The Edge of Desire (42 page)

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 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?”

Dalziel nodded. “Much easier to hide a body in the country—that’s how he’d think.”

The butler paled. “Body?”

Christian ignored him, turned and strode back out of the door. Dalziel and Justin joined him; Barton hovered.

Christian felt as if his heart was being slowly fed through a mangle. He forced himself to think past the pain, to ignore the incipient panic. “We’ll have to follow as fast as we can, and pray she can slow him down enough for us to reach them.”

Dalziel said nothing, simply nodded.

“At least he’s in a carriage,” Justin said. “In curricles, we’ll close the distance.”

But not fast enough. Surrey wasn’t that far away.

“Hey!”

They all turned to see Tristan and Tony striding along the pavement.

“We called at Randall’s house to take another look at the books and walked into a madhouse,” Tony said. “Hermione told us Swithin has kidnapped Letitia and you’d come this way.” He raised his brows. “What’s afoot?”

In a few brief words, Christian told them.

“We can catch him, or come very close.” Tristan caught Christian’s eyes. “With God’s help, close enough to save her.”

“He’s got what sounds like nearly an hour’s head start,” Justin pointed out.

“True, but he’s new to the area. I’m not.” Tristan smiled intently. “There’s shortcuts he won’t know about—with luck we can make up half an hour just getting out of town.” He glanced at Christian. “We need curricles and fast horses. I’m close enough to fetch mine.”

Justin slanted a glance at Dalziel. “I can get mine.”

Dalziel nodded. “Go. I’ll travel with Dearne.”

“We’ll meet back here—at the corner,” Christian declared.

They scattered, Tony striding off with Tristan, Justin disappearing along Curzon Street with Barton trotting at his heels, Dalziel accompanying Christian back to Grosvenor Square.

She was alone—but
this time
Christian would come for her.

Letitia lay on her side on the seat of Swithin’s carriage and kept her eyes closed. The horrible stuff he’d used to drug her had left her nauseated, but the sensation was slowly ebbing.

Her faculties were slowly returning.

They were traveling southward; the direction from which sunlight fell through the carriage windows told her that. She recalled hearing that Swithin had a country house in Surrey; presumably he was taking her there.

Or perhaps he intended putting her on a boat to who knew where?

A possibility, but she didn’t think it likely.

She thought he meant to kill her; how, she didn’t know, exactly where, she didn’t know, but if his aim was to halt the sale of the company without saying anything—without letting anyone who knew of his descent into poverty live…then he was going to have to kill her.

Telling her he’d killed Randall, telling her why, even if it didn’t make all that much sense to her, showed very clearly what he planned for her.

Therefore her only goal until this was over was to avoid being killed.

She had to slow him down until Christian came.

Her confidence that he would was, somewhat to her surprise, rock solid. Unshakable, unwavering. He might not have come to save her years ago, but then he hadn’t known she’d needed saving. This time he would know; this time he would come.

She examined that certainty and what fed it. In her heart, locked away though it was, she no longer doubted his devotion to her. Circumstances or fate might part them, yes, but he never would.

And nor would she.

But she hadn’t yet told him that. Hadn’t found the courage or the moment…No. In light of her heart’s certainty, given her predicament, she might as well be brutally honest—she hadn’t found the backbone to set aside her pride, to relinquish the one prop she’d had left to her and openly embrace him and their love again.

To, in the eyes of their world, claim it, and him, for her own again.

Damn!

Pride had twisted Swithin into a murderer. She wasn’t, she vowed, going to let that less than admirable trait deprive her of the one thing she most wanted in life—Christian, and through him, the resurrection of their dreams.

She wasn’t going to die, and she wasn’t going to let pride retain any further hold on her.

And she certainly wasn’t going to let a sad case like Swithin take their future—the future they’d waited twelve long years for—from them.

Determined, she carefully cracked open her lids and peered through her lashes. Swithin sat dozing on the opposite seat.

Very carefully, she straightened her legs, seeking to ease her cramped muscles. Only to detect, then confirm, that he’d hobbled her. Her ankles weren’t lashed tight, but they were joined—she could part them only a few inches, not even a foot.

Faintly horrified, she tried to move her hands—and discovered her wrists were tied together. Without moving too much, she squinted down at the knots—and cursed long and vividly, if silently.

Her hands were lashed palm-to-palm with the knots on the outside of her wrists. She wouldn’t be able to ease the knots undone with her teeth; she couldn’t reach them well enough to do so.

More silent cursing ensued; she let herself indulge—temper buoyed her. Gave her untold courage, false though it might be.

At that moment she would willingly embrace anything that gave her strength. If she was going to foil Swithin’s plans long enough for Christian to rescue her, she was going to need all she could get.

C
hristian sent his whip snaking out to flick his leader’s ear. The horse responded with a surge of power, drawing his curricle closer to Tristan’s, just ahead.

Behind, Justin kept two horses’ lengths back. He’d taken Barton up beside him; when Christian had glanced back, he’d seen the runner, pale, eyes staring, hanging onto the rail for dear life.

All their passengers were holding the rails, even Dalziel beside him. At the pace they were traveling, it was too dangerous not to; it was just as well Tristan knew the roads better than the backs of his hands.

He’d led them surprisingly swiftly out of London. As soon as they hit more open country, he’d lowered his hands and let his horses have their heads. Christian had been on his heels, with Justin’s blacks breathing down his neck all but literally.

They were rattling along too rapidly to talk. Regardless, he and Dalziel had nothing they needed to say. They both knew the odds, knew that time was ticking away—knew that without some help—not discounting divine intervention—they were unlikely to reach Swithin’s house in time.

Always assuming they’d guessed aright and Swithin hadn’t headed somewhere else entirely.

The paralyzing fear that flashed through him at the thought had him sucking in a breath.

He pushed the debilitating reaction away, bundled it out
of his mind; for one of the few times in his dangerous life he began to pray.

Divine intervention wasn’t to be sneezed at.

He hadn’t saved Letitia years before; he’d be damned—literally—if he let her down again.

They swept into the drive of Swithin’s house, all six horses in a lather. Tristan pulled up before the front steps; Christian drew his horses to a stamping halt right behind.

Justin swept past, with a flourish of his whip indicating he was heading around to the stables.

“Good move.” Dalziel stepped down and followed Christian to the door.

As he had in Curzon Street, Christian hammered on the front door until it swung open. A butler stood in the doorway, all but frozen in shock at the sight of the four large and menacing men crowding the front porch.

“Where’s your master?” Christian’s growl suggested—accurately—that he wished to rend said master limb from limb.

The butler swallowed and found his voice. “He’s not here. He lives in London for much of the time—in Curzon Street.”

“We’ve just come from Curzon Street—he left there, apparently for here.”

The butler had caught sight of their steaming horses. “Perhaps he’s still on the road?” He lifted his gaze to Christian’s face. “He doesn’t like rattling along—it makes him ill.”

That was the best bit of news Christian had had all day. Yet even traveling slowly, Swithin should have been there. He glanced at Dalziel, who met his gaze. Neither of them thought the butler was lying.

“All that means”—Dalziel swung back to the forecourt—“is that he hasn’t come through his front door.”

“And if he had a struggling prisoner in tow, he wouldn’t.” Tristan went back down the shallow steps. The others followed; the butler, puzzled, came out in their wake.

Justin came striding around the side of the house, greatcoat flapping, Barton at his heels. A bevy of stableboys rushed past, racing to take the high-stepping horses in charge.

“He’s here,” Justin bellowed as soon as he was in earshot. Halting, he beckoned. “The stableman says he arrived about five minutes ago—with a lady.”

Moments later they all stood in the stableyard, where two carriage horses were being watered.

“The lady wasn’t well,” the stableman said. “Fainting and weak—she could barely stand. The master had to half carry her up to the house.”

“He didn’t go in through the front door.” With the others, Christian turned to look at the house. “The butler hasn’t seen him.”

The stableman frowned. “That’s odd. The state the lady was in, I’d’ve thought he’d have her inside right away.”

From where they stood, the side door of the house was visible. Dalziel pointed. “Did you see him go through that door?”

The stableman shook his head. “Saw him head off in that direction, but…” He waved to the wide vistas rolling away to either side, then at the horses nearby. “I was busy with these—he could have gone anywhere, for all I know.”

“Could any of your boys have seen which way he went?” Justin asked.

The stableman shook his head. “They were inside, mucking out.”

Frustrated, ridden by a sense of time running out, of being near yet not near enough, Christian strode back out of the stableyard. Just beyond the arch, he halted and looked about. The others ranged around.

“So he’s here, with her.” And she was still alive. “I’ll check to see if he went in through the door.” Christian glanced at Dalziel.

Who nodded. “The rest of us will scout outside. Whoever sights him, yell.”

Christian left them to sort out who would look where. He
jogged to the house, scanning the ground along the way for any signs of a struggle or fresh footsteps.

He reached the door. There might have been a scuffle just outside it, but the grass was thick; he couldn’t tell who might have stood there or how long ago it had been.

Opening the door—unlocked, as most doors in the country were—he stepped inside, into a shallow hall with two corridors leading off, one to the left, one to the right. He debated for an instant, then turned left, away from the front of the house. The other corridor almost certainly led to the front rooms the butler watched over, and presumably Mrs. Swithin would be somewhere in that region, too.

If Swithin had brought Letitia inside, he would have gone somewhere else—somewhere away from all others.

It wasn’t that large a house, but a modest, relatively modern manor in the Palladian style. The first stretch of floor beyond the hall was covered by a runner, but beyond the runner’s end, bare floorboard stretched.

Noting a darker mark on the wood, Christian crouched, touched a finger to it; his fingertip came away damp, slightly green.

The grass outside the door had been damp.

Moving faster, he went on—and found an even clearer set of footprints around the corner, at the base of a set of bare wooden stairs—servants’ stairs, leading up. There were two sets of footprints, the larger clear and well-defined, the smaller smudged and muddled, as if Letitia had been tripping over her own toes.

Christian swore beneath his breath and started up the stairs. The blackguard must have drugged her.

He didn’t yell for the others; they almost certainly wouldn’t hear him, but the servants would—and so would Swithin.

Reaching the first floor landing, he forced himself to search for footprints to show him the way—along the corridor or up the next flight of stairs. His inner clock told him time was running out; panic threatened—but now more than ever he couldn’t afford to go the wrong way.

But there were runners all about, even on the stairs.

“Swithin!”

The hail came from outside.

Two strides took Christian to the landing window. Looking out, he saw Dalziel, hands on his hips, looking up and shouting—at the roof.

Christian swore and bolted up the stairs. If Swithin had taken Letitia onto the roof…there was only one possible reason he would.

And she was drugged.

On a narrow ledge a bare yard wide, just behind the low parapet encircling the roof, Letitia struggled—wrestled—for her life.

Her wrists were still tied—she hadn’t been able to do anything about that—but by pretending she couldn’t get up the stairs, she’d forced Swithin to unhobble her ankles.

So she could balance well enough to counter his shoves, pull back enough when he tried to yank her forward. But bit by bit, his jaw set, his fingers biting into her arms, he maneuvered her closer to the edge.

She’d pretended to be drugged as long as she could, used her slumping weight, her inability to walk, to slow them.

He might not be anywhere near Christian’s size, but Swithin was still heavier and stronger than she; fighting him in the carriage wouldn’t have worked—she’d been afraid he might simply have drugged her again. But Swithin had managed her exit from his carriage well, making sure she was out of sight and too distant from his stablemen for there to be any chance of escape. Not with his pistol pressed to her side.

So she’d worked and worked, forcing her panicking wits to find ways to slow them as much as possible.

But now she had to fight to keep him from flinging her over the edge.

Screaming hadn’t been an option, not with that pistol digging into her ribs and no one nearby, but he’d had to put the pistol away so he could use both hands to seize her.

Now
she could scream.

“No!”
She didn’t want to die—not when everything in her life had at last come right. “Stop it—
let me go!
”

What right did Swithin have to take her life from her—and for such a nonsensical reason?

Temper, as ever, was her strength. She used it, drew on it, worked to keep it stoked.

Desperate, she wrestled, fought as well as she could with her hands tied—would have kicked but she had to keep her balance.

Swithin pushed—she pushed back.

But she couldn’t keep going forever.

She was weakening; just as she started to wonder if Christian would be too late, yells came from below.

She recognized Dalziel’s voice. If he was there, Christian was close.

Swithin knew; his face empurpled, then contorted in a snarl. He steeled himself, locked his fingers even more tightly on her arms.

Letitia felt him gather himself, muscles bunching, prayed she’d have strength enough to counter his shove when it came—

Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs beyond the half-open roof door.

Smothering a roar, Swithin wrenched back from her. Holding her at arm’s length with one hand, with the other he scrabbled at his coat pocket.

He pulled out his pistol.

Aimed it at the door.

Just as Christian thrust it wide.

“No!
” Letitia’s heart clogged her throat.

Time stopped.

Christian took in the scene in one glance. He saw the pistol aimed at his heart, saw Swithin—no longer the quiet, reserved, cautious gentleman-investor, but a disheveled merchant’s son with a crazed light in his eyes.

His gaze found Letitia, fixed on her. She’d largely thrown
off the effects of the drug. She’d been fighting Swithin. Her green-gold eyes showed healthy fear, but no panic.

They also glowed with temper, and a determination not to be killed.

He would have closed his eyes and given thanks, but she wasn’t safe yet.

Locking his gaze with Swithin’s, he slowly stepped onto the narrow parapet walk, letting the door swing half closed behind him.

“Get back,” Swithin shouted. “Or I’ll shoot!”

Christian halted. Looked puzzled. “You don’t want to shoot me.”

The unexpected reply confused Swithin. He frowned.

Christian couldn’t risk looking at Letitia—he wanted Swithin’s full attention on him. All he could do was will her to stillness, and silence.

From the corner of his eye, on the ground far below he could see Justin haring back to the stables. He’d be after the long-barreled pistols they all carried beneath their box seats. Justin had been a crack shot since his childhood, and, Christian suspected, so was Dalziel.

From where they were, they’d have a clear view of Swithin.

All he and Letitia had to do was wait.

And keep Swithin occupied.

“There’s no sense to any of this, Swithin.” He spoke calmly, matter-of-factly. “Letitia won’t sell her share of the company if you don’t want her to.”

Swithin sneered. Jeered. “Of course she’ll want to sell—no lady like her would want to have anything to do with such an enterprise. And Trowbridge wanted to sell, too—he told me so. And then I’d have to sell, no matter that I don’t want to, because how can I not without admitting—”

Abruptly he closed his lips. Eyes distinctly feverish, he shook his head. “No, no—I’m not going to say. I’m never going to tell anyone. Can’t. It’s
my
secret. We kept a lot of secrets, but that one’s mine alone.” His lips lifted in a parody of a smile. “No one else gets to know that one.”

Christian inclined his head in acceptance. “But why kill people?” Justin had returned, pistols in hand. Christian could see the others moving about below. Keeping his gaze locked with Swithin’s, he frowned. “I don’t understand. Killing people never helps.”

Swithin’s expression turned superior. “In this case, it will—it does. It stops them from selling the company without me having to admit…anything. Without me having to beg them not to.”

“But being convicted of murder’s not going to help. You don’t want that.”

Swithin smiled slyly. “It won’t happen—
I
won’t be convicted. No one can prove I killed Randall and Trowbridge. It was surprisingly easy. Just a knock on the back of the head and they were gone. Quick and neat. But there’s no proof I killed them—I made sure of that. No—now I just have to pitch this bitch off the roof and everything will work out.”

He shifted, turning toward Letitia as if to do just that.

Christian seized the moment to glance down; the others were repositioning, trying to get a bead on Swithin without Letitia or he anywhere close. Dalziel saw him looking and waved, beckoning—they wanted Swithin closer to the edge. Christian hurriedly asked, “But why from the roof? Why not just knock her on the head like the others?”

It was the only thing he could think of to ask.

Swithin looked back at him, a strange smile curving his lips; beyond him, Christian saw Letitia gathering herself—she’d used the time he’d bought them to regroup.

“I can’t do that,” Swithin told him. “She’s Randall’s and Trowbridge’s murderer—
she’s
the one who knocks people on the head. Not me. Never me. She was making far too many inquiries—or you were on her behalf. I know you spoke with Gallagher, and then you went to see Roscoe. I couldn’t allow that—couldn’t allow you, and her, to learn too much. But it doesn’t matter now. Once she goes over the edge, you won’t be able to help her anymore. And everyone
will see that she killed the other two, then came after me, and when she couldn’t kill me, she rushed up here and threw herself off.” His smile widened. “It’s obvious.”