Just a look-one pointed, intent glance-and, inwardly grumbling, she grudgingly shut her lips.

Folding her arms again, she fixed Barton with a chilly-icily furious-look.

He glanced her way, then returned his gaze to Christian and nodded. “I’ll be on my way, then.” He bobbed a general bow, then turned and left.

At a nod from Christian, Mellon followed, closing the door-the inches-thick oak door-behind him.

The instant it shut, Letitia let her temper loose. “How dare he!” She drew a huge breath. And raved on.

Christian glanced at Hermione. Although she remained silent, she clearly egged her sister on, agreeing with every dramatically and forcefully elucidated sentiment. Her enthusiastic “Hear, hear!” was clear in her eyes, in her whole being.

Resigned, he leaned back against the edge of the heavy desk and watched Letitia rant and pace, then rant some more. No one ranted like a Vaux-they had the activity down to a fine art. He was quietly amazed at how inventive she still was; colorful phrases and strikingly adverse comparisons-“addlepated, imbecilic moron with less wit than a dormouse”-tripped from her tongue with barely a pause for breath.

Better to let her get it out of her system. That was the Vaux’s folly, their foible; all that natural energy had to be released.

Eventually finishing her dissection of Barton, his progenitors, and potential offspring, she swung around.

And fixed him with a fiery glare. “And as for you-how could you? You slapped him down well enough to begin with-and I thank you for that-but after one agreement, one halfway reasonable comment, you patted him on the head and let him go! Worse-you all but promised to share whatever we find!” Halting a pace away, she glared into his eyes; with him propped against the desk, hers were level with his. “What the devil were you thinking?”