faintest lift of her brows—she could do arrogant every bit as well as he—she glided past him into the room. And saw the book open on the table beside one of the armchairs by the hearth—instantly appreciated the scene he’d set, that he’d expected her to walk into—he calmly reading while waiting for her.
Memories of them in flagrante delicto had ruined his preparation.
The Fates, she decided, were on her side tonight.
Halting before the fire, she turned to face him. “You have more questions, I assume?” Chin high, she locked her eyes on his.
Saw the exasperation that swam through the gray orbs.
Christian didn’t bother to hide his frustration. He needed answers—answers he was well aware she wouldn’t want to give.
And she was stubborn, and intractable, and ungovernable, and generally uncontrollable. He’d tried to set the scene so she’d be at least a little off-balance. Instead she’d already evened the scales. “I had a surgeon I know examine Randall’s body. What he found showed that, contrary to all assumptions, Randall was killed by a single, relatively weak blow to the back of the head.”
“The back?” She saw the implications in a blink. “So…the person who was in the other armchair, sharing a drink with him.”
“That’s my interpretation. Others might have a different view.”
She frowned. “What different view?”
“That you killed Randall, and that later Justin delivered the blows to Randall’s face in order to conceal your involvement.”
She paled. “I didn’t kill Randall.”
He nodded. “I know. But Justin thought you did. At the very least he believed you might have.” He trapped her eyes. “Let’s assume Justin came upon Randall already dead. Dead of a relatively weak blow to the back of the skull from the poker conveniently nearby, a blow a tallish woman—you, for example—could easily have struck. We know Justin had heard you and Randall arguing—violently as usual. When he came upon Randall dead, he instantly jumped to the conclusion that you’d killed him—and set about covering up what he thought was your deed.”
She was frowning more definitely now, following his argument, not, he noticed, protesting his reasoning.
The hope grew that, in her need to find her brother, she would answer the myriad questions crowding his brain.
He moved closer, so he was standing before her, a little to the side so he wasn’t directly confronting her; he’d trypersuasion first. “Why did Justin believe you had killed Randall?”
She glanced at him, puzzled, met his eyes—but her puzzlement wasn’t over Justin’s reason, but that he’d done what he had. She saw him searching, and refocused—recalled his question, and put up her shields. She looked away. “I have no idea.”
He looked down. The rug beneath their feet wasn’t anywhere near the quality of the one in her parlor. “Letitia.” He tried to keep his tone even, patient. “It’s patently obvious that the rift between you and Randall went far deeper than his views on Hermione’s future.”
“And that, my lord, is none of your business.”
Her tart accents had him looking up—directly into hard hazel eyes.
“If Justin was so misguided as to believe I might have—in a fit of Vaux temper, no less—killed Randall—and yes, I accept that it appears he did just that—then presumably he had some reason. When you find him, you might try asking him—not that I imagine he’ll share details of my private life, not with you.”
He felt his lips thin, felt control and success slipping from him. “Letitia—”
“Don’t you ‘Letitia’ me.” Her eyes narrowed to shards. She faced him directly. “You have no right to demand to know details of my marriage. You gave away that right years ago.”
No, he hadn’t. She’d taken that right away from him. He felt his face set, clamped down on his temper. “That’s not how I recall it.”
She opened her eyes wide. “It isn’t? How do you
Memories of them in flagrante delicto had ruined his preparation.
The Fates, she decided, were on her side tonight.
Halting before the fire, she turned to face him. “You have more questions, I assume?” Chin high, she locked her eyes on his.
Saw the exasperation that swam through the gray orbs.
Christian didn’t bother to hide his frustration. He needed answers—answers he was well aware she wouldn’t want to give.
And she was stubborn, and intractable, and ungovernable, and generally uncontrollable. He’d tried to set the scene so she’d be at least a little off-balance. Instead she’d already evened the scales. “I had a surgeon I know examine Randall’s body. What he found showed that, contrary to all assumptions, Randall was killed by a single, relatively weak blow to the back of the head.”
“The back?” She saw the implications in a blink. “So…the person who was in the other armchair, sharing a drink with him.”
“That’s my interpretation. Others might have a different view.”
She frowned. “What different view?”
“That you killed Randall, and that later Justin delivered the blows to Randall’s face in order to conceal your involvement.”
She paled. “I didn’t kill Randall.”
He nodded. “I know. But Justin thought you did. At the very least he believed you might have.” He trapped her eyes. “Let’s assume Justin came upon Randall already dead. Dead of a relatively weak blow to the back of the skull from the poker conveniently nearby, a blow a tallish woman—you, for example—could easily have struck. We know Justin had heard you and Randall arguing—violently as usual. When he came upon Randall dead, he instantly jumped to the conclusion that you’d killed him—and set about covering up what he thought was your deed.”
She was frowning more definitely now, following his argument, not, he noticed, protesting his reasoning.
The hope grew that, in her need to find her brother, she would answer the myriad questions crowding his brain.
He moved closer, so he was standing before her, a little to the side so he wasn’t directly confronting her; he’d trypersuasion first. “Why did Justin believe you had killed Randall?”
She glanced at him, puzzled, met his eyes—but her puzzlement wasn’t over Justin’s reason, but that he’d done what he had. She saw him searching, and refocused—recalled his question, and put up her shields. She looked away. “I have no idea.”
He looked down. The rug beneath their feet wasn’t anywhere near the quality of the one in her parlor. “Letitia.” He tried to keep his tone even, patient. “It’s patently obvious that the rift between you and Randall went far deeper than his views on Hermione’s future.”
“And that, my lord, is none of your business.”
Her tart accents had him looking up—directly into hard hazel eyes.
“If Justin was so misguided as to believe I might have—in a fit of Vaux temper, no less—killed Randall—and yes, I accept that it appears he did just that—then presumably he had some reason. When you find him, you might try asking him—not that I imagine he’ll share details of my private life, not with you.”
He felt his lips thin, felt control and success slipping from him. “Letitia—”
“Don’t you ‘Letitia’ me.” Her eyes narrowed to shards. She faced him directly. “You have no right to demand to know details of my marriage. You gave away that right years ago.”
No, he hadn’t. She’d taken that right away from him. He felt his face set, clamped down on his temper. “That’s not how I recall it.”
She opened her eyes wide. “It isn’t? How do you
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