The Edge of Desire

Chapter 18

The next morning, as he’d promised, Christian woke Letitia in plenty of time to walk her back to South Audley Street before their respective households stirred. As they strolled arm in arm through the pearly predawn light, she wondered at the serenity, the tranquility, that held her.

The certainty. The blissful conviction.

Yesterday…rather than dismiss her fears for his safety as irrational, and therefore inconsequential, he’d accepted them. Even though he hadn’t stated it, unlike most men of their class he’d acknowledged her feelings as a consequence of her regard for him, and dealt with her and them on that basis.

Although she hadn’t intended it, that moment had been a test-one he’d passed with flying colors. If they were to have a future together, then him accepting her and her love as it was-fears and all-was crucial.

That moment in Green Park, she felt, had been a sign.

As for what followed…from the moment he’d joined her in his aunt’s drawing room to now, the past night had possessed an almost dreamlike quality. Standing by his side at an event like the dinner, then leaving with him and returning to his house, his bed-all of it had been just as she’d imagined, just as she’d dreamed long ago.

Not one moment, not one word, had marred the match between expectation and reality.

But this was now, no long-ago dream.

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.

The only obvious difference between the two men was that Roscoe wore his dark hair in a close crop, while Dalziel’s sat in elegant waves about his head.

Watching the pair take stock of each other, Christian hid a wry grin. “I believe you haven’t previously met. Dalziel. Neville Roscoe.”

After an instant’s hesitation, both inclined their heads, the action eerily similar.

Roscoe transferred his attention to Justin. “And this, I take it, is Lord Justin Vaux.”

Justin politely inclined his head.

Roscoe didn’t offer to shake hands; he waved them to the three substantial chairs set before the desk.

Christian knew Roscoe’s history. He’d appeared in London about a decade earlier, and had made his fortune much as Randall had, although in Roscoe’s case he’d had no truck with secrecy-that wasn’t his style. The other difference was that, while Randall had worked to come up in the world, Roscoe had patently, and very deliberately, stepped down from whatever his base within the aristocracy was to run a string of select gambling hells. He was a superb card player, was known to have won fortunes, yet rarely lost more than modest amounts. Even by the ton’s jaded standards, he was a gamester extraordinaire. Yet although he was now very wealthy, rather than attempt to rejoin the ton-something he most likely could do with reasonable ease-he continued to eschew society. Indeed, he lived a very private life.

One of the few concessions he made to his true station was his surroundings; he lived in luxury, and the way he moved within the elegance of his house verified beyond doubt that that was, indeed, the milieu to which he’d been born.

He sat as they did, then arched his brows. “And how may I help you, gentlemen?”

“At this stage,” Christian replied, “we’re interested in information about the proposed sale of the Orient Trading Company. We’ve been led to believe you were hoping to be the buyer.”

Roscoe’s eyes were watchful. “And what’s your interest in the sale?”

“I’m acting for Lady Letitia Randall née Vaux, Randall’s widow.” Christian waved at Justin. “Lord Vaux is here as her surrogate.”

Roscoe’s gaze flicked to Justin. “The one with a warrant sworn against him for Randall’s murder?” His gaze shifted to Dalziel. “But of course, you’d know that.”

“Indeed,” Dalziel replied. “We also know someone else murdered Randall.”

Roscoe’s brows rose. That was news to him.

“We’re currently pursuing the avenue,” Christian smoothly went on, “that Randall was murdered because of the proposed sale.”

Roscoe met his eyes, then dropped all pretense of nonchalance; leaning his forearms on the desk, eyes narrowing, he was suddenly all business. “If that’s the case, obviously the murderer wasn’t me.”

Christian inclined his head. “Just so. But we need to learn all we can about the proposed sale in order to identify those most affected-at present there’s possibilities aplenty as to who might actually have done the deed.”

Roscoe’s gaze turned inward.

They waited.

“First,” he eventually said, his gaze lowering to fix on his hands, clasped on the desk, “I should clarify that, as matters stand, at some point I would, almost certainly, have made an offer for the Orient Trading Company-an offer Randall and his partners wouldn’t have been able to refuse.” Lifting his gaze, Roscoe met Dalziel’s eyes, then looked at Christian. “Randall and the others had worked diligently to establish themselves. They’d come a long way.”

“All the way from Hexham,” Christian said.

Roscoe smiled; that had indeed been the information he’d been probing for. “You discovered that, did you?”

“Indeed. And you?” Christian asked.

“Only recently.” Roscoe met Dalziel’s eyes. “I make it a point of learning all I can about those I propose to do business with.”

“So you approached Randall?” Dalziel continued the interrogation.

Roscoe shook his head. “I would have eventually-there’s many who’ll tell you that. But I didn’t have to make overtures. Randall came to me-or rather, he let it be known in the right quarters that he and his partners were interested in selling the Orient Trading Company, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“There were other potential buyers,” Dalziel remarked.

“True, but none with pockets as deep as mine. And I was prepared to pay well-acquiring the company was always a part of my long-term strategy.”

Christian could well imagine it. And there were few who would or could effectively stand in Roscoe’s way. Although the acquisition and the merging of the company’s gaming hells with his own would make him extremely powerful, as Gallagher had intimated, even the underworld czars would nod and let him be. Roscoe was regarded as a stabilizing influence at the interface between legal and illegal activities. He refused to allow any underhanded practices in his establishments, and by and large, all was kept strictly aboveboard.

He held no truck with crime, and with his views so widely known-and so rigidly enforced-even the czars preferred the devil they knew, even if he marched to a beat not their own.

“Apropos of which”-Roscoe’s dark eyes turned to Christian-“I’m willing to tell you all I know about Randall’s proposed sale in return for an agreement to be presented, at the appropriate time, to the new owner and the other two partners, as Randall’s chosen buyer.”

Christian held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “We’re prepared to give you an assurance to that effect.”

Roscoe inclined his head. “Very well. On that basis…in response to Randall’s fishing for buyers, I contacted him by letter. He came here…” Roscoe paused, then went on, “It was two days before his death. We discussed the sale-he’d had offers from others, Edson, Plummer, and Gammon, that I’m sure of, but none of them would take all the properties. They each wanted only certain ones, and there was overlap, so, quite aside from the price, if Randall went with any of them, things were going to get messy. So he and I sat and talked-we worked out an offer that satisfied us both. I agreed to take the entire company for a price he thought reasonable. Once the others heard I wanted the whole company, they would back off. Any further interest from them would only result in Randall making more, and while there’s no love lost between them and me, there was even less goodwill for Randall-essentially because he pretended to be something he wasn’t.”

“We’ve heard you had conditions,” Christian said, “and that you and he hadn’t yet shaken on the deal.”

Roscoe nodded. “I had two conditions Randall had to meet before I was prepared to do more than talk. The first is an obvious one-I wanted to see the books from each of the hells. I’m sure that wouldn’t have been a problem. The other condition was one peculiar to the situation.” Roscoe met Christian’s eyes. “As I’m sure you’ve discovered, Randall was the active partner of the three. Because of that…” Roscoe paused as if considering, then continued. “…and because of another piece of information which I suspect I was one of the few privy to, I asked Randall to provide a signed written statement from each of his partners to the effect that they were willing to sell their shares at this time.”

Trowbridge’s written statement. “Why insist on that,” Christian asked, “and what was the piece of information?”

Roscoe tapped a finger on his blotter. “I insisted primarily because I don’t have partners. I don’t have time for them-having any sort of partner would slow me down and generally get in my way. Although the Orient Trading Company is structured so it’s supposedly all or none for any sale to proceed, there’s ways around that, namely for the buyer-me-to take on one of their partners as my partner in a new company. That wasn’t going to happen. I made it clear I was only interested in acquiring the Orient Trading Company if I could buy it outright.”

“So it was all the shares in one deal, or no deal?” Dalziel asked.

“Just so.” Roscoe paused, then went on, “Obviously I would have asked Randall for those declarations anyway, but the reason I haven’t bothered to make any appointment with my bankers regarding the deal is because…well, frankly, I had serious doubts it would proceed.”

Justin’s eyes had narrowed. “You thought one of the other two wouldn’t sell?”

Roscoe nodded. “I made my offer for the company primarily to ensure it wasn’t sold to anyone else.” He paused, then went on, “That piece of information I mentioned came to me in a roundabout way. I was approached about an investment-it sounded an excellent prospect, but instinct reared its head and at the last I didn’t buy in. Naturally I kept an eye on what happened. The investment was a swindle, a very sophisticated one but a swindle just the same. Everyone who’d invested lost every penny they’d put in.”

“Swithin,” Christian guessed.

Roscoe met his gaze. “He was mentioned as one of the principal investors. The gentlemen behind the scheme specifically targeted the knowledgeable investors-they courted us, pandered to our vanity. That was what made me suspicious, but in Swithin’s case it apparently played into his hubris. His reputation went to his head, and he risked…a very great deal.”

“So, he’s what?” Justin asked. “Ruined?”

“No, but my sources suggest he’s very close to it, and he’s taking extreme care to hide the fact. He knows money, how to move it around, how to practice sleight of hand with it to conceal his state. But he’s already liquidated most of his other investments, and even his new wife’s portion is gone. He still owns two houses, one in London and one in Surrey, but when it comes to cash, he’d be lucky to lay his hands on two pennies to rub together.”

“But,” Dalziel said, “if he needs money so desperately, wouldn’t that make him more likely to sell, rather than less?”

Roscoe shook his head. “You’re forgetting what the Orient Trading Company is-it’s a cash-generating machine. Swithin has liquidated all the assets he can that don’t show. He desperately needs more cash, but he can’t sell his houses without people knowing-and if it becomes common knowledge that he-the canny, wily investor-was ruined by some smooth-talking swindlers, his reputation as a man to go to for investment deals will evaporate. His standing in the ton will be gone.”

Glancing at their faces, Roscoe went on, “My guess is that Swithin is counting on-banking on, if you will-the steady income from the Orient Trading Company to keep him afloat. If the company is sold and he gets his third share, it won’t be enough to cover his debts and generate any future income. But the company has always been a gold mine, and with that steady income behind him, he can go to a bank and take out a loan to cover his shortfall-the bank will look at the company’s income and happily agree.”

Roscoe leaned back in his chair. “What I suspect, gentlemen, is that Swithin is down to his last penny and was preparing make that trip to the bank when Randall proposed selling the company. My understanding is that the three partners weren’t close, so Randall’s tack might well have come as a complete shock to Swithin, and given Randall was sitting in my office discussing the sale, it seemed Swithin hadn’t shared his situation with his partners. My request for a written statement from Trowbridge and Swithin would, I reasoned, force Swithin to tell Randall and Trowbridge of his difficulties, and that would be the last we’d hear of any sale, at least in the short term.”

He met Christian’s eyes. “All that said, I have no idea if Swithin killed Randall. I honestly can’t see why he would have-Randall and Trowbridge couldn’t have forced him to sell. However, I know he had a very good reason for not wanting to sell his share of the Orient Trading Company.”

Christian exchanged a glance with Dalziel and Justin, then looked back at Roscoe. “You’ve been a great help.”

They all got to their feet. Christian held out a hand. After a fractional hesitation-one induced by surprise-Roscoe gripped it.

Dalziel’s lips quirked; he nodded to Roscoe. Justin opted to shake the man’s hand.

Roscoe remained standing behind his desk while they walked to the door. As they reached it, he said, “Dearne, Vaux-you will remember our agreement. When all this is over, I’ll still want to buy.” His lips lifted slightly. “And I daresay the lady will want to sell.”

Justin nodded. Christian raised a hand in salute and followed Dalziel out of the door.

In South Audley Street, Letitia tried to keep her mind occupied, without much success. Hermione had been invited to a morning tea at Lady Hamilton’s town house, to meet with her ladyship’s daughters; Agnes had gone with her, leaving the house unhelpfully quiet.

Too restless to sit, Letitia drifted about her front parlor, repositioning ornaments, straightening curtains.

When Mellon entered to announce that Swithin had called to see her, she all but fell on his neck. “Yes-please show him in here, Mellon.”

She walked to one of the sofas and stood before it. When Swithin entered, she smiled. “Mr. Swithin.”

He came forward, politely grave. Taking the hand she offered, he bowed. “Lady Randall. I hope I see you well and that this time is convenient. Albeit belatedly, I wanted to pay my respects and convey my most sincere condolences on poor Randall’s death.”

“Thank you, Mr. Swithin.” With a wave, Letitia invited him to sit on the opposing sofa, and sank onto its mate. “Will you take tea?”

Swithin assented. Letitia rose, tugged the bellpull, then returned to the sofa. Mellon appeared almost instantly; while they waited for him to return with the tea tray, Swithin and she exchanged idle comments on the weather.

Once Mellon had reappeared with the tray and Letitia had poured and handed Swithin his cup, she raised her own, sipped, then said, “If you will, I would appreciate hearing any memories of my late husband you feel able to share. It seems I didn’t know him well.” Quite aside from being a distraction, it was possible Swithin might let fall some clue.

He nodded, set his cup gently on its saucer. “He, Trowbridge, and I were all born in Hexham. We grew up there, but we didn’t know each other until we met at the grammar school. Once we had…”

She listened while he gave her what was plainly a heavily edited account of Randall’s life, with more personal color than he’d imparted before, yet still carefully avoiding any mention of their lowly origins.

Eventually he came to the present. “I quite understand, of course, why Randall wanted to sell. Now that the company has served its purpose for all of us, there’s really no point retaining our interest, especially given the concomitant risk of exposure.”

Letitia nodded. “Indeed.”

Swithin looked slightly conscious. “Not, of course, that I wish to pressure you to sell. I agreed with Randall, and I believe Trowbridge did, too, but perhaps you have reasons to want to hold onto the company.”

It wasn’t quite a question; she didn’t need to answer, yet if he agreed, and Trowbridge did, too…“On the contrary.” Letitia set aside her empty cup. “I’m absolutely determined to dissociate myself from the company with all possible speed.” She glanced at Swithin, realized she couldn’t read his expression at all well. Remembered he was known as a canny investor; presumably a poker face was something he’d cultivated. “As we all three agree that we want to sell, I’m hoping the matter can be arranged without delay.”

“Yes, indeed.” Swithin looked down, then leaned forward to hand her his empty cup. “In pursuit of that aim, I wonder if I might ask if I may take a look in Randall’s desk. In your presence, of course. When he suggested selling, I worked up some summaries of the latest profits. They will be useful to have when we’re deciding on a price-that’s why I gave them to him.”

Letitia frowned. “I can’t recall seeing any such papers.” She’d watched Barton’s search with an eagle eye.

“It might not be instantly obvious what they are.” Swithin stood.

Letitia rose, too. “Of course I wasn’t aware of the company at that time, so it’s possible I overlooked them.”

She led the way from the room, then diagonally down the hall to the study. She went straight to the desk. As her fingers brushed the edge, she heard the click of the door lock. Surprised, she glanced back.

Swithin stood just inside the door, his gaze locked on her. “We don’t want to be disturbed.”

She frowned; his manner had changed. He was now disturbing her.

His hand dipped into his coat pocket; he withdrew it-her eyes widened as she saw the small pistol he’d retrieved.

He leveled it at her. “No histrionics, please, or I’ll be forced to shoot you and flee.”

No histrionics? Eyes locked on the pistol, Letitia swallowed an impulse to ask if he knew who she was. She blinked instead-and felt a most peculiar calm descend on her. “I’ve had people react to my temper before, but never with a weapon.”

Where the words, let alone her even diction, came from, she had no idea, but Swithin didn’t smile, didn’t react at all-which chilled her all the more.

“If you would open the door.” He waved with the pistol toward the secret door. “Please don’t pretend you can’t-it’s obvious you and Dearne found Randall’s room.”

She tried to think what to do-how to seize control-but her brain had stalled. Moving slowly, her attention helplessly locked on the pistol, she went to the window and depressed the catch hidden in the frame.

The bookcase popped ajar.

“Good. Now fetch the keys from Randall’s drawer-I know they’re there.”

She did, still moving with slow deliberation, while inside, panic of a degree she’d never felt before welled and swelled.

When she lifted the keys free, Swithin nodded. “Excellent. Now go down the steps and into the room.”

She hesitated, considering the pistol; its aim hadn’t wavered. If she screamed…given she’d screamed in this very room so often before, would Mellon react? Even if she screamed for help?

Regardless, searching Swithin’s face, she didn’t doubt he would do as he said; he’d shoot her and flee. There was something beyond desperate lurking behind his pale eyes.

An expression of impatience lent brief animation to his otherwise bland features. “If you would? We don’t have all day.”

His voice hardened on the last words; she’d dallied as long as she dared. She walked to the secret door, opened it wider, then went through and down, into the hidden room.

Swithin followed, dragging the panel closed behind him.

Halting in the center of the room, she faced him.

Swithin held out one hand, palm upward. With the other, he kept the pistol trained on her breast. “The keys.”

Drawing in a breath, trying desperately to think, she dropped them into his palm, fixed her gaze on his face. “You killed Randall.”

He met her gaze, his own unwavering. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“Because he wanted to sell the company.”

“But you would have got your share.” The longer she could keep him there, talking, the closer Christian would be.

“Indeed.” Swithin’s face tightened. “Much good would that have done me. I would have lost the steady, all but guaranteed income, which is what I currently desperately need.”

“But you’re wealthy-hugely wealthy.”

He sucked in a tight, tight breath; in a rigidly controlled voice he replied, “No. I’m not. I won’t bore you with the details, but thanks to two unscrupulous blackguards, almost all my capital is gone. Vanished.”

His teeth had clenched.

“But…” It took no effort to project confusion. “Why not simply tell Randall it didn’t suit you to sell? Neither he nor Trowbridge were in any great hurry, and as I understand it, they wouldn’t have-couldn’t have-forced you to sell.”

“No-but then they would have known.”

“Known what?”

“Known that I’d failed!” His hand fisted about the keys; for one instant his expressionless mask dissolved and twisted fury looked back at her. His lips curled; he spoke in a near hiss. “There they were, sitting pretty, Trowbridge with his art and Randall with you-they’d succeeded at our Grand Plan so much better than I. All I had was my money and my reputation-and now the money’s gone, my reputation is all I have left. If I’d told them, that would have gone, too.”

Frowning, truly puzzled, she shook her head. “But they wouldn’t have told anyone-you could have sworn them to secrecy, especially considering your shared pasts.”

He looked at her as if she hadn’t understood a word he’d said. Then in a voice eerily devoid of emotion, stated, “They would have known.”

Pride. With a jolt of comprehension, she realized it was that-that that, a desperate clinging to pride in the face of fate, was what lay behind Randall’s death.

Juggling the keys, Swithin backed to the outer door, his expressionless gaze never leaving her. He glanced briefly at the lock-far too briefly for her to make the slightest move-then slid in the key. He unlocked the door, opened it, with the pistol motioned her through.

As she went past him, he murmured, “Remember-no sound, no fuss, and I won’t have to shoot you.”

If he wasn’t going to shoot her, what did he have planned?

Letitia walked the few paces to the lane door; as he moved past her to unlock it, she evaluated her options. She strained her ears, but could hear no maids in the lower yard, yet even if she could bring them running, Swithin would have shot her and fled long before anyone could reach her. The street outside-her nemesis Barton who was always there, keeping watch-was her best and only bet.

It was time Barton earned his salary.

And damned if he hadn’t been right-the murderer had, indeed, returned to the scene of the crime.

Swinging the laneway gate open, Swithin all but pushed her through, crowding close by her shoulder in the narrow lane. His fingers clamped about her elbow; the muzzle of the pistol dug into her side.

A chill slid through her at the touch of cold metal through her silk gown.

“See the carriage?” Swithin hissed, urging her forward.

She could hardly miss it; a black traveling carriage, it was drawn up across the mouth of the lane.

There had to be a coachman on the box, but doubtless he was Swithin’s man. But Barton would be just across the street.

She let Swithin propel her forward. As they neared the carriage, he spoke into her ear. “Be quiet and get in.”

She managed not to humph derisively.

The instant she stepped out of the laneway, she wrenched back from him, twisting her elbow, pulling away from the cold metal of the pistol’s muzzle-praying he wouldn’t shoot her in the open street. “Help! Ow! You’re hurting me! Let go!” Desperate, she glanced around-there was no one in sight. She redoubled her volume. “Help!”

Swithin snarled-then something like a rock hit her on the head.

She swayed as the world turned gray.

“Damn you, damn you!” Swithin muttered under his breath.

For a moment she knew nothing, then felt herself being lifted and bundled-into the carriage.

Swithin shoved her onto a seat; her head pounded as it fell against padded leather.

From a great distance she heard Swithin say something to his coachman.

Then the light from outside was cut off. Swithin had shut the door. The carriage lurched sickeningly, then rumbled off.

Swithin was inside the carriage with her. She could sense him moving around, but couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t focus her swooning senses well enough to guess what he was doing.

Then he muttered from quite close, “I’d hoped this wouldn’t prove necessary, but clearly you’re a Vaux to your toes and therefore totally untrustworthy when it comes to scenes.”

A waft of sweetness reached her, then got closer, intensifying to a horrible cloying smell-a cloth clamped over her nose and mouth.

She struggled, tried desperately to shift her head away from the smell, but Swithin held the cloth in place so she had to breathe through it.

Blackness closed in.

Her last thought before darkness engulfed her was that she was alone. At the last, at the end, all alone. Christian wasn’t there, he hadn’t come for her, and even Barton hadn’t been there.

Everyone had deserted her.

And left her in the hands of a murderer.