She nodded her understanding. “Yes, all right.” She trusted him implicitly, more than enough to trump all fear.

“Good.” He looked down, raised his voice. “On the count of three.” His gaze returned to her face. His hands shifted on hers, easing his grip but not yet releasing her. “One, two…” His eyes held hers. “Let go.”

Wrapped in his gray gaze, she opened her fingers.

Felt his warm grasp slip away as gravity took hold and she started to fall.

Heard him call from above, “Three!”

And then she was falling.

Falling.

Onto the taut oilcloth. As she landed, she saw the other men hauling back hard, hands locked on the edge of the cloth, their weight fully back.

She bounced once, then settled onto the bales of hay as the men released the tension on the cloth. Sitting up, she flicked her black skirts down, then frowned at her bound wrists.

Justin grabbed her, hauled her to the edge of the bales and hugged her wildly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Perfectly.” And she was. She thumped his side with her hands. “Here-untie my wrists.”

Without meeting her eyes, Justin bent his head to pick at the knots.

Dalziel, as cool as ever, came up. “Here-let me.” He had a wicked-looking dagger in his hand.

Justin straightened. Letitia held out her hands and Dalziel expertly sliced through the cords.

She couldn’t quite believe she was alive.

Determined to hang onto her composure, she glanced regally around the circle of her rescuers, inclining her head and bestowing a smile on each of them-even Barton. “Thank you, gentlemen. That was…quite an experience.”

Beyond Dalziel she saw Christian come out of a door.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She stood, discovered her legs were fully functional. She started to walk along the facade to where Christian had halted, just beyond the door.

Then her Vaux heritage got the better of her; she picked up her skirts and ran.

Straight into his arms.

He opened them as she neared, closed them tightly about her as she landed against his chest, wrapped her arms around him and hugged him hard.

She closed her eyes, felt the tears leak out.

She was safe. She was where she’d always wanted to be. This time he’d come for her. This time he’d saved her.

Christian knew beyond doubt what she was thinking. He buried his face in her hair, breathed in her scent-that elusive, unforgettable scent of jasmine-murmured, “I’m here,” in her ear.

She hugged him harder.

For one moment they simply stood, wrapped in each other, and let the past go, let it fade. Knew they stood on the cusp of their future-the future they’d dreamed of so long ago.

Eventually she drew back. Looked up into his eyes. Smiled one of her seductive smiles. “I’ve already thanked the others. I’ll have to thank you appropriately…but later.”

He smiled back. “Later.” Releasing her, he took her hand. “Now”-expression hardening, he looked up as Dalziel and the others neared-“we have to deal with the aftermath of Swithin’s Grand Plan.”

Inside the house, they located Swithin’s wife. A pale blonde of good but minor family, she was a mild, gentle, quiet female; with his extensive experience in dealing with such ladies, Tristan took on the task of explaining what had occurred without reducing the poor woman to hysterics. Letitia sat beside Mrs. Swithin, lending wordless support, but wisely leaving the talking to Tristan.

Tony meanwhile organized butler and footmen to fetch Swithin, not dead but wounded, and definitely incapacitated, from the roof. Barton assisted; he no longer had his eye on Justin, but on Swithin.

Swithin wasn’t unconscious. He babbled incessantly, the pain and shock of his wounds having unhinged what little rationality he’d possessed.

When he was carried, still babbling, into the drawing room, Christian, who had more experience of gunshot wounds than the others, took one look at his injuries and ordered the butler to summon a doctor, then examined the wounds more closely. The bullet lodged in Swithin’s right shoulder he attributed to Justin; at twenty-six and unbloodied in war, he still possessed the naïveté to shoot to incapacitate rather than kill. The other bullet-just a fraction too high to put an end to Swithin’s life-would have come from Dalziel, a man far too experienced to court the slightest risk.

As it transpired, they were all soon sorry Dalziel’s bullet hadn’t found its mark; it would have saved everyone a great deal of bother, and freed Swithin from a life of misery as well.

Luckily, Mrs. Swithin proved to have rather more backbone and nous than her meek demeanor had suggested. She accepted the tale of her husband’s villainy without protest or argument. “He’s always been quiet and strangely secretive for as long as I’ve known him, but over the last weeks he’s been acting most peculiarly.”

Swithin’s continued bleating in the background, fragments of sentences jumbling together in an incomprehensible ramble, verified that he’d deteriorated even further.

Tristan exchanged a look with Christian and Dalziel, then turned back to Mrs. Swithin and gently suggested, “Given the circumstances, it might be best for everyone concerned if we apply to have Swithin certified.”

Mrs. Swithin frowned. “What circumstances, and what would having him certified entail?”

Christian listed the number of people who would be harmed if Swithin and his secrets were put on public show via a sensational murder trial. Mrs. Swithin herself was at the top of the list; she nodded her understanding as he added Trowbridge, Honeywell, the elder Trowbridges, Letitia, Justin, the Earl of Nunchance, and the Vaux family in general.

When he fell silent, she stated, “There’s surely no need for all of us to suffer more.”

“No.” Tristan looked at Barton, who was frowning. “And if we manage it carefully, no one but the authorities needs to know the full story.”

Barton brightened considerably; he hadn’t wanted to end with no quarry to show his superiors.

“If everyone agrees?” Tristan looked around. Most nodded. No one protested. He looked at the butler, who had returned after sending for the doctor. “Who’s the nearest magistrate?”

As it turned out, Tristan, a magistrate himself in the neighboring area, knew Lord Keating well. His lordship arrived promptly; shown into the drawing room where they’d all remained, he was at first shocked by the bare bones of the story Tristan related, but then quickly got down to business.

Settling in a chair with a traveling writing desk balanced on his knees, his lordship decreed, “I’ll want statements-perhaps from the representative of Bow Street first, and then you, Trentham”-he inclined his head to Tristan-“and perhaps one of you others?” He cast a vague glance at Tony, Christian, and Dalziel, then beckoned Barton forward. “Now, then.”

Under cover of Barton explaining what he knew, Tony glanced at Christian and Dalziel, and grinned. “One of you outranks me, and I suspect the other does, too. It should be one of you two.”

So saying, he wandered off to join Justin, who was sitting beside Swithin, listening, curiously intent, to his ramblings.

Christian glanced at Dalziel. He’d always wondered…

Dalziel’s lips lifted slightly. “No, I don’t outrank you. We could toss a coin, but all things considered, I suspect it had better be you Keating speaks with.”

Christian raised his brows but nodded. “All right.”

Dalziel drifted away to settle in a chair by the windows, attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not an easy task, especially as Lord Keating, regardless of that earlier vague look, was very aware of his presence.

Letitia noted the exchange between Dalziel and Christian. While Tristan, and then Christian, gave their version of the affair and answered Keating’s questions, riveting the attention of most in the room, she patted Mrs. Swithin’s hand, rose, and glided to the windows. She sank into the chair alongside the one Dalziel occupied.

He acknowledged her presence with a sound suspiciously like a grunt. “At least,” he said, his gaze fixed across the room, “I now know why you married that upstart. I never could understand it-I’d always regarded you as one of the saner of our females. Nice to know my judgment wasn’t at fault.”

Letitia smiled, not the least offended. That was a typical enough comment from him.

They chatted-bantered-for some minutes, about the likely reaction of the ton once they learned it was Swithin who’d killed Randall, not Justin.

“He’ll have to be extra careful.” She considered her brother, still listening, a frown on his face, to Swithin’s all but continual blather. “He’ll not only be eligible again, he’ll be famous to boot.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about him,” Dalziel dryly replied. “Not unless the matchmaking mamas and their charges have taken to hunting in libraries. He’s barely stirred from mine except in pursuit of our investigation.”

Letitia smiled fondly. After a moment she more quietly said, “Speaking of hiding, your time for hiding-for being in exile, as it were-will soon be at an end.”

She glanced at Royce, but he didn’t meet her gaze; his remained fixed broodingly on the tableau before them, although she would have sworn it wasn’t Christian and the others he was seeing.

A long moment ticked past, then he softly sighed. “If you want to know the truth, I’m not sure it will ever end.”

“It will. It must. You are, after all, his only son.”

“That, if you’ll recall”-Dalziel straightened in his seat-“didn’t stop him before.”

There was no answer to that. Letitia looked across the room and saw that Lord Keating had shifted to sit beside Swithin. He attempted to question Swithin, raising his voice to cut through the constant babbling.

Swithin paused. For a moment it seemed he might respond rationally, but then his gaze found Letitia and he grinned. “I even helped Randall organize his bride. Now that was plotting to a high degree. And then there was…” He went off on another, unconnected subject.

Justin, sitting close on his other side, had paled. He leaned closer, tried to catch Swithin’s eye. “How did you help Randall organize his bride?”

Swithin’s silly grin grew broader. “Investments are my forte, you know. The old man…” His voice trailed off, then he said loudly, “The grammar master was always unfair, you know. He liked Randall and Trowbridge better than me.”

From that, he switched to buying a house. His mind seemed unable to remain on one subject for more than two short sentences.

Lord Keating sat back, defeated. After a moment Justin did the same. Then he looked across the room and met Letitia’s eyes.

Justin rose. Leaving Lord Keating consulting with Tristan, Christian, and Mrs. Swithin, he came to stand beside Letitia’s chair; he pretended to look out at the garden.

“So it was as I suspected,” he murmured. “It wasn’t Papa’s fault.”

“Apparently not.” Her marriage to Randall no longer held any power to disturb her; it was all in the past-a past that no longer mattered.

Lord Keating cleared his throat portentiously. “Very well-it seems we’re all agreed. Given the circumstances, and the testimonies I’ve received today, I cannot but conclude that Mr. Henry Joshua Swithin, for reasons of his own advancement, killed Mr. George Martin Randall of South Audley Street in London, and this morning attempted to kill a Mr. Trowbridge of Cheyne Walk in Chelsea, then later today attempted to kill Lady Letitia Randall, also of London, by flinging her, bound, from the roof of this house.”

His lordship glanced around. “It is my judgment that Mr. Swithin is incapable of standing trial by virtue of his transparent insanity. I therefore order that he be confined within this house for the foreseeable future.” He turned to Mrs. Swithin. “My dear lady, I realize this is an onerous burden to place on your fair shoulders, but I must ask for a declaration that you are prepared to ensure that your husband never leaves these premises.”

Mrs. Swithin nodded decisively. “Yes. The staff and I are prepared to give our assurance that Mr. Swithin will remain confined within doors.”

“Thank you.” Lord Keating turned to Tristan. “That’s all we can do, I believe.”

“Indeed.” Tristan stood, holding out his hand to assist his lordship to his feet. “The last duty I believe we need to attend to is to compose a report for the authorities, to be conveyed back to London by Barton here.” Gathering the grateful runner with a look, Tristan turned his lordship to the door. “I assume there must be a study here somewhere?”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Swithin waved at her butler. “Please show their lordships to the master’s study, Pascoe.”