through small, bright blue eyes almost lost in rolls of fat, then looked at Christian and tipped his head toward the others. “Friends of yours?”

“Indeed. This is an insalubrious neighborhood, especially after dark.”

Gallagher emitted a cackle. “At any time of day.” Evincing no further interest in Tristan and Tony, he fixed his gaze on Christian. “So what can I do fer you?”

Christian kept his smile easy. “You can tell me all you know about the proposed sale of the Orient Trading Company.”

Gallagher’s eyes widened a fraction. “You have an interest there?”

“I’m acting for one of the part owners.”

Gallagher wasn’t slow. “The heir, heh? Or should I say heiress? Heard tell it was Randall’s widow got the whole of his share.”

Christian nodded. Gallagher’s price was information; if you wanted some, you gave some in return.

“So has she decided to sell?”

“Until we know more, she can’t decide one way or the other.”

Gallagher raised his brows. “Not the sort of business a lady like I hear tell she is would want to sully her dainty fingers with, I’m thinking.”

“True. She doesn’t. But her brother knows the value of a cash-generating asset.”

“Ah-ha.” Gallagher took a moment to digest that, then offered, “Last I heard, before Randall got himself murdered, he’d come to an agreement of sorts with Neville Roscoe. Not a binding one—an agreement in principle, as it were. I heard tell Roscoe had some stipulations, some conditions he wanted Randall to meet before they shook on the deal.”

“But Roscoe’s price was right?”

“So I heard. Randall was right chuffed when he left Roscoe.”

Christian raised his brows. “You have a watcher inside Roscoe’s?”

Gallagher snorted. “Nah—not inside. What I wouldn’t
give for that. But a body’s got to learn what he can howsoever he can—I’ve got someone keeping an eye peeled outside.”

Christian nodded. “Do you know who else was looking to buy?”

“The usual suspects—Edson, Plummer, and I heard tell Gammon was making overtures, too. But once Roscoe raised his hand, there weren’t much competition.”

“Unsurprising—Roscoe’s hells are probably even more profitable than the Orient Trading Company’s.”

“Aye.” Gallagher nodded. “So I’d think.” He studied Christian for a long moment, as if deciding whether to speak, then said, “I don’t know exactly why you’re asking, howsoever, if you’re thinking Randall’s murder had anything to do with the sale, I’d say you’re barking up the wrong tree. For certain Edson, Plummer, and Gammon weren’t best pleased when Roscoe butted in and snatched the prize, but unless there’s some bad blood there no one knows about, there’s no benefit to any of them in killing Randall. All that’s done—all it could ever do—is delay the inevitable.”

Gallagher settled on his massive chair. “From the business side of things, given the company was on the sale block anyway, Randall’s death hasn’t changed anything—unless the new owner decides to hold onto the company, and that, in effect, changes even less.”

“Perhaps,” Christian suggested, “there’s some reason that, for someone, a delay in the sale was desirable.”

Gallagher shrugged, a faint movement of his massive shoulders. “Could be, but if that’s the case, I ain’t heard nothing about it.”

Christian hesitated, then asked, “Do you know anything more that’s pertinent to this subject?”

Gallagher thought, then shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. Randall wasn’t one of us. He was on the upper end of things, like Roscoe. Never anything actually illegal, but they’re both on our fringes, which is why we keep a weather eye on them and their doings.” Gallagher smiled, not a pretty
sight. “Just in case. But I’m thinking that when it comes to Randall, Roscoe would know more.”

“Very possibly.” Christian glanced at the others, collecting them. “We’ll leave you, then. Thank you for your time.”

“And me knowledge.” Gallagher’s eyes sharpened. “If you want to keep me sweet, you send word when you learn who killed Randall, and even more important, if the widow and those other two agree to sell. If Roscoe’s going to grow twice as big, twice as powerful, I want to know.”

Christian nodded as he ducked through the doorway. “I’ll send word when I know for certain.”

It was after midnight when Christian let himself into his house. The large mansion was quiet, peaceful and serene; moonlight pooled on the tiles of the front hall, falling through the multifaceted skylight far above.

Aware of the quiet luxury of his home, yet even more aware of what it lacked, Christian snuffed the candle Percival had left burning and in the moonlit dark slowly climbed the stairs, wondering if he’d made a tactical error.

If he shouldn’t, instead, be climbing a set of stairs in South Audley Street.

Yet he wanted Letitia to realize that he wanted more than the merely physical from her, with her…and if he were honest, he’d wanted her to feel a tiny portion of the need, the driving compulsive need, he felt for her. So he’d grasped the chance of a night apart in the hope it would spur her to think more of him and her, and of becoming his wife.

The marquess’s apartments were on the first floor, opposite the head of the stairs. Walking around the gallery, he opened the door that led directly into his bedroom.

Despite the fact that the room was huge, he instantly knew someone else was there—in the same heartbeat knew who it was.

Almost disbelieving, wishing he’d brought the candle up after all, he stepped into the room and silently shut the door.

His night vision was excellent but he didn’t need it to locate her; all his senses seemed to lock on her, helplessly drawn.

She lay in his bed, sleeping.

On silent feet he crossed the large room, shrugging off his greatcoat and laying it on a chair along the way.

Drawing near the bed, he slowed. Halting at one corner, he looked down at her.

She lay sprawled under the covers, her dark hair splayed in a silken wave across his pillows.

Exactly where he wanted her to be.

Where he wanted her to sleep for the rest of her life.

His gaze was drawn by a glimmer across the room—silk shimmering in a stray beam of moonlight. Through the darkness he saw, laid on a chair, a black gown the color of night, a froth of ivory petticoats, two black garters, two neatly folded black stockings, and the gossamer-fine drape of her silk chemise.

Not only was she lying in his bed, she was lying in his bed naked.

The realization had its inevitable effect, yet for long moments he stood silently and watched her, simply because he could. Savoring that he could.

Eventually he turned away and quietly undressed. He didn’t hurry, deeply aware—to his bones aware—that he didn’t need to; she was there—he had all night to absorb the simple pleasure of having her in his bed.

His
bed.

That was something quite different—and he couldn’t believe she wouldn’t have realized that. Wouldn’t have known how finding her as she was, waiting for him, would affect him.

She might have come to his house because she was impatient to learn what he’d discovered, but that wouldn’t have placed her naked in his bed. Being there…consciously or not so terribly consciously, she was, in her own Vaux way, telling him something.

But tonight he didn’t want to dwell too much on that, on what decision if any she’d actually made.

Tonight was for embracing the simple fact that he would have her in his bed, in his arms all night. That for at least that long, his dream would be reality.

Lifting the covers, he slid in beside her. The mattress bowed beneath his weight; instinctively she turned toward him, her arms, her body, reaching for him, holding him, embracing him.

Loving him in the dark.

Letitia dreamt, not that the years had fallen away, but that she’d trod a different path. That somehow her feet had found their way not just onto the path of her long ago dreams, but to the end of that road and beyond.

Beyond to a time and place where he and she were the lovers they’d once been, but older, wiser, more mature. Where their love, given voice through long slow caresses, through rich, drugging kisses, through an acceptance of possessiveness that went soul deep, was more intense, richer, a broad river instead of a burbling stream, one that could carry more passion, more powerful emotions, infinitely deeper meaning.

His hands sculpted her body, reverently possessive, as if he couldn’t, still, quite believe she was his. That element of uncertainty in a man who could and did command all aspects of his life—wordless confirmation that her power as a woman over him still lived—quietly thrilled; she moved beneath his caresses, sensuously languid, taking her time to savor, to absorb, to let the pleasure of his loving sink to her bones.

To let it seep into her soul and fill it as he moved over her, parted her long legs with his hard muscled thighs and, with one slow powerful thrust, filled her.

She arched beneath him, the veil between reality and dreams flickering, as it had throughout. Some part of her knew that all she felt was real, yet this reality lay so close to, not simply her long ago dreams but the natural evolution
that should have come from them, that the two effortlessly merged.

Dreams and reality became one as she rode with him through the night, wrapped in his strength, cushioned within his bed, cradled within the warmth of his loving. She embraced him, clung, took him into her heart, drew him deeper into her body, let her soul reach for his and wrap around it.

Merge with it.

That’s how it felt as they raced toward the peak, stretched, reached it, hung suspended for one bright, glittering, scintillating moment…then together they shattered, let go and fell, let release claim them, let the void have them, let glory fill their veins with incandescent pleasure, golden and glowing.

When it was over, and he’d disengaged and drawn her to him, she lay safe in his arms, cocooned in his bed.

It was easier, so much easier, to communicate this way, in the dark, through lingering kisses, intimate caresses. To show him, let him see…what in the stark light of day she still found hard to put into words, to declare.

In the dark, in his arms, it was easy to ignore the risk.

To ignore her underlying, perhaps irrational fear.

To simply love him.

Turning her head, she gently kissed his chest, then snuggled her head on his shoulder and let her dreams take her.

Sated, replete, so deeply satisfied on so many levels he couldn’t raise a thought, Christian held her close, closed his eyes—felt an emotion, familiar and strong, well and pour though him.

More intense than ever before. More certain.

Feeling her body stretched out along his, feminine curves pressed to his chest, her long legs tangled with his, her skin soft and flushed beneath his hands, he felt his lips curve as he surrendered to sleep.

Christian stirred her as dawn approached. Faint pearly light washed into his room, gliding ephemeral fingers over the
bed as within it she cried out as passion crested and broke, and a long glorious wave of satiation washed through her.

Through them.

Holding the moment, and him, close, she wrapped herself in its warmth and, with a smile on her lips, sank back into slumber.

“Letitia?”

She sensed him shaking her, but refused to respond.

“I know I said I’d see you in the morning”—his voice was a gravelly rumble in her ear—“but I hadn’t envisaged it would be quite so early.”