The Edge of Desire (Bastion Club 7)

Climbing the steps, the woman paused, hunting in her bag, then she drew out a key, unlocked the door and went inside.

Ducking his head, the giant followed, then the door shut.

On the opposite side of the street, Christian stopped, drawing Letitia to a halt beside him. She regarded the green door. “Well, then, let’s go in and speak with her.”

Christian clamped his hand about her wrist and remained where he was. He studied the building in question. “It’s not a shop—and there’s nothing to suggest it’s an office of any kind. No sign, no plaque by the door.”

Letitia looked at the building, then shrugged. “Perhaps she just lives there. With the giant.”

And perhaps it was a high-class brothel, which in this area was perfectly possible. If it was, Christian certainly wasn’t going to escort Lady Letitia Randall née Vaux in to speak with the madam. “I think we should go back to South Audley Street.”

He tried to draw her on, but she dug in her heels and refused to budge.

She stared at him. “Why? We’ve followed them here—we know they’re in there. Why can’t we just go and ask them what they’re paying the Orient Trading Company, of which I own a third share, for?”

He set his jaw. “I’ll come back and ask them—but you can’t.”

Locking his fingers about her wrist, he tried again to draw her on; this time she pulled back—to the limit of his arm.

“Nonsense!” She glared at him. “I saw that woman—she’s perfectly respectable. And if you think I’m going to wait any longer to learn what my devil of a late husband was up to—what he’s saddled me with—you’re wrong!”

She turned her arm sharply outward and broke his hold—then she streaked away, racing across the street. She reached the door, grabbed the knocker and hammered it down once before he caught her and lifted her from her feet—

A little window in the door flew open.

Gritting his teeth, Christian put her down. She tugged her bodice down, sent him a scorching glance, then turned to the window and smiled.

Whoever was behind the little window rumbled, “The mistress isn’t interested in any pamphlets or good works.”

Letitia’s smile didn’t waver. “That’s just as well, as I haven’t any to offer her. I—” She glanced over her shoulder at Christian, then turned back to the eyes she could see through the little window. “—we wish to speak with the lady who entered a few minutes ago. You may tell her Lady Randall requests a few minutes of her time.”

The instant she said “Randall,” a strange look came into the blue eyes watching her. A moment passed, then the little window shut and they heard bolts being drawn back. The door swung open, held by a large man who appeared to be masquerading as a butler. “Indeed, ma’am,” he intoned in a passable imitation of Percival’s authority. “If you’ll just come this way?”

His bow left something to be desired, but with a regal inclination of her head, Letitia consented to follow him down the hall, Christian behind her. To her surprise, the man didn’t conduct her into any of the rooms to either side; as they passed the open doorways, she glanced in and saw what appeared to be salons, yet there was something not quite right about the furniture, and the curtains were all still drawn.

There was also a curious smell, as if someone had spilled brandy on a rug.

The butler continued into a corridor and all the way to its end; there, he opened a door and bowed them through.

“If you’ll wait in here, ma’am—my lady—I’ll fetch the mistress. She’ll be along in a moment.”

Letitia walked in to what appeared to be a cross between a study and an office. A heavy desk sat squarely in the center of the room, with another smaller desk against one wall, a bookcase filled with boxes and files beside it. Two chairs faced the larger desk; glancing around, she moved to one and sat.

Although old and undistinguished, everything was clean and neat.

The butler whisked out of the door, closing it behind him.

She glanced at Christian—and found him surveying the room.

Christian drifted to the bookcase, glanced at the labels on the boxes. Uninformative. He looked at the desk, wondered if he had time to search…decided against it.

Letitia shifted on the chair, drawing his attention; she was sitting upright, unusually prim. She caught his eye. “This isn’t a brothel, is it?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.” But he’d wager the place provided some form of entertainment for wealthy gentlemen; he’d recognized the odors of tobacco and spilled brandy, recognized the decor in the rooms they’d passed.

Footsteps tap-tapped down the corridor—a woman’s heels, rapidly approaching. They halted outside the door; a whispered conference ensued, too muted for them to make out any words.

Christian stepped between Letitia and the door.