Stephanie Laurens - The Edge of Desire

She’d also sent one of Christian’s grooms into Surrey with a letter for Mrs. Swithin confirming the business of the Orient Trading Company and the desirability of a sale, and the consequent need for a written agreement. She had received by reply the requested agreement, along with a declaration from Swithin’s solicitor, who had, most fortuitously, been in Surrey dealing with Swithin’s affairs.

So all was in readiness to effect the sale.

Roscoe appeared; he literally darkened the doorway. With his close-cropped dark hair, dark clothes, and cynical, dark blue eyes, he looked the epitome of a dangerous character. With an inclination of his head, he moved past Percival and approached them; he walked with the same, arrogant, faintly menacing stride Dalziel employed. Not so much an intentional affectation as an expression of what, underneath the sophisticated glamour, they really were.

As he neared, she saw that Roscoe was as tall as Christian, but not quite as large, as heavy, his build more rangy, but in no way less lethal for that.

Christian extended his hand.

Roscoe quirked a brow-apparently at being accorded the courtesy-but gripped and shook nonetheless. “Good evening.”

It was after ten o’clock.

Christian inclined his head. “Thank you for coming.” He turned to her. “Allow me to present Lady Letitia.” He left out the Randall, she was quite sure deliberately.

Letitia gave Roscoe her hand, smiled as she looked into his face…and barely felt his fingers close about hers.

Barely heard his proper, “Lady Randall,” barely registered the rumble of his deep voice or his perfectly executed bow.

She knew, looking into his eyes, that she’d met him before-long ago, when they’d been in their teens.

She let her smile widen, and sensed his wariness grow. “I believe we’ve met before, Mr. Roscoe, although I can’t at the moment recall where. But then I expect you would rather I didn’t recall at all, so perhaps”-retrieving her hand from his suddenly slack grasp, she waved to the armchair opposite the chaise-“we should get down to business before I do.”

Roscoe cast Christian a look, then moved to comply.

Still smiling delightedly, Letitia sat and promptly took charge of the negotiations.

Much to Roscoe’s disquiet.

Realizing that the threat of her knowledge of his identity, plus the inherent difficulty a man like Roscoe faced in negotiating business with a female of Letitia’s class, played heavily into her hands-and that she was supremely well-qualified to capitalize on the fact-Christian sat back and left her to it.

She did well, extracting both a higher price and more favorable payment terms than Roscoe had expected to have to concede; that much was clear from the irritation that briefly shone in his dark eyes.

But he took it well.

When, all the details thrashed out and agreed upon, the written agreements from Trowbridge and Mrs. Swithin tendered and accepted, they all rose and Roscoe shook Letitia’s hand, there was a reluctantly admiring glint in his eyes. “I’ll have my man of business draw up the contract in conjunction with…” Roscoe cocked a brow at Christian. “…Montague?”

Christian nodded. “He’s under instruction to take over the management of Lady Letitia’s affairs.”

Roscoe’s lips quirked. “Naturally.” He looked at Letitia, hesitated, then said, “I understand felicitations are in order.” He bowed, inherently graceful. “Please accept mine.”

Letitia glowed. “Thank you.”

Straightening, Roscoe met her eyes. “And don’t try too hard to remember our previous meeting.”

She waved airily. “I doubt I’ll have time, what with all else that’s going on.”

“Good.” With that dry comment, Roscoe turned to Christian; this time he spontaneously held out his hand. “Dearne.”

Christian gripped his hand, entirely content with how the meeting had gone. “Come-I’ll walk you out.”

Roscoe bowed again to Letitia, then fell into step beside Christian as he headed for the door. While Christian opened it, Roscoe glanced back-at Letitia settling on the chaise to await Christian’s return.

Then he turned and went through the door.

As they passed down the corridors and into the front hall, Christian was aware of Roscoe glancing about-not so much taking note as breathing in the ambience. “Do you ever think you’ll return to”-he gestured about them-“tonnish life?”

Roscoe didn’t immediately reply. When they reached the front door, he turned and faced Christian. “Much as I might envy you the life you now have, I long ago realized it wasn’t in the cards for me.”

There was a finality in his tone that closed the subject.

Roscoe accepted his cane from Percival, then, when that worthy opened the door, nodded to Christian and went out into the night.

Christian watched him go, saw him disappear into the gloom before Percival shut the door. He stared unseeing at the panels for a minute more, then recalling all that awaited him in the smaller drawing room, he smiled, turned, and strolled back to embrace it.

And her. The love of his life and, God willing, the mother of his children.

Letitia’s second marriage was in no way the travesty her first had been. Consequently, their wedding was every bit as massive, noisy, and full of life as Christian had foreseen.

He didn’t mind in the least. Looking around the huge ballroom of Nunchance Priory, noting the sheer exuberance that held sway, he gave thanks that he and Letitia had won through to this, that the years and fate hadn’t bound them, chained them, to lesser existences.

To an existence apart.

He glanced at her, radiant and so vitally vibrant beside him, her dark hair gleaming, the Allardyce diamonds glittering about her throat and depending from her ears, the simple gold band he’d placed on her finger mere hours ago the only ornament she wore on her slim digits. Her long, slender frame was encased in silk the color of the palest pink rose; the scent of jasmine rose from her alabaster skin.

There was, however, an incipient frown in her eyes, a slight line between her brows.

Before he could ask, she volunteered, “That wretch Dalziel isn’t here.”

“He’s never attended any of our weddings. Didn’t the other ladies tell you?”

“They did, but given the timing, his absence today is, in my opinion, taking the whole thing simply too far.”

He hesitated, then asked, “What thing?”

She looked at him, then shook her head. “Never mind. You’ll learn all about it soon enough-any day, as it happens.”

Any day?

Christian knew well enough that he would get no more from her. Jack Warnefleet had confirmed that his wife, Lady Clarice, also knew exactly who Dalziel was. The others, including Jack Hendon, who like the rest of them had become obsessed with learning Dalziel’s true identity, had grumbled and admitted they now believed all their wives knew the truth-and none of them would say. Regardless of the persuasion, the interrogation tactics employed.

That they’d worked so closely with the man for the past decade and more yet still didn’t know his identity irked. Yet it appeared that all the ladies of the ton had colluded in keeping Dalziel’s secret.

“Which is frankly amazing,” Tony later remarked, when Christian, having left Letitia chatting with her cousins, joined the other club members. “There are so many inveterate gossips, you’d swear at least one would be unable to resist whispering his name, but no. On that one subject, total silence reigns.”

The others all grumped, and sipped their wine. They’d gathered just like this at each successive wedding, to toast the man fallen and fix their sights on the next one to go. This time, however, there were no more club members left unwed; consequently their thoughts turned to their ex-commander, who had become an all but formally declared ex-officio member.