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lit room they gleamed like beaten gold, shadowed and mysterious, giving nothing away. But her breathing had quickened. Her lips, when he glanced at them, had parted.
    “If you recall”—his voice had lowered to a gravelly purr; slowly he brought his gaze back to her eyes—“I’ve yet to set a price for assisting you in finding Justin.”
    The air between them all but crackled. Her lids lowered,but then she forced them up and locked her eyes on his. “Finding him, and clearing his name.”
    Her words were breathless. His lips quirked. “Indeed. But finding him comes first.” He let his gaze drop to her lips. While he considered how to phrase his demand.
    He wondered how her lips would taste now….
    Wondered what he should ask—what she might give….
    As if following his thoughts, she slowly stiffened, steel infusing her. He was jerked to full awareness when her lips firmed.
    He glanced up at her eyes—and found them blazing.
    “Just find Justin, and I’ll pay whatever price you care to name.”
    The words rang with outright challenge. Raising her hands, she pushed against his shoulders—hard enough to make him straighten and step back.
    She rose. Proud and haughty, she met his gaze, held it for a pregnant instant, then turned and swept toward the archway. “When you’ve found Justin, let me know.”
    Christian watched her disappear into the parlor and inwardly swore.
    Transferring his gaze to the cold hearth, he ran his hand through his hair. His temper quickly cooled; his arousal was less forgiving. Reassessing his position didn’t take long.
    Turning, he stalked out of the house, picking up his cane and going quickly down the steps, then striding away along the street.
    If finding Justin Vaux was what it would take to get him what he wanted, he’d find Justin Vaux.
     
    Letitia knew the ton. It was the circle she’d been born into, in which she’d been raised, and in which she’d spent all her adult life. To her the ton wasn’t a fixed entity, but a fluid, dynamic cosmos that wise ladies navigated and—if they were truly powerful—learned to manipulate.
    She hadn’t yet reached master status, but she was by no means a novice when it came to manipulating her peers.
    Consequently, the next morning she dutifully donned her weeds, but rather than sit at home in the darkened front parlor, she called for her carriage and set out for the park. Hermione went with her, but after the previous evening’s event, their aunt Agnes, who lived with them and assisted Letitia in chaperoning Hermione, elected to remain abed.
    “I thought,” Hermione said, her gaze on the coachman’s back, “that most widows remained indoors for at least the first few weeks.”
    “Usually,” Letitia conceded. “But we are Vaux. Not even the most censorious dowager will expect us to sequester ourselves, not with a murder in the family.” She paused, then added, “Indeed, they’d most likely be highly disappointed if we did. And we’re hardly cavorting—merely taking the air.” Heaven knew, after last night she needed it.
    Although the day was fine, a warm breeze gently teasing curls, flirting with ribbons, and rather irritatingly playing with her veil, as it was August, there were far fewer carriages drawn up by the verge in the park than was customary during the Season.
    Those of the ton with country estates—which was to say most of the nobility—were presently on them, enjoying the summer and more bucolic pleasures. That still left a core of the aristocracy in residence, along with minor branches and connections, those whose sole residence was in the capital and who hadn’t been invited to someone else’s country house party this week.
    While sorely in need of fresh air to blow the cobwebs—and the sensual miasma invoked by Christian Allardyce—from her brain, Letitia had another purpose—to assess the reaction of the ton to the news of Randall’s murder.
    One couldn’t successfully manipulate society’s