He’d assumed the full mourning signified that her father, the Earl of Nunchance, had passed on. But if the head of the House of Vaux had died, the ton would have been abuzz with the news. Not only had he heard not a whisper, but Letitia’s face, na
turally pale, held no hint of sorrow; if anything, she seemed to be reining in her temper.
Not her father, then. Regardless of the familial disruptions that were commonplace among the Vaux, she was sincerely fond of her eccentric sire.
Her perfectly arched dark brows drew down, a slight frown that informed him he was being slow-witted.
“No. Not Papa.”
The sound of her voice rocked him. He’d forgotten how long it had been since he’d heard it. Low-toned, with just the faintest natural rasp, it was a voice that evoked visions of sin.
Regardless, today those tones carried a certain tension. She drew in a tight breath, then bluntly stated, “Randall has been murdered.”
As if saying the words had released her from some spell, she finally met his eyes. Hers sparked with undisguised temper. “Randall was beaten to death in his study last night. The servants found him this morning—and the idiot runners have fixed on Justin as the murderer.”
He blinked. “I see.” Moving into the room, slowly, to give himself time to dissect her news, he sank into the armchair facing hers across the hearth. Lord Justin Vaux was her younger brother. She was presently twenty-eight, nearly twenty-nine, making Justin twenty-six. Brother and sister were close, always had been. “And what does Justin say?”
“That’s just it—we can’t find him to ask. But rather than do so, the authorities have fixed on him as the most convenient scapegoat. They are, no doubt, organizing a hue and cry as we speak.” Letitia bit off the words, her tone acid. Now she’d got over the most difficult hurdle—getting Christian to speak with her—she felt able to concentrate on the matter at hand.
Which was definitely better than concentrating on him.
Watching him stroll, ineffably graceful, across the room toward her—allowing herself to—had been a mistake. All that harnessed power condensed into one male—a male no one with functioning eyes would rate as anything less than dangerous—was a phenomenon guaranteed to distract any living, breathing woman. Her most of all. Yet today she needed to reach past the glamour and deal with the man.
His expression was rarely informative, so did little to soften the hard angles of his face, the edged cheekbones, the long planes of his cheeks, the austere set of his features—large gray eyes set under a broad brow, straight brown brows, surprisingly thick lashes, thin chiseled lips, and the strong prow of his nose. His squared chin bore witness to the stubbornness he usually hid beneath a cloak of easy charm.
To him, charm and grace had always come easily, something she, being a Vaux and therefore attuned to all the nuances of appearance, had always appreciated.
Still did; if anything, the effect he had on her, on her senses, was more pronounced than she recalled. She knew very well just how deeply she still loved him, but she’d forgotten what it felt like, forgotten all the physical manifestations that came with that soul-deep connection.
She hadn’t been this close to him for twelve long years. Her decision to keep her distance when he’d reappeared among the ton had clearly been wise; even with a good six feet separating them, she could feel her rib cage tightening, enough to affect her breathing.
Enough to make her feel just a touch giddy. To have her nerves stretching in telltale anticipation.
An anticipation that would never be fulfilled.
Not now.
Not after she’d married Randall.
His gray gaze had shifted from her; now it returned, focused and intent. “Why did the authorities fix on Justin? Was he there?”
Relief glimmered; that he was asking questions boded well. “Apparently he called on Randall last night. Randall’s stupid butler, who thoroughly disapproves of all Vaux, Justin in particular, was only too happy to point his finger. But you know as well as I do that, all appearances to the contrary, Justin would never kill anyone.”
Christian caught her eye, read therein both her temper and her worry. Her anxiety. “You don’t believe he would. I might not believe he would. That doesn’t mean he didn’t.”
Baiting a Vaux was a dangerous pastime, but this time she didn’t bite back.
Which told him how deeply worried she was.
And despite the histrionics that were her Vaux heritage—the family weren’t known as “the vile-tempered Vaux” without cause—she wasn’t a female who worried unduly.
Which explained why she was there, appealing to him.
To the man she knew him to be.
One who had never been able to refuse her anything. Not even his heart.
She’d held his gaze steadily. Now she simply asked, in her low, raspy—seductive—voice, “Will you help?”