“Not so innocent,” Christian quietly said, steel infusing his voice, “once you learn that Swithin is neck deep in debt and desperate for income to qualify for a massive loan.”

Trowbridge opened his eyes. “He’s in debt?” He frowned. “Good God. How? He was wealthy-the wealthiest of the three of us.”

“Never mind how-we don’t have time.”

Dalziel caught Christian’s arm, holding him back as, with a muttered oath, he turned for the door. Letitia was definitely in Swithin’s sights.

“One thing in all this I don’t understand.” Dalziel spoke quickly. “Why didn’t Swithin simply tell you and Randall about his need for income, and that therefore he didn’t want to sell the company?”

Christian looked back to see Trowbridge blink.

Twice. Then he shook his head. “Oh, but he wouldn’t. Indeed, Randall and I are the very last people he’d ever tell. He’d never tell us, never let on, that he’d failed with our Grand Plan.”

Seeing their incomprehension, Trowbridge struggled to sit up; Honeywell helped him. “What you have to understand about our Grand Plan was that for Randall and me it was us against them-us against society as a whole. But for Swithin, it was us against each other. He…simply couldn’t see the wider picture-for him it was always a competition.” Trowbridge searched their faces for some sign they understood. “That’s what I meant about his wealth-he took great pride in having amassed more than Randall or I had. Money was the one issue on which he could trump us-and we let him, because that-who was more wealthy among us-wasn’t important to us…”

Trowbridge’s face suddenly fell, all animation leaching away. “It was he who struck me, wasn’t it? After all these years, he tried to kill me, because in his mind he’d failed, and he couldn’t bear that. Couldn’t bear me knowing…and he killed Randall, too.”

Christian nodded curtly. “Yes, and if you’ll excuse us, we need to make sure he doesn’t kill anyone else.”

Trowbridge grasped his point. “Yes, of course.”

Christian strode for the door. Behind him, he heard Dalziel speak to Trowbridge.

“He almost certainly thinks you’re dead. We’ll send word when we have him-until then…”

At the door, Christian glanced back and saw Dalziel looking at Honeywell.

“Make sure there’s someone with him at all times.”

Mentally nodding, Christian strode out. Justin was on his heels.

Dalziel caught up with them as they bundled into the hackney, Christian having instructed the jarvey to drive hell-for-leather for South Audley Street.

The man took him at his word. They rattled through the streets, taking corners at speed; grim-faced and silent, the three of them braced themselves, each absorbed, thinking ahead.

Christian told himself that Barton was there, watching from outside-but that wouldn’t stop Swithin going in. He’d told Letitia that Swithin was a suspect, but none of them had seriously thought him the murderer-not until today.

As they raced into Mayfair, leaving curses in their wake, he prayed they’d be in time.

They arrived at South Audley Street. Leaving Dalziel to deal with the jarvey, Christian strode up the front steps, threw open the door-and stepped into outright uproar.

A cacophany of myriad feminine voices all raised, all exclaiming-all at once-assailed him. Behind him, he heard Justin mutter, “Good Lord! They’re all here.”

“Christian!” Letitia’s aunt Amarantha spotted him as he stood rooted just inside the door. “Just the man-Letitia’s disappeared.”

They came at him from all sides, more pouring from the parlor to add their voices to the din. It appeared to be an assembly of all the Vaux females, close and distant; all Letitia’s aunts and female cousins seemed to be there.

He tried to make sense of what they were telling him, but there was so much dross camouflaging the facts it was hopeless. Eventually he spotted Agnes in the parlor doorway, Hermione beside her, but he couldn’t reach them short of mowing through the crowd.

Grim-faced, he held up his hands. “Quiet!”

A sudden silence fell, if anything even more painful than the preceding cacophany. Stunned, they all looked at him with wide eyes.

Stepping farther into the hall so Dalziel could come in and close the door, he focused on Agnes. “I need one of you-only one-to tell me what’s happened. Agnes?”

She nodded. “Letitia was here-she stayed in this morning. Hermione and I went to a morning tea.” Her voice wavered but she dragged in a breath-glowered at Constance, who had opened her mouth-and went on, “She’s obviously had visitors-there’s a tea tray.” She waved into the parlor. “But when we came home, she wasn’t in there. We thought perhaps she’d gone up to her room, but then the others arrived and Hermione went up to fetch her-but she wasn’t there either. She’s not in the house. And she hasn’t left any message, which she would have if she’d been called away, or gone to Bond Street, or…”

Letitia had said she’d be waiting for him to come back to her; while he wasn’t insensible to the echoes of their past, Christian knew absolutely that this time she wouldn’t have gone anywhere-not willingly.

While Agnes had talked, he’d made his way through the crowd to her. Justin had followed; Hermione grabbed his hand.

Looking past Agnes, Christian saw the tea tray set on a low table between the sofas. Only two cups. He’d hoped…

He turned back to the hovering horde. “Where’s Mellon?”

The butler was nowhere in sight. One bright cousin slipped into the parlor and tugged the bellpull.

A moment later the baize door at the rear of the hall swung open and Mellon marched through.

Over the heads of the ladies, Christian beckoned; the ladies parted, allowing Mellon to make his way to him.

Which he did with a supercilious air. “Yes, my lord?”

Christian looked down at him. “Who called on your mistress?”

Mellon arched his brows. “A good friend of the master’s called to offer his condolences, as was proper.”

Justin made a frustrated sound. He stepped around Christian, grabbed Mellon by the throat, lifted him off his feet and slammed him up against the hall wall; the pictures hanging on it bounced. “Who called on my sister?”

Mellon goggled, hands ineffectually scrabbling at Justin’s.

Far from fainting or being scandalized by the violence, all the Vaux ladies looked on eagerly. Even encouragingly. When Mellon didn’t immediately divulge the name, Agnes pointed imperiously to the tea tray. “Who did she have tea with?”

“Come on, man-spit it out,” Constance said. “Dearne hasn’t got all day.”

“It was a Mr. Swithin,” Mellon gasped. “From what I heard, he was the master’s great friend.”

Justin’s lip curled. “Mr. Swithin-your master’s murderer.”

Mellon’s face turned ashen. “He killed Mr. Randall?”

“So we believe.” Dalziel joined them by the parlor door. “What happened after you served the tea?”

With Justin, Christian, and Dalziel facing him, Mellon looked as if he would like to faint but was too scared to. “I…ah, listened at the door for a time. Mr. Swithin was telling the mistress about Mr. Randall at school. Then I was called away to the pantry. When I came back, the parlor was empty. I thought the mistress must have gone upstairs. It seemed odd she’d seen Mr. Swithin out herself, but-”

“Did you hear the front door open and shut?” Christian asked.

Mellon shook his head. He frowned, looked back down the hall. “I should have-I was only on the other side of the door.”

Christian looked down the hall, too, past the stairs. “The study.”

Once again the sea of ladies parted, letting them through. Christian grasped the handle, tried it. “Locked.”

The door was thick, solid oak. He exchanged a glance with Dalziel, then they both stepped back, balanced on one leg, then together kicked the door hard, level with the lock.

It gave with a crack. Christian used his shoulder to force the door open, then strode in. He was relieved to find the room empty, devoid of bodies. Going straight to the window, he released the secret panel.

Crowding the doorway, the ladies looked in, oohed as Dalziel caught the hidden door and hauled it wide.

Christian followed Dalziel down into the hidden room. It was the work of a moment to verify that the door to the little yard and the lane door were both unlocked.

“Just as they were when Randall was murdered.” Dalziel stood in the lane looking toward the street. “He couldn’t come in this way-he had to come in via the front door. But he left this way, just as he did before.”

“But this time he took Letitia with him.” Christian looked the other way along the lane; it ended in a wall a few houses along. He looked back toward the street. “But the only way he could have gone was back into South Audley Street.”

Frowning, he turned and strode back into the house. “Where the devil is Barton? He was keeping watch as usual this morning-Letitia knew he’d be there. She would have tried to attract his attention.” He eased his way through the mass of females thronging the hidden room and the study to regain the now relatively free space of the front hall. Justin came up with him as he made for the door; Dalziel was close behind.

Throwing open the door, Christian halted on the front step and looked across the street-to see Barton paying off a jarvey.

“What the hell?” Justin muttered.

Barton saw them. Lifting his head, squaring his shoulders, he marched toward them.

“Where the devil have you been?” Christian demanded as the wiry runner approached the steps.

Barton halted, blinked.

Christian reined in his temper, ruthlessly squelched his panic, and ground out through clenched teeth, “Lady Letitia was kidnapped this morning-she was taken from here, almost certainly in a carriage. She would have called out, struggled-you must have seen…” The little runner had lost all color. A chill clutched Christian’s chest. “You weren’t here, were you?”

Statement more than question.

Barton shook his head. “I…” He cleared his throat, then spoke more firmly. “I was following you. I didn’t see anyone nab her ladyship.”

Christian swore-colorfully, inventively, at length.

Justin eyed him with approbation. “You were always destined to marry a Vaux.”

“I’ll have to find her first.” And he would.

Apparently judging the worst had passed, Barton reached into his coat pocket, produced his warrant card, held it up for them to see. “Lord Justin Vaux, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering your brother-in-law, Mr. George Randall.”

“Lord, you’re not still on about that, are you?” Justin frowned down at him. “You can do that later, if you’ve a mind to after we’ve found my sister and got her out of the hands of Randall’s real murderer.”

Barton’s lips thinned. “Be that as it may, I’ve found you-Lord Justin Vaux, as is my quarry-and I’m taking you into custody, as is my duty, and I’m calling on you two gents”-he indicated Christian and Dalziel-“to bear witness. I followed him in your presences to Mr. Trowbridge’s, where I heard there’s been a spot of bother. It’s clear as the day there’s something afoot, and Lord Vaux here is in the thick of it.”

“The day,” Dalziel pointed out caustically, “is cloudy. And yes, Lord Vaux is assisting in investigating Randall’s murder and exposing the real killer, and now we know who he is, you can continue to follow us and do your duty when we corner him.” He eyed Barton coldly. “At present, however, you’re in our way.”

With that, Dalziel moved down the steps. Christian fell in behind him, Justin in the rear.

Barton had to give way; he backed across the pavement, watching, faintly stupefied, as Dalziel swung off the steps and strode off toward Curzon Street. Lengthening his stride, Christian caught up; his and Dalziel’s long legs ate the distance.

Justin strode close behind. Christian heard Barton’s footsteps following, at first hesitantly, then more definitely.

Eventually the runner dared to draw level with his “quarry.” As they turned the corner into Curzon Street, Christian saw Barton tweak Justin’s sleeve. “What’s going on?”

Justin glanced down at him, faintly exasperated. “Just follow along and you’ll see.”

Barton didn’t have much option.

“Which house?” Dalziel slowed.

His face like stone, Christian pointed it out.

Dalziel halted before the front steps. He looked at Christian. “How do you want to handle this?”

Christian eyed the front door, then marched up the steps and pounded on it.

Swithin’s butler quickly opened the door.

“Where’s Swithin?” Christian demanded. He stepped forward.