He closed his hand over hers on his sleeve, squeezed until she stopped her escalating rant and looked at him. When she did, he said in a perfectly even voice, “You’re feeling unwell. Come—I’ll take you home.”
Through the filmy veil she narrowed her eyes at him; her lips had firmed into a thin line.
He returned her gaze steadily; they both knew that if she remained in Lady Lachlan’s drawing room and continued in her present vein, she would risk reaching the stage where her temper slipped its leash and took over.
And they both knew how histrionically violent, how dramatic and sensational, the outcome was all but guaranteed to be.
She humphed, and looked across the room, locating their hostess. “Only because I can’t afford to create a scene at this moment, on this topic.”
“Indeed,” he replied dryly. “The ton really doesn’t need a demonstration of just how violent—verbally or otherwise—a Vaux can be.”
She humphed again, but consented to be led across the floor, to make her farewells, rather brittlely, to Lady Lachlan, then to walk with him into the front hall, where they waited while her carriage was fetched.
Although Letitia preserved a rigid silence, he knew that her temper, once aroused, wasn’t that easy to deflect. To douse. The Vaux temper didn’t respond to logic, reason, or control, not once a certain point was reached, a point she’d already passed. There were a few distractions that would work, but although one—the most effective—occurred to him, given their public location, it wasn’t a viable option.
When he handed her into the carriage and then sat beside her, he could sense the storm building within her, increasingly potent for being suppressed.
She waited until they’d started rolling to release it. “I can’t imagine why everyone—simply everyone—is being so willfully obtuse! Can’t they see…”
She ranted and raved, calling into question the mental acuity of a sizable portion of the ton, ruthlessly stripping bare their foibles, exposing all, the shallowness and jealousy, to a relentlessly clinical verbal dissection.
Much of what she said was correct. She was a highly intelligent observer of her world, and her memory for minor details of people’s lives was remarkable in its depth and clarity. He sat back and listened, knowing she needed nothing more than the occasional monosyllable from him.
The journey to South Audley Street wasn’t long enough for her to run down. As the carriage slowed, then halted before her—Randall’s—door, she cut off her tirade, hauled in a huge breath and held it. Let him hand her down and escort her up the steps and into the house without a word.
He followed her into the front parlor.
She halted, half turned and cast a rapier glance back, not at him but at Mellon. Randall’s butler plainly recognized the signs of an impending explosion; he’d paled and remained hovering in the hall, making no attempt to come closer.
“You may retire.” She spoke quietly, slowly, each word bitten off. “I require nothing more from you tonight.”
Under her gaze—one promising all manner of dramatic retribution should he remain an instant longer—Mellon paled even more, bowed and scurried away, his alacrity testifying to prior experience of such unvoiced threats.
The instant he disappeared, Letitia made a hissing sound; swinging around, she stalked back to the door, slammed it shut, then turned to Christian. “Did you see? Outside? That ghastly weasel of a runner is across the road, still keeping watch.”
Raising a hand, she ripped off her veil, along with the comb anchoring it. She flung it on a chair. “I’d like to strangle Mellon”—she curled her hands as if fastening them about the butler’s neck—“for visiting this whole nightmare upon us. Then again, he has the intellect of a flea. Presumably he can’t help being a dolt. Regardless, I don’t know where the authorities’ brains are—how they can countenance…”
She paced, ranted and raved. Hands were flung freely, skirts were kicked out of her way, fingers were wagged and stabbed for emphasis.
Christian stood in the center of the parlor and watched the show. As always, he was the rock, unaffected by the storm, while she was the lashing waves, the fury and tempest. She circled him, all fire and brimstone, lightning and raw emotion. He waited, knowing she’d talk herself to a standstill, or at least to a point where her mind
reasserted control and she refocused on the here and now.
He had time to study their surroundings. This was her room—the difference between it and the rest of the house, at least all the other reception rooms, was pronounced. This was Vaux territory, her domain, richly and sumptuously furnished, a feast for the senses. Two sofas faced each other across the fireplace; matching sofa tables across the back of each held large crystal vases filled with flowers. Other tables and two armchairs were arranged about the room. The candelabra and most ornaments were of gleaming silver. Silks and satins were the primary fabrics, the colors jeweled-toned blues and greens touched with gold—vivid and dramatic hues to create the perfect setting for a vivid and dramatic lady. The effect was of unabashed sensual luxury.
Yet her presence was restricted to this room. He wondered why.
Eventually she halted and frowned at the fabulous green and gold rug. Then she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes still sparked; her temper had yet to die. “And then there’s you.” Her lips curved, as cynical as he often was. “Playing your own game.” She swung closer, halting directly before him. She looked into his face, studied his eyes. “What have you learned?”
He arched one brow. Let a moment tick past before answering. “We finally found someone who saw Justin in his curricle in the early hours of the morning after Randall was killed. An ostler at an inn on the outskirts of the city—on the Dover Road.”
“Dover?” Looking down, she frowned. “There’s nothing at Dover.”
Other than the packet to Calais. Christian saw no value in stating the obvious.
She shook her head. “He won’t be going to Dover.”
Which, despite appearances to the contrary, was his—and Tristan’s—experienced conclusions. “We think he’s deliberately laying a trail to make it appear he fled the scene, and then the country.”