No turning back of the clocks, but a stepping forward onto the right path at last.
She now possessed the conviction she’d earlier lacked. Now she believed—in their future, in the resurrection of their dreams.
Glancing at him as, assured, at ease, he strolled beside her, she wondered when she’d find the courage, and the right moment, to broach the matter—their future—in words. She knew he was waiting, giving her time and space to find her own feet, to come to her own determination while simultaneously giving her ample, unstinting evidence of his regard for her.
He might not have said the words—not verbally—but given the sort of gentleman he was—a nobleman for whom vulnerability was a sin—expecting a declaration was unrealistic—and anyway, actions spoke much louder, much more surely and convincingly than any words.
Over the past twenty hours he’d convinced her.
She was the expert at setting a stage; she knew he’d been doing essentially that—constructing the position he wanted her to fill, and placing her in the role, presumably hoping she’d notice how well she fitted.
Her lips quirked. Last night had been all about that—and more. But what he perhaps hadn’t realized was that in setting his stage and playing his part, he’d naturally filled the opposing role.
And that, more than any other thing, had convinced her of how he felt for her—that in his own more reserved, more controlled way, he loved her as she loved him. He hadn’t been acting, not at any time; despite his past career, she wasn’t sure emotional subterfuge had any place among his talents. As a Vaux, she would know; she was the ultimate judge of emotional sincerity, and he hadn’t feigned a moment, not one word, not one response.
They were almost at Randall’s house. She mentally shook herself into the immediate present. “I won’t go out today.” Looking up, she caught Christian’s eyes. “You said you’d come and tell me all once you leave Roscoe’s.”
His hand closed over hers on his sleeve; he smiled reassuringly. “I will. You said you’d be waiting.”
She frowned as the situation with the company resurfaced fully in her mind. “I want to sell those gaming hells—at the very least sell my share of the company—as soon as possible. Quite aside from any threat of scandal—and what a scandal that would be, Lady Letitia Randall née Vaux as the owner of such properties—it’s—” She gestured with her free hand. “—offensive to me, deeply disturbing, to know that I own a share in an enterprise that exists to lead young men of the ton astray. I’ve seen too many ton families brought to grief over gambling debts. That I should be associated with a company that preys on others’ weaknesses…” She glanced up, met his eyes. “I want to divest myself of my inheritance from Randall as soon as it can be arranged.”
When she put it like that…Christian nodded. “I’ll make sure Roscoe understands that the sale is still on.”
“Good.”
They’d reached the steps to Randall’s door.
She halted, looked at him, then to his surprise she stretched up and lightly kissed him.
He responded, touched—caught—by the sweetness, the warmth.
She drew back. Her eyes searched his briefly—as if checking to see that he understood—then she smiled, softly mysterious, and stepped back. “Take care.”
Summoning every bit of sangfroid he possessed, he smiled in reply, squeezed her hand, then reluctantly let her go. He watched as she climbed the steps, opened the door and went in.
The instant the door closed, his smile spontaneously widened into a grin—one he couldn’t contain. Turning, he started back to his house.
Spying Barton’s red head, he waved—plunging the runner into a quandary over whether to respond, and if so, how.
Christian laughed at the consternation on Barton’s face. He picked up his pace, striding along jauntily. He was closing in on Randall’s killer—all his instincts said so—and Letitia would be waiting for him to return, safely at home under Barton’s unimaginative yet unwavering eye.
And she’d made her decision—the right decision.
Matters were definitely looking up. Triumph beckoned. Victory would soon be his.
Christian alighted from the hackney he, Dalziel, and Justin had taken from the Bastion Club, joining the other two on the pavement in Chichester Street, Pimlico. As the hackney rattled away, they all stood and surveyed the large white-painted mansion that was Neville Roscoe’s residence; overlooking Dolphin Square, it was an imposing sight.
Yet there was nothing overdone about it. The house was a simple statement of solid wealth and permanence, a description that fitted the owner as well.
They trooped up the steps and rang the bell.
The butler was expecting them; he led them through halls and corridors that could very easily have graced any of their houses. Opening a door at the end of one wing, he announced them, then stepped back, allowing them to enter an airy, excellently proportioned room, well-lit by long windows and elegantly furnished as a gentleman’s study.
Tall bookcases were built into one wall. Pedestals bearing a set of superb busts stood between the windows. A large mahogany desk, its lines clean and precise, dominated the room. Various furniture polished to a lustrous gleam, green leather upholstery, brass lamps and two spindle-legged side tables completed the decor.
That the gentleman who rose from the chair behind the wide expanse of the desk belonged in such refined surrounds no one could doubt.
Neville Roscoe was an enigma. He was rumored to be the scion of a minor branch of one of the major ton houses, although no one had ever identified which. Roscoe almost certainly wasn’t the surname he’d been born with. Tall, with the same aristocratic features that marked all of them as descended from one or another of William’s nobles, long limbed and rangy, blessed with an athletic physique and the muscles to match, after a cursory glance at Christian, who he’d met before, and a curious glance for Justin, who he hadn’t, Roscoe fixed his dark gaze on Dalziel.