If she hadn’t loved Randall, why had she married him?
Why had she broken her promises to him?
Confusion wasn’t the half of what he felt.
In contrast, she clearly felt none. Surveying the company, she softly snorted. “They may be here because they’re family, but the truth is Randall’s murder is likely to be the juiciest scandal of the season. I can’t imagine what might trump it, especially with the rumor of Justin being involved.”
He frowned. “Has that got out?”
“Oh, yes.” Contrary to her lack of grief, there was no doubt of her anger. “Quite a few mentioned it in their greetings—they’d heard about it, including that Justin has disappeared—fled, as they’re putting it—long before they crossed this threshold.”
Christian looked down the room—at Mellon, hovering just inside the doorway.
“Indeed.” Letitia had followed his gaze. “I have absolutely no doubt Randall’s senior lackey is who we have to thank for that. He’s always hated Justin—hated, not just disliked.”
“Why is that? Justin, after all, is his master’s brother-in-law.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I have no idea.” She turned to face Christian. “We need to clear Justin of suspicion as soon as possible. The rumors will be rife by tomorrow.”
He met her gaze. “I’ll start searching in earnest tomorrow, but unless he’s merely gone to visit friends, or is staying somewhere reasonably obvious and hasn’t in fact deliberately gone to ground, then flushing him out isn’t going to be easy.”
She frowned. “I’ve racked my brains, but I have no clue where he’s gone. He didn’t mention leaving town.”
After a pause, Christian asked, “Why is it that no one seems to expect you to be wailing and tearing your clothes?”
“I’m a Vaux—I wouldn’t tear my clothes.”
“Possibly not, but you should be wailing.”
She met his eyes briefly. “Sorry, no wailing tonight. Nor any crying, either?
??it does terrible things to my complexion.”
He looked at her, simply looked. While she felt the weight of compulsion in his gaze, she had no intention of explaining why she wasn’t grieving for Randall. Especially not to him. Such an explanation would inexorably lead to further questions, ones she had even less interest in answering.
Their past was past. The promise of it dead and buried. Gone.
Stolen from her.
By Randall, and him.
Which was the reason she was making not the smallest pretense of grief or sorrow. Her agreement with Randall had ended on his death; she was free, now, to behave as she felt. Her only surprise was that, as Christian had remarked, none of her extended family seemed at all shocked by her lack of feeling; she’d thought she had done better at pretending to love Randall over the years.
She surveyed the room. “I wonder how long they’ll stay?”
About another hour was the answer. She wasn’t entirely surprised that Christian, denied the explanations he wanted, remained by her side, his charm disguising his determination.
When she’d squeezed fingers and touched cheeks with the last of the ladies and thanked them for their concern, she turned to him, met his gaze and arched a brow. “Well?”
He glanced around the now empty room, large and peculiarly lifeless; although it was furnished in expensive style, as she’d informed him, it wasn’t a room she favored. His gaze returned to her; he waved to the door. “Let’s go to the library.”
The library, she assumed, because it wasn’t her domain. She acquiesced with a nod, gracefully turned and graciously led the way.
All too aware that he prowled in her wake. The image of a stalking lion popped into her head. With his fairish brown hair, combined with his loose-limbed grace and the power inherent in his large body, the analogy was peculiarly apt.
But when they reached the library, he seemed somewhat at a loss. She sat in one of the armchairs by the hearth and watched him prowl the room, idly inspecting titles as he worked his way closer.
When he finally arrived before her, he stood frowning down at her. “I checked at the obvious clubs—Justin’s not staying at any of them. I’ll make the same rounds tomorrow and see if I can find anyone who’s sighted him.”