Christian dutifully refused her offer to retreat and leave him to enjoy a solitary brandy; he prowled at her heels as she led the way back to the drawing room. Claiming to be exhausted after the journey from London, she requested the tea trolley be brought in immediately. She and Christian made a show of pouring and sipping, then left the trolley in the drawing room and headed for the stairs.
It was only as she was climbing them with Christian beside her that she solved the riddle of the strange look on Hightsbury’s face as they’d passed him in the front hall and she’d airily informed him they were retiring immediately.
Hightsbury, and no doubt the rest of the staff, assumed she and Christian were “retiring” to the same bed.
Conscious of a wayward stirring of her interest, she shot a sidelong glance at Christian. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was thinking-or assuming-much the same as the staff, but she’d drawn a line and intended to stick to it.
No more payments until after he’d found Justin. Aside from all else, she couldn’t afford more-not yet. Not while there was Justin’s safety between them, complicating things.
She hadn’t yet decided how they should go on, didn’t even know what more-a brief affair, a longer liaison-he might want of her. Such matters were potentially too fraught to be dealt with now, not with Randall’s murder and all its possible ramifications hanging over them all.
Christian noted her silence-not so much unusual for her as unusual in its absorption. He wished he knew what she was wrestling with; even more, he wished he knew what the circumstances of her marriage to Randall-the earl’s “things”-were.
He’d hoped having her and her father together might lead to some revelation, however small, but all he’d gained was that tantalizing reference; all else was ongoing frustration.
Letitia’s marriage to Randall was the central pivotal issue behind all that had occurred. It was the reason for Justin’s actions. It was the reason Letitia and her father weren’t entirely in accord.
He wouldn’t be surprised if it was also the critical issue underlying Justin’s rift with his father. As far as he could make out, the timing fitted.
Not much else did. Letitia’s self-confessed hatred of Randall-in no way assumed-didn’t explain why she’d married the man. Likewise, the earl’s assertion that he couldn’t understand why she had made no sense. Admittedly that last had set Letitia off, so was probably an exaggeration, but there had to be some kernel of truth or she wouldn’t have been so irate.
They reached the gallery. Letitia halted and faced him.
He met her eyes, let his gaze travel slowly down until it rested on her skirts. “There’s sure to be heaps of cobwebs up there. Do you want to change your gown?”
“All bombazine gowns are the same, in my opinion.” Her brisk tone testified to her impatience. Having checked the gallery for lurking footmen, she turned and beckoned. “Come on. I’ll show you the attic stairs.”
The most interesting aspect about the attics at Nunchance Priory were the stairs leading to them. That, at least, was Christian’s opinion when, an hour later, they descended said stairs and, dusty and not a little dirty, returned to the gallery.
“Nothing.” Letitia looked both disgusted and vindicated. “I had hoped I was wrong and he’d holed up in the old nurseries, but clearly no one has been there for years.”
“Judging by the dust, decades.” He brushed a clinging cobweb from his sleeve.
“Yes, well, you wanted to look. So we’ve looked. Everywhere. Justin-as I warned you-isn’t here.”
He told her of the missing book in her father’s library.
She frowned. “That does sound as if he were here. But he must have been just passing through.” She glanced up at his face through the shadows. “Do you think he might have fled to Scotland?”
“He’s a Vaux-anything’s possible.”
She humphed, looked down-looked anxious.
He inwardly sighed. “I honestly think he’s somewhere close. I just don’t know where.” When she looked up again, he asked, “What about nearby buildings, further out from the house?”
When nothing registered in her face, he suggested, “What about the farms? Would he claim refuge with your workers, those he grew up with?”
She frowned, didn’t immediately reply, but then shook her head. “I’m sure there are some who would happily hide him, but he won’t go there.”
He tilted his head. “You sound very sure.”
“I am.” She met his gaze. “He won’t go to them because he’ll know that by now he might be a wanted felon. He won’t put other people-people who trust him-at risk by asking them for help.”
He grimaced. That rang only too true. The Vaux were honorable and chivalrous to a fault.
Except for Letitia breaking her vow to him.
He looked at her through the gloom. “Why did you marry Randall?”
Even in the poor light, he saw her shields-shields she’d largely dropped over the last days-snap back into place. Shutting her off from him.
“That, as I’ve told you, is none of your business.”
It felt as if a wall had sprung up between them, the separation was that absolute. Given their history, given she was otherwise open and straightforward, that wall was unsettling, disturbing.
She held his gaze, direct and determined, then inclined her head and turned away. “Good night. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
He watched her walk away through the shifting shadows, and debated whether, despite her chilly dismissal, despite-or even because of-that wall, he should follow. Her “not until you’ve found Justin” still rang in his brain; regardless, he doubted she’d deny him. Refuse him. When it came to what flared between them, she was as caught, as addicted, as he.
And it wasn’t as if she was promiscuous. No lovers, not a one, yet she’d accepted him back as her lover with neither resistance nor hesitation. She still felt something for him; he was still special to her.
Yet…
After his visit to the abbey, he was no longer certain just what he wanted of her. More, yes, but how much more?
While he didn’t know the answer, he’d be wise to tread carefully with her. The Vaux had tempers; they also had long memories.
Sinking his hands in his pockets, he turned to look out of one of the long gallery windows, waiting for the impulse to follow her-still pricking like a spur-to fade.
Frustration dragged at him, taunted him, on levels too numerous to count.
Minutes ticked by. He was about to turn and head for his room when he saw a light-a pinprick, no more-bobbing through the trees.
He leaned closer to the glass, watched for long enough to confirm that the light was moving steadily away from the house.
Purposefully away from the house.
He told himself it would be a maid out on a tryst.
“But if it isn’t?”
He glanced to left and right, noting landmarks in the gardens to fix the direction, then left the window and ran silently downstairs.
The gardens of Nunchance Priory were extensive and, as Christian discovered that night, if not precisely overgrown, then distinctly mature. The trees were old, large and full-canopied; they cast inky black shadows that swallowed what little light the quarter moon shed. Pounding through the formal gardens, he’d plunged into the ornamental shrubberies beyond. Thick bushes abounded; paths meandered, garden beds unexpectedly forcing them this way, then that.
He considered himself lucky when he finally glimpsed the bobbing light still moving away some distance ahead of him. Keeping it in sight wasn’t easy; in the dark, over unpredictable terrain, he couldn’t keep his eyes glued to it without risking a fall.
Mentally cursing-the constantly changing landscape no doubt looked lovely on a warm summer’s day-he forged on. Luckily, whoever was carrying the light wasn’t moving fast.
Once he reached the park proper, long stretches of sward shaded by well-spaced large trees, his way became easier. He managed to close the distance between himself and the light bearer. Eventually he made out that the light came from a lantern, partially screened, its bearer a small, dapper individual he hadn’t previously seen.