The Edge of Desire (Bastion Club 7)

But there was nothing at all vague in the sharp hazel eyes that met his.

The earl inclined his head; his expression was relaxed but his eyes were watchful. “Christian, my boy—good to see you again.”

Christian half bowed. “Sir.”

Lord Vaux studied him, increasingly intent. They exchanged a few words about Christian’s aunts, then the earl waved him to a chair to one side of the desk. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, heh?”

Christian sat, his gaze skating over the papers scattered across the long desk. Most appeared to be rough notes, others looked more like treatises, extensively annotated and overwritten. He returned his gaze to Lord Vaux’s face. “I’m unsure how much you’ve heard from London, sir, but I believe Letitia informed you of her husband’s murder.”

Lord Vaux nodded, his gaze increasingly sharp. “She did. And I’ve since heard that some have cast my son as the murderer.”

Christian inclined his head. “Unfortunately, that ‘some’ encompasses the better part of the ton, and, I believe, the authorities.”

“Nonsense!” Lord Vaux scowled. “My son may be many things, but a murderer he is not.”

“Indeed. However, it appears Justin has deliberately cast himself as the most likely candidate.” Christian smoothly went on, “I understand you and he have had a falling out.”

When he waited, pointedly polite, for some response, the earl’s eyes sparked and his lips thinned. Eventually he barked, “We don’t speak. That’s common knowledge. The why concerns no one but ourselves. What’s that got to do with Randall’s death?”

Christian inclined his head placatingly, hiding his surprise at the strong undercurrent of bitterness in Lord Vaux’s voice. “I have no idea. However, I believe you should know…” Sticking strictly to what he knew for fact, he outlined what he’d discovered and why he’d concluded that Justin had acted as he had to divert suspicion from Letitia.

As he spoke, Lord Vaux’s bitterness receded, but his scowl grew darker. He did not, Christian noted, find Justin’s supposition of Letitia’s guilt of sufficient note to comment. Indeed, his lordship followed and accepted his son’s logic without protest.

Christian ended his recital with a summation of their lack of success in locating Justin. Somewhat to his surprise, Lord Vaux’s expression turned thoughtful; he cast a quick, surreptitious glance at a bookcase across the room. From the corner of his eye, Christian saw a gap—a space where a tome was missing from the regimented row.

There were books aplenty lying on various tables and chairs around the room, but he would have taken an oath that Lord Vaux knew where every single volume in his extensive library was—except for the missing book.

Remembering the book left open on the table in Randall’s library, Christian longed to ask if the missing work was Seneca’s Letters from a Stoic, but he was as yet unsure—all personal feuds aside—just where Lord Vaux stood when it came to protecting his son.

Indeed, once he’d reached the end of his report, Lord Vaux regarded him with a wary, faintly suspicious air. “If I might ask, just how did you come to be drawn into this, Dearne?”

Not his name, but his title. Christian held his lordship’s hard gaze. “Letitia, realizing—correctly, as it transpired—that Justin was going to be the prime suspect, appealed to me for help in proving his innocence.”

“She did?” That information had Lord Vaux regarding him in an entirely different light; hope, along with blatant interest and curiosity, now colored his tone.

Although he’d never formally spoken, never asked for Letitia’s hand, his interest in her had been common knowledge twelve years before. “Indeed.” Studiously bland, Christian continued, “She and I have been working together, both to locate Justin and, as I believe will become increasingly necessary, to discover who killed Randall.” He considered his now relaxed host. “Apropos of the former, I thought it might be useful to visit here and ask if you have any idea where Justin might be.”

The earl’s eyes started to shift toward the gap on the shelves, but he suppressed the impulse. He fixed his gaze on Christian. “No.” His gaze remained steady and direct. “I have absolutely no notion where my son might be.”

He was telling the literal truth, but, as Christian now did, he suspected his son and heir was somewhere close by. At the very least he’d dropped in on his way to wherever he’d gone.

Christian felt certain Justin hadn’t gone far. “I fear that you might shortly hear some rather distressing reports from the capital.”

“Faugh!” Reverting to his usual Vaux temperament, the earl pulled a face and made a dismissive gesture, conveying his absolute contempt for such reports. “I’ve friends in the capital—I know what’s being said. Absolute poppycock! The very notion…”

Christian inwardly smiled, and settled back to enjoy his lordship’s more colorful side.

When Lord Vaux realized he wasn’t in the least perturbed by his blunt and in some cases rather strong language, the earl relaxed even more and continued his rant, encouraged by having an appreciative audience.

Christian listened and learned; his lordship had much the same style of temper as Letitia and, if his memory proved correct, Justin—sharp, incisive, informed by a ruthless ability to see beneath most people’s surfaces. It seemed increasingly obvious that the earl cherished his scholarly life and had used his supposedly infamous temper to protect his privacy. And still did. Ruthlessly and relentlessly, with a full measure of Vaux stubbornness.

He eventually ran down, appearing oddly energized from having vented so much spleen on the distant ton. He eyed Christian approvingly. “A great pity you and Letitia didn’t tie the knot all those years ago. But…well, water under the bridge, I suppose.” He looked down, and with one liver-spotted hand, shuffled his papers.

When Christian made no comment, the earl glanced at the windows, beyond which the shadows had started to lengthen. He looked at Christian. “I would take it kindly if you would consent to dine with me—and remain for the night, of course. I don’t get many visitors.” He snorted. “Well, the plain truth of it is I neither encourage nor abide many visitors, but you’d be doing me a favor if you would stay—Hightsbury and the rest of them worry so when I go for long periods without speaking with anyone. Must be…well, weeks since anyone called.”

Christian muted his grin to an easy smile of acceptance. “I’d be delighted to join you. Better than driving back to Dearne in the dark.”

“Indeed. Precisely. Obviously you should stay.” That settled, the earl pointed to a bellpull on the wall. “Ring that, would you? Hightsbury will show you to a room. Tell him we’ll dine at seven.”