Stephanie Laurens - The Edge of Desire

But to Christian’s relief, he said nothing more.

Transferring his attention to the maps, Tristan asked, “Where have you searched so far?”

Christian told him.

After some discussion, pooling their contacts they organized a network of more detailed inquiries, effectively drawing a tight circle around London. After dispatching Gasthorpe’s messengers, Christian surveyed the map and their lists with grim satisfaction. “That, at least, should tell us whether he’s left town, or has gone to ground somewhere within our circle.”

Tristan met his gaze. “You think he’s hiding?”

Christian nodded. “Yes, I do. What I don’t know is why.”

That evening, Letitia attended a select soiree at the home of Lady Lachlan, one of her multitude of connections. A family gathering, more or less. Garbed all in black with a filmy veil shading her features, she relentlessly projected the stance she wished to establish-that while she would pay all due observance to the ton’s sensibilities regarding mourning dress, that while she would not dance, nor indulge in any other form of entertainment, she had absolutely no intention of hiding herself away.

Aside from all else, hiding herself away wouldn’t help Justin.

Events such as this provided her only real opportunity to gauge what the gentlemen of the ton thought. Unfortunately, as she quickly discovered, they, one and all, had followed the ladies’ lead.

“Dreadful business,” Sir Henry Winthrop, a distant cousin, opined. “Can’t think what got into Justin’s head.”

“ Justin’s head?” Letitia looked perplexed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Sir Henry blinked, then smiled avuncularly and patted her wrist. “I don’t suppose you do, m’dear. Not the sort of thing a gentlewoman should think about, heh?”

Before she could disabuse him of that ludicrous notion, he was hailed by someone from across the room; excusing himself, he left her side.

The younger gentlemen were even worse.

“That temper, you know. Always thought it would get the better of him one day.” That from a Lachlan acquaintance.

The reply, from Mr. Kenneally, an Irishman known for his dissolute ways, “I heard he can be quite ferocious when roused. No holding him,” left Letitia literally speechless.

When Christian unexpectedly appeared by her side, she fell on him as the only safe outlet for her increasing ire.

“They’re making Justin sound like a madman!” Facing Christian, she fought to keep her voice down. “The way they’re talking, it’s as if the infamous Vaux temper is an affliction. A prelude to insanity!”

Christian eyed her cynically. “The family, you included, have been perfectly content to be known as the vile-tempered Vaux for generations. You can’t expect people to suddenly forget.”

She sent him a glittering glance. “You know we’re not that bad.”

“Yes. But then I know the Vaux rather well.” The subtle emphasis he placed on the latter words might have had her blushing, but through the veil he couldn’t tell. “It was your great-grandfather who started it, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, and he truly was a bona fide terror. From the stories my grandfather related, he must have had the most vicious tongue known to man. Not that my grandfather was all that much better, but by all accounts he was an improvement. My father, as you know, could never be described as a comfortable person, but no matter how verbally violent we might be, we’re not-never have been- physically dangerous.”

“Except when you throw things.”

“We never throw things at people, and our aim is good. You can’t ask for more.” She dragged in a breath. “But none of that-the truth-seems to matter!”

Clutching his sleeve, she swung around and pointed at a youthful gentleman. “Do you know what Finley Courtauld said?”

Through her grip on his arm, Christian sensed just how strung up she was. She proceed to relate numerous comments either made to her or that she’d overheard, all confirming the ton’s solidifying belief that Justin Vaux had, in a fit of the famous-or infamous-Vaux temper, beaten his brother-in-law to death.

Her own temper was not just showing but spiraling-to a dangerous degree.

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.”