The only other observer was Barton, the Bow Street runner. Christian spied him watching proceedings from the shadow of a monument, no doubt imagining he was inconspicuous. Barton scanned the cemetery, as did Christian rather less obviously, but no one else appeared at any time-not even after the sods had been cast and the mourners drifted from the grave.
Christian found it difficult to comprehend the startling absence of any friends. Given that Randall had been murdered, the ton’s ladies-those who would otherwise have been present to support Letitia in her grief-had not been expected, but where were Randall’s male acquaintances, let alone friends?
Regardless of the nature of his demise-indeed, even more so because of it-they should have turned out, one and all.
Yet not one gentleman had appeared. As a comment on a life lived within the ton, that was extraordinary.
Admittedly the ton were only just returning to the capital for the autumn session of Parliament, and perhaps some who might have known Randall had yet to hear of his death, yet this absolute dearth of acquaintances seemed bizarre.
As he left the graveyard, Christian heavily underscored his earlier mental note-he had to find out more, a lot more, about George Martin Randall.
Chapter 5
Later that evening, deliberately later than a gentleman would normally call on a lady, Christian rapped on the door of the house in South Audley Street.
Mellon opened the door and promptly looked scandalized.
Christian ignored him and walked in. “Please inform your mistress that Lord Dearne requests a few minutes of her time.”
Mellon blinked, then recalled himself and bowed. “Ah…I believe her ladyship has already retired, my lord.”
All the better to rattle her. “I doubt she’ll be abed yet.” Christian looked down his nose at the obsequious Mellon, then raised one brow. “My message?”
Flustered, Mellon turned to the drawing room. “If you’ll wait in-”
Christian strolled toward the front parlor. “I’ll wait in here.”
Mellon dithered, then surrendered and flapped away toward the stairs.
Smiling intently, Christian walked into Letitia’s domain and looked around. On the end of one sofa table, a candelabra still burned, bathing the silk rug in golden light and shadows.
The sight brought the phantom scent of jasmine back to his senses. Tightened his belly and his groin.
He drew in a breath and looked around the room, and felt her there, around him. While he waited-he knew she wouldn’t hurry-he studied her things, searching for some insight into how she’d changed in the twelve years they’d been apart, but there was nothing he saw that seemed in any way different. More intense, more powerful, more well-defined, perhaps, but in all respects she was still the same Letitia Vaux he’d fallen completely and irrevocably in love with more than thirteen years before.
She’d grown, matured, but she hadn’t changed.
Presumably that meant that the same rules applied-that the ways he’d used to deal with her in the past would still work.
He had to learn more about Randall, and most especially about Letitia’s marriage to the man. Whatever else Justin Vaux was, he was sharply intelligent; he had to have had some compelling reason to believe Letitia had killed Randall. Christian needed to learn what that reason was in order to do what Justin had obviously felt needed to be done-protect Letitia from suspicion.
That was his logical, rational reason for what he was about to do.
His emotional reason had nothing to do with Randall’s murder, but everything to do with his marriage.
“He’s what?” In her bedchamber, seated before her dressing table mirror, still in her black gown but with her long hair tumbling about her shoulders and back, Letitia turned to stare at Mellon.
“He said he’d wait in the front parlor.” Mellon all but sniffed. “Quite at home he seemed.”
Letitia felt her temper stir. “I daresay.” Turning back to the dressing table, she set down her brush. She held her own gaze in the mirror for an instant, then said, “Tell him I’ll see him in the library. Show him in there, and shut the doors to the front parlor.”
In the mirror she watched as Mellon, his lips pinched in disapproval, bowed and withdrew.
Her lips quirked; ironic that in this she agreed with Mellon. If he could have told her how to avoid Christian Allardyce, now Marquess of Dearne-a nobleman accustomed to getting what he wanted and ensuring he always did-she would happily fall in with any plan.
But she knew how futile running from a large and powerful predator was; he would only pursue her all the more intently. And from past experience she knew that if pushed, he could, and would, act with a supreme disregard for convention every bit the equal of her own.
They were who they were; society’s rules only applied if and when they chose.
As the door closed behind Mellon, her dresser, Esme, engaged in laying out her nightclothes on the bed, straightened. “Do you want me to go down with you, my lady? It is late, and you being so recently widowed and all.”
Letitia glanced at her and smiled fondly. Esme, whom she’d brought with her on her marriage, tall, lanky, and rather severe, but an excellent dresser, was the only servant in the household she trusted. “Thank you, but no.”
Whatever Christian had in mind, she had a strong notion she would need privacy to deal with him. “Lord Dearne probably has more questions.”
She could imagine he would have. When they’d parted the previous night, her temper had been on edge, hard and bright, sharpened by disappointment that he’d actually followed through on his plan to use her vow to give anything in return for Justin’s safety to try to hurt her. To in some small measure pay her back for what he thought she’d done. To make her want him again, and then perhaps deny her.
Regardless of what his plan had been, she’d refashioned it in a way that had resulted in an interlude she could accept. What had been between them was still there; she hadn’t been entirely surprised that that was so.
As for the power of it…that had been both a surprise and a delight.
She’d slept better last night than she had for twelve years. Not since the night she’d seen him off to the wars.
And the sight of him afterward, the way he’d just lain there-as if sensually flabbergasted-had gone a long way toward salving any slight she might have felt. All in all, last night had gone far more her way than his.
Which almost certainly explained why he was waiting downstairs in the library.
Not the front parlor; she was far to fly to the nuances of place to let him use the lingering echoes of last night to distract her.
He’d stood by her side at the funeral that afternoon, but in public, on such a somber occasion, they’d exchanged only the barest greetings. He’d been nothing but unfailingly supportive; she’d leant on his arm, and been grateful he’d been there.
By now, however, he’d be champing at the bit, wanting to know everything. Ready to demand she tell him all that she was well aware he didn’t know-all she still had no intention of telling him.
Years ago he’d made his decision-and by that made his bed and hers, and made them separate. Now he’d come back from the life he’d chosen, but if he thought, with Randall conveniently dead, she’d blithely open her heart to him again, he would learn he was mistaken.
Pride was one of the few comforts left to her, pride that regardless of her wishes, she’d done the right thing.
She wasn’t about to let him take her pride from her. Wasn’t about to explain to him what his long ago decision had wrought. Wasn’t about to-ever-let him know what that decision had cost her.
How many heartbroken days and nights.