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familial variety, was ingrained. Letitia had—he felt certain with no real thought for herself—walked across the gulf between them, braving whatever wrath he might seek to visit on her—whatever price he might ask—to gain his help in clearing Justin. Hermione demonstrably felt the same. The question in Christian’s mind was whether she’d acted on that feeling, and if so, how.
    He fixed Hermione with a direct look. “Do you know anything more about what happened last night?”
    She blinked, slowly, then shook her head. “No. Only what I told you.”
    He didn’t believe her. From the corner of his eye he noticed Letitia was also now regarding her sister with a slight frown. But she said nothing.
    Both, he felt perfectly certain, would lie through their teeth if that’s what was needed to protect Justin, even though the Vaux rarely lied…and family loyalty worked both ways.
    It was very possible Justin was acting to protect…
    He looked at Letitia, waited until she felt his gaze and raised her eyes to his. He studied those eyes, eyes he knewvery well in all their green and gold splendor, eyes he’d in the past always been able to read. “Tell me you didn’t kill Randall.”
    She blinked, but continued to return his steady regard. He saw her make the connection, her mind following the path his had trod. Her brows rose fractionally. “I didn’t kill Randall.” An instant passed, then she grimaced and added, “I often felt like killing him, but no, I didn’t. I wouldn’t. No more than Justin would.”
    And that, Christian reflected, was the right answer. In contrast to Hermione, he had no doubt whatever that Letitia was telling the truth.
    He nodded. “Very well. That leaves us with one large and immediate question. Where is Justin?”

Chapter 2
    A fter dining alone and reviewing and digesting the conversations and interactions of that afternoon, Christian—much to the disgust of his more vengeful side—felt compelled to call again at Randall’s house.
    Not that he had any interest in the house; it was its mistress who drew him.
    He’d thought he’d understood where he and she now were vis-à-vis each other, yet there were undercurrents between them he couldn’t explain. When he’d taken his leave of her that afternoon and she’d given him her hand, he’d grasped it—and felt her pulse leap, her breathing tighten.
    Felt everything in him respond.
    She reacted to him as she always had, if anything even more intensely—just as he was affected by her. He hadn’t expected either to be so, had assumed she’d loved Randall with all her considerable heart and soul, and that her attraction to him and his to her would consequently have faded, if not died.
    Not so.
    As he strode briskly down South Audley Street, his more vengeful side—the side her betrayal and marriage to Randall had brought into being—sneered. Contemptuously reminded him how he’d felt when Barton had so distressed her with Justin’s coat, how helpless he’d been to suppress the primitive response to protect and defend her—one that, atthat intensity, only made sense if he loved her. If, in his heart of hearts, he still, despite all, saw her as his.
    His to protect, even if she was no longer his to possess.
    His position, he cynically admitted, was pathetic.
    Inwardly frowning, he neared Randall’s house, a block south of Grosvenor Square—and saw, to his considerable surprise, every window ablaze with light, much as if a ball were taking place. Mystified, he went up the steps and rapped sharply on the black crepe-draped door.
    Mellon looked flustered when he opened it; leaving his cane with the man, Christian strolled into the drawing room—and discovered the reason why.
    The large room was packed with women. Ladies. A swift survey informed him they were all Vaux—those of the main line together with innumerable connections.
    The Vaux were one of the very oldest ton families. They were all but legendary, one of those