“Perhaps,” Christian suggested, “there’s some reason that, for someone, a delay in the sale was desirable.”
Gallagher shrugged, a faint movement of his massive shoulders. “Could be, but if that’s the case, I ain’t heard nothing about it.”
Christian hesitated, then asked, “Do you know anything more that’s pertinent to this subject?”
Gallagher thought, then shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. Randall wasn’t one of us. He was on the upper end of things, like Roscoe. Never anything actually illegal, but they’re both on our fringes, which is why we keep a weather eye on them and their doings.” Gallagher smiled, not a pretty sight. “Just in case. But I’m thinking that when it comes to Randall, Roscoe would know more.”
“Very possibly.” Christian glanced at the others, collecting them. “We’ll leave you, then. Thank you for your time.”
“And me knowledge.” Gallagher’s eyes sharpened. “If you want to keep me sweet, you send word when you learn who killed Randall, and even more important, if the widow and those other two agree to sell. If Roscoe’s going to grow twice as big, twice as powerful, I want to know.”
Christian nodded as he ducked through the doorway. “I’ll send word when I know for certain.”
It was after midnight when Christian let himself into his house. The large mansion was quiet, peaceful and serene; moonlight pooled on the tiles of the front hall, falling through the multifaceted skylight far above.
Aware of the quiet luxury of his home, yet even more aware of what it lacked, Christian snuffed the candle Percival had left burning and in the moonlit dark slowly climbed the stairs, wondering if he’d made a tactical error.
If he shouldn’t, instead, be climbing a set of stairs in South Audley Street.
Yet he wanted Letitia to realize that he wanted more than the merely physical from her, with her…and if he were honest, he’d wanted her to feel a tiny portion of the need, the driving compulsive need, he felt for her. So he’d grasped the chance of a night apart in the hope it would spur her to think more of him and her, and of becoming his wife.
The marquess’s apartments were on the first floor, opposite the head of the stairs. Walking around the gallery, he opened the door that led directly into his bedroom.
Despite the fact that the room was huge, he instantly knew someone else was there—in the same heartbeat knew who it was.
Almost disbelieving, wishing he’d brought the candle up after all, he stepped into the room and silently shut the door.
His night vision was excellent but he didn’t need it to locate her; all his senses seemed to lock on her, helplessly drawn.
She lay in his bed, sleeping.
On silent feet he crossed the large room, shrugging off his greatcoat and laying it on a chair along the way.
Drawing near the bed, he slowed. Halting at one corner, he looked down at her.
She lay sprawled under the covers, her dark hair splayed in a silken wave across his pillows.
Exactly where he wanted her to be.
Where he wanted her to sleep for the rest of her life.
His gaze was drawn by a glimmer across the room—silk shimmering in a stray beam of moonlight. Through the darkness he saw, laid on a chair, a black gown the color of night, a froth of ivory petticoats, two black garters, two neatly folded black stockings, and the gossamer-fine drape of her silk chemise.
Not only was she lying in his bed, she was lying in his bed naked.
The realization had its inevitable effect, yet for long moments he stood silently and watched her, simply because he could. Savoring that he could.
Eventually he turned away and quietly undressed. He didn’t hurry, deeply aware—to his bones aware—that he didn’t need to; she was there—he had all night to absorb the simple pleasure of having her in his bed.
His bed.
That was something quite different—and he couldn’t believe she wouldn’t have realized that. Wouldn’t have known how finding her as she was, waiting for him, would affect him.
She might have come to his house because she was impatient to learn what he’d discovered, but that wouldn’t have placed her naked in his bed. Being there…consciously or not so terribly consciously, she was, in her own Vaux way, telling him something.
But tonight he didn’t want to dwell too much on that, on what decision if any she’d actually made.
Tonight was for embracing the simple fact that he would have her in his bed, in his arms all night. That for at least that long, his dream would be reality.