The Edge of Desire

Chapter 16

Christian considered it one of life’s great ironies that he couldn’t take Randall’s place as Letitia’s husband until he’d uncovered the man’s murderer.

He could be her lover-her only lover-but he couldn’t press her to accept his suit until she was free of the tangled web of Randall’s life. Not because there was any social stricture preventing her from accepting him, but because-he knew her-she wouldn’t.

Until they succeeded in divesting her of any association with gaming hells, and freed Justin from all suspicion of Randall’s murder by exposing the real culprit, his chances of getting her to agree to a wedding were slim to none.

As he tooled his curricle along the embankment, he hoped that interviewing Trowbridge would advance his cause.

Letitia usually found the river distracting, but not today. When Christian checked his pair and turned into Cheyne Walk, she scanned the houses, then pointed. “That’s it.”

A short gravel drive led to a set of white-porticoed steps; Christian drew his horses to a halt before them. Leaving the reins with his groom, he descended and rounded the carriage. Handing her down, he arched a brow at her. “Do you think, this time, that I might lead the questioning?”

He was asking in all sincerity. She wrinkled her nose at him. “As interrogation is more your forte than mine, yes, all right. You can do the talking.”

She’d already lectured herself on the wisdom of keeping her twin objectives-to rid herself of the gambling hells and clear Justin of suspicion by finding Randall’s killer-firmly in the forefront of her mind, to not let herself be distracted by either Christian’s agenda or her own sometimes overly dramatic nature. She’d reminded herself that no matter how insistent the compulsion to dwell on Christian and the possibilities he’d placed before her, and on the ultimate question of whether he truly loved her as she loved him, nothing could be decided until her twin objectives had been met and the detritus of her marriage to Randall cleared away.

Placing her hand on Christian’s sleeve, she let him lead her up the steps to a lovingly polished wooden door, where a kindly looking butler stood waiting.

Christian smiled his easy social smile. “Lord Dearne and Lady Letitia Randall to see Mr. Trowbridge, if he’s in.” As it was barely eleven o’clock; chances were that Trowbridge hadn’t yet stirred beyond his doors.

The butler bowed low. “Indeed, my lord. If you and Lady Randall will follow me, I’ll inform Mr. Trowbridge of your arrival.”

He showed them into an airy room, full of light and color. Letitia immediately felt herself relaxing, and reminded herself of their purpose. Still, it was difficult not to respond to the pale lemon-on-white decor, the perfectly balanced arrangement of furniture, art, and beautiful flowers.

The room wasn’t overtly sumptuous but seductively comfortable, a haven for the senses.

Noting a painting of the river above the mantelpiece, Letitia crossed to examine it. Deciphering the signature reminded her; she looked at Christian. “Rupert Honeywell’s a painter. Why did Dalziel warn you he might be here?”

Christian held her gaze for a moment, then said, “Honeywell was in my year at Eton.”

She raised her brows. “How did Dalziel…oh, of course. He must have been two years or so ahead of you.”

“So I’ve always assumed, but, of course, I didn’t know him then-I can’t recall him. He, however, has a memory that’s impossible to overestimate.”

She laughed, then turned to the doorway as footsteps approached.

Trowbridge appeared, dressed in much the same fashion as the first time they’d seen him, yet it was instantly apparent that in his own home he was much more at ease.

With a ready smile, he crossed to take Letitia’s hand. “Lady Randall.” He exchanged nods with Christian. “Dearne.” Then he waved. “Please, sit.”

Letitia chose the sofa. Christian sat beside her, while Trowbridge sank into one of two armchairs facing them.

Crossing one leg over the other, he regarded them with gentle interest. “Now, how may I help you? I take it this visit isn’t about art.”

Letitia found herself returning his smile. She was about to reply when Christian’s hand closed about hers.

“No,” he said, his voice uninflected, “it’s not. In the wake of Randall’s death, Lady Randall discovered that as Randall’s principal heir, she has become part owner of the Orient Trading Company, along with you and Mr. Swithin. We’ve subsequently learned that you, Randall, and Swithin all attended Hexham Grammar School, in the same year, all as governors’ scholars. Presumably the friendship you formed at that time survived through the years, to your arrival in London and the establishment of the company.”

Christian paused, reassessing how much of their knowledge to reveal. He’d initially intended to keep a great deal back, but, as before, when Letitia had first approached him, Trowbridge appeared encouraging, almost as if he were eager to talk and was only waiting for the proper, polite moment to do so. “We have, of course, now learned what the business of the Orient Trading Company is, but in the interests of gaining a better understanding, so Lady Randall might decide what to do with her share, we thought to approach you and ask if you would tell us about the company’s origins, and how it operates.”

Trowbridge beamed. He gestured expansively. “You perceive me only too ready to do so.” He looked at Letitia, then at Christian. “I hope you understand that I wasn’t prepared to speak the other day, not about Randall and our association, not until I knew you’d learned about the company.”

“If I might ask,” Christian said, “why was that?”

“Because I much preferred you to learn of the company through Randall’s association with it, not directly from me, or, indeed, Swithin. Once you’d had time to assimilate Randall’s connection with such an enterprise, as I told Swithin, we then stood in no danger of you exposing Randall’s-or our-less than acceptable source of income. Such a revelation would harm Lady Randall as much as myself and Swithin, perhaps more.” He inclined his head ruefully to Letitia. “Such is the nature of our world.”

“Indeed.” Christian waited for Trowbridge’s gaze to return to him. “I take it our world is one the three of you set out to join from your days at school?”

“Oh, indeed.” Trowbridge sat back, hands folded in his lap. “We had a terrible time of it, our first year. But then Randall discovered how much the other boys-all of whom came from much wealthier families-liked to gamble. But he, and we, quickly learned that if you gamble, you’re just as likely to lose as to win, even when you grow skilled. But Randall saw another way to turn their hobby into our career. Indeed, into our future. He started organizing gambling nights in a local barn. He charged admission, and took a small percentage of the winnings. We-Swithin and I-were his lieutenants. We quickly discovered that we’d found a way to make money-a steady stream of it.”

Trowbridge paused, then his lips lifted wryly. “Of course, we were still not accepted by the other boys. Out of that-because of that, you might say-we came up with our Grand Plan. Our thesis, as it were, was that as people we were all the same, that it was only circumstances that set us apart. Through those other boys, we saw that money, lots of it, combined with the right sort of behavior, the right sort of dress and so on, could see us pass for members of the ton. Not the aristocracy-that was aiming too high-but the higher gentry, members of the upper ten thousand? That we could become.”

Letitia was fascinated. “So what was your Grand Plan?”

“We studied our peers-those boys, and as we grew older, young gentlemen we wanted to be. Alongside that, we continued to develop our business by providing the right environment, the right inducements, to get those same peers to pay us for the privilege of parting with their cash.” Trowbridge smiled. “It was ridiculously easy. As our peers grew older and went to university, so did we-but not as students. Our den in Oxford was our first serious venture into what eventually became the basis of the company’s business.”

He paused, gaze distant, as if looking back down the years. “It wasn’t always plain sailing, but Randall was the primary organizer, I had the flair to grasp what our customers wanted, and Swithin was our cautious, painstaking calculator. He was the one who always ensured we had a position to fall back to if things went wrong. As they inevitably occasionally did in those early years.”

“So by the time you came to London…” Christian prompted.

“We were entirely confident. We’d worked through all the hurdles in Oxford, and then later when we set up a den in Cambridge.”

“Do those still operate?” Christian asked.

Trowbridge nodded. “Oh, yes. Two of our most lucrative venues. London, however, required more care in selecting the right properties and finding the right staff. We were wealthy enough by then to take our time-and if I do say so myself, the years have proved us right in doing so. We’ve never had to close a hell once it opened, and only twice in all our years have we had to dismiss a manager. The entire network of hells-twelve in London, one each in Oxford and Cambridge-is now very well established.” He met Letitia’s and Christian’s gazes, and smiled. “These days there’s precious little for us to do other than keep the books, which Randall always did, and watch the money roll in.”

“We’ve learned,” Christian said, “that there are three company bank accounts, each with a group of four hells paying in, and each group was managed by one of you alone. Why was that?”

“Our Grand Plan,” Trowbridge said. “It was always our intention to become accepted by the ton-that was the end point of our game, our ultimate aim. We knew that to achieve that we needed to maintain absolute secrecy about the source of our wealth. So from our Oxford days we were very careful to limit any chance of exposure-the fewer people who even knew of our threesome, the better.”

“So that was why you, Randall, and Swithin hid your friendship?” Letitia asked.

Trowbridge nodded. “We agreed it was the best way to conceal even the possibility of the existence of the company. If by any chance it became known that one of us owned a gambling hell, there was no reason for anyone to suspect the other two. That’s why I was so surprised by Randall mentioning me in his will-he’d always been the most insistent about us not meeting socially, or even greeting each other as anything more than passing acquaintances-but of course he hadn’t expected to die when he did.”

“Randall’s secret room must have been a godsend,” Christian remarked.

“Oh, it was! So like Randall, to buy a house with a secret room. No one other than the three of us knew of it, at least as far as I know.”

“Did you have keys to the outer doors?” Christian asked.

Trowbridge laughed. “Dear me, no! Randall was positively paranoid about security-I’m quite sure he never gave those keys to anyone. No-when he wanted to see us, he’d send a note via a street urchin. He’d set a time, and the doors would be open so we could simply walk in. He was usually waiting in the office, although if the discussion wasn’t about something in the books, we’d often go into his study. More comfortable there.” His face clouded. “I heard he was killed there-in his study.”

Christian nodded. He waited a beat, then asked, “Have there been any recent developments with the company?”

“Yes, indeed. We’d decided to sell.” Trowbridge looked at Letitia. “Of course, that’s now on hold, as it were, until you decide what you wish to do. The way the company is set up, we all have to sell, or none of us can-at least not for anything like full value.”

Letitia opened her mouth; Christian closed his hand hard about her wrist. Ignoring her resulting stare, he asked, “What prompted your decision to sell?”

Trowbridge opened his eyes wide. “It wasn’t anything in particular, but Randall had reached the stage of deciding that continuing to court exposure was no longer necessary, or indeed wise. He had a canny instinct for when to draw back, and indeed, when he approached me I was only too ready to agree. We’re all very well established financially, all with significant income from investments and the like-all of us entirely accepted by the ton, as we have been for years-there was simply no reason we needed to continue with the company. I suppose, as Swithin and Randall would say, it had become more an unnecessary liability than a vital asset.”

“So you all agreed to sell.” Christian watched Trowbridge carefully. “When was this?”

“Quite recently. A few weeks before Randall’s death. He suggested it, I agreed, Swithin presumably did, too, and so Randall started the process, whatever that was. I always left that sort of thing to him, and so did Swithin. Business was Randall’s forte.”

“Did anything come of his…process?”

“Yes. He told me he had a buyer, and then, a few days before he was killed, he asked me for a letter stating that I agreed to sell my share at the same time he sold his.” Trowbridge met Christian’s eyes. “He told me the prospective buyer had requested the assurance, which I was happy to give, of course.”

“Did Randall tell you the name of this prospective buyer?”

“No.” Trowbridge shrugged. “But that wasn’t unusual. He might have told Swithin-because he might have thought to ask. For me it made no difference who bought the company as long as they paid a fair price-and I knew I could trust Randall to secure that.” He looked at Letitia. “Have you any idea whether you’ll want to sell or not?”

It was all Letitia could do not to leap on the suggestion, but mindful of Christian’s eye on her, aware of his fingers braceleting her wrist, she arched her brows regally and prevaricated. “Having only recently learned what my late husband’s business entailed, I’ll need to take stock and consult with others before making any decision.”

Trowbridge smiled easily. “Of course. You must take whatever time you need. Swithin doesn’t seem fussed either way, and neither am I. We’ll accept whatever decision you make-that was, in some ways, part of our motto, you know-all for one and one for all.”

Letitia found herself smiling back. Trowbridge was engaging, yet utterly unthreatening; she could see why so many ladies vied for his time.

“My dear, you’ve failed to offer your guests some refreshments. It is after eleven.”

The drawl from the door drew all eyes. A gentleman-he was undoubtedly that despite his rather unusual attire-well-cut breeches and a soft shirt topped by a long, dun-colored coat that hung straight from his shoulders to brush his highly polished boots-stood in the doorway idly observing them through heavy-lidded dark eyes.

Letitia glanced at Trowbridge. His smile had grown warmer.

He made an elegant gesture toward the newcomer. “Allow me to present Lord Rupert Honeywell. Lady Letitia Randall and Lord Dearne.”

Honeywell’s eyes passed over Letitia and Christian, lingered for an instant on Christian, then he bowed elegantly. “Charmed, my lady.” Straightening, he nodded to Christian. “Dearne.”

“Be a dear, Rupert, and ring for Cuthbert. Tell him to bring tea.” Trowbridge looked back at Letitia. “You will stay and take a cup, won’t you?”

Letitia smiled back. “I’d be delighted. Thank you.”

Cuthbert was summoned; tea, in an exquisite service, was duly delivered. At Trowbridge’s invitation, Letitia poured. When she complimented him on the china, Trowbridge insisted on showing her some of his treasures.

A half hour passed pleasantly. Although initially standoffish, when neither she nor Christian made any comment on what was plainly a ménage, Honeywell thawed. At Trowbridge’s suggestion, he took Letitia to view his canvases, set out in a little room off the front hall. As they were of excellent quality, she found no difficulty enthusiastically complimenting him.

At which he thawed even more.

Christian stood in the doorway to the small room. The instant Letitia turned from Honeywell’s last painting, he caught her eye. “We need to leave, I’m afraid.”

She smiled and made her farewells. He did the same, but with greater reserve.

As he took his leave of Trowbridge, he handed him a card-one inscribed with the Bastion Club’s address. “If you think or hear of anything that might bear on Randall’s murder, or on the sale of the company, please send word. I’m acting for Lady Randall in this matter.”

Trowbridge took the card, cast a questioning glance at Letitia. When she nodded, he smiled and put the card in his pocket. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

Outside, Honeywell handed Letitia up. Christian climbed up and took the reins. With a flourish of his whip, he set his horses trotting. Letitia waved, then sat back with a sigh.

After a moment she said, “That was a great deal more entertaining than I’d expected.”

He glanced down at her face. “There’s one thing you shouldn’t forget.”

She met his eyes, arched her brows. “What’s that?”

He had to look forward to manage his horses. “Trowbridge is an excellent candidate for Randall’s murderer.”

He took her back to Allardyce House for a late luncheon. He was getting very tired of Randall’s house, and of Barton hovering outside.

When he mentioned the man, Letitia snorted. “He has a one-track mind.”

“Which, now that I think of it,” Christian said, ushering her down his front hall, “does have its benefits-he’s stuck to the South Audley Street house like a leech and hasn’t been following us.”

“True. I suppose that’s something in him one can give thanks for.”

Percival sat her at the dining table in the chair beside Christian’s. As he took his seat, Christian glanced at her and decided that when-when, not if-she sat at this table on a permanent basis, whenever they were alone she would sit beside him, not at the far end of the long table as custom decreed.

Custom was often overrated.

As the dishes appeared, whisked in and out by the ever-efficient Percival and his minions, they discussed all they’d gleaned from their visit to Chelsea. As Hermione wasn’t present, they could speak freely. Letitia commented on the bond between Trowbridge and Honeywell.

“For all that he’s a typical, moody, broody painter-and yes”-Letitia raised her fork in acknowledgment-“I do realize I speak as a Vaux-I got the impression that they’re both very settled and content.”

She paused, staring unseeing across the table, then shook her head. “I really can’t see Trowbridge as Randall’s murderer. He’s…serene, content-he’s reached that point in life where he has all he wants, and he knows it. He has no ambition for more-doesn’t a murderer need ambition? Something to drive him?”

Christian grimaced. “Usually.” After a moment he asked, “What of Honeywell?”

Letitia snorted. “He’s even less likely.” She cocked a brow at him. “You saw his paintings, didn’t you?”

“I saw them-I didn’t study them.”

“Well, you should have. With the…” She waved her hand. “…intensity and focus he pours into his paintings, I’m surprised Honeywell has sufficient energy left to have any connection with anyone. His relationship with Trowbridge must absorb all that he has left in him-murder-any violent emotion-I really don’t think he could summon the strength.”

Christian knew she wasn’t talking of physical strength, and when it came to analyzing emotions, as a Vaux she was particularly well-qualified. Folding his napkin, he set it aside. “Very well. I agree that on an emotional basis neither Trowbridge nor Honeywell measure up well as the murderer, at least not based on what we know at present.”

“Hmm.” Letitia reached for her glass, took a long sip, then said, “At least Randall had the sense to set up this pending sale of the company. As Trowbridge is willing to sell, and Swithin is as well, there’s no reason I can’t rid myself of the encumbrance with all speed.”

Christian frowned, and checked his memory. “Trowbridge assumed Swithin agreed because Randall went ahead with organizing the sale. It didn’t sound like Trowbridge knew for certain what Swithin had said.”

Letitia frowned. “But Randall wouldn’t have gone ahead with organizing the sale if Swithin hadn’t agreed.”

“He might have.” If there was one thing with which Christian was willing to credit her late husband, it was that the bastard had to have been an expert at manipulation. “If Randall wanted to sell-and as he suggested it, we can take that as read-and Trowbridge was very willing-and that, as you’ve pointed out, is also highly believable-then if Swithin didn’t agree, but his disagreement wasn’t strong, then yes, I think Randall would have gone ahead and organized the sale, believing that once the deal was imminent, Swithin would fall into line-and that explains why Randall needed that letter from Trowbridge. He would also have needed the same from Swithin.”

Letitia frowned. “Why?”

“Because the potential buyer-or buyers-were clever enough to suspect that Randall didn’t truly have the agreement of both his partners.” Christian reassessed all they’d learned, measured it against what he’d just posited. He nodded. “We need to see Swithin and learn what he has to say about this proposed sale before you make any declaration of intent.”

Letitia humphed. “Your years as a spy are showing-you’re seeing deception and deceit where there is none.”

He was unmoved. “Better safe than sorry.”

Pushing back from the table, Letitia looked at the clock above the long marble mantelpiece. “In that case-as you insist-let’s go and talk to Swithin. Where does he live?”

Christian looked at her, tried to think of some way to distract her.

She frowned and narrowed her eyes at him. “I know you know, and I’m not going to be distracted, so just tell me and save us both the next hour.”

He looked into her eyes, saw her determination, inwardly sighed. “Swithin’s London house is in Curzon Street-just around the corner from South Audley Street. He’s usually in residence during the week.”

“Perfect!” Letitia stood. “It’s just after two o’clock-a perfectly acceptable time to call.”

Mr. Swithin, his butler informed them, was in. The butler showed them into a scrupulously neat drawing room; a minute later he returned to conduct them into his master’s study.

From behind a wide, highly polished oak desk half covered beneath stacks of papers, Swithin rose and held out his hand. “Lady Randall?”

Gliding forward, Letitia shook his hand, then waved at Christian. “Allow me to introduce Lord Dearne. He’s advising me in the matter of the Orient Trading Company.”

“Ah. I see.” Swithin shook hands with Christian, then waved them to the comfortable chairs set before the desk.

Letitia sat, mentally cataloging all she could see and sense. Swithin was a very different sort to either Trowbridge or Randall. Both the others had displayed a certain self-confidence Swithin appeared to lack. Where Trowbridge had been watchful, Swithin was wary; he reminded her forcibly of a rabbit, ready to bolt down his hole the instant Christian made a threatening move.

The analogy was so apt-so perfectly described the way Swithin eyed Christian-that she had to sternly suppress a laugh.

“Mr. Swithin,” Christian began-they’d again agreed that he should, in the main, handle the interview-“as you no doubt realize, on Mr. Randall’s death Lady Randall inherited his share of the Orient Trading Company. Consequently, we’ve been attempting to learn about the company and how it operates. We now know what the business of the company is, and the mechanics of its day-to-day operation, but we’d like to ask if you can tell us more about the company’s history, and its present state.”

Swithin didn’t immediately reply. He nodded slowly, as if collecting his thoughts. When he spoke, it was in a quiet, collected, largely unemotional tone. “Randall, Trowbridge, and I first met at Hexham Grammar School. There…”

For all his reserve, Swithin told much the same story Trowbridge had, confirming the relevant facts-their common history, their Grand Plan, the development of their business and its consequent evolution into the Orient Trading Company. He also described their meetings in Randall’s secret room, the notes Randall would send via urchins to summon them, the unlocked doors whose keys only Randall had.

When Christian asked, Swithin revealed that in recent years-the last two, at least-he and Trowbridge hadn’t met. Randall had taken to seeing them separately, but, Swithin remarked, there had been nothing in that beyond Randall’s obsession with secrecy.

In addressing the present state of the company, and its proposed sale, Swithin’s account differed in only one respect from Trowbridge’s.

When Christian questioned the point, Swithin shook his head. “No, indeed. Randall approached me about the sale several weeks before his death, and for much the same reasons as no doubt drove him and Trowbridge, I agreed. After that, I heard nothing more from Randall-he sent no message to set up a meeting-although I’m sure he would have once he had anything further to report.”

Christian pressed. “So Randall didn’t ask you for a written statement that you would sell your share at the same time he did?”

His expression bland, Swithin met Christian’s gaze directly. “No. I didn’t hear back from him at all.”

Christian fell silent.

After a moment Swithin added, a faint frown forming, “As I didn’t hear back from Randall, I have no idea who his prospective buyer was-it’s a pity Trowbridge didn’t think to ask, but that’s typical of him. It seems that Randall was killed before he could see me and ask for the written statement.”

Swithin switched his gaze to Letitia. “If I may ask, Lady Randall, what are your feelings regarding the sale of the company? As I’m sure Trowbridge mentioned, it was our policy to stick together, so if you wish to retain the company, we will, of course, not pursue the sale.”

Letitia waved airily. “I fear I’m not ready to even consider such matters. Lord Dearne is collecting the relevant information and I’m sure will eventually advise me of how the company stands vis-à-vis Randall’s estate, and how I stand in relation to both.” She added a vague smile for good measure; Swithin, she suspected, was the sort of man who expected women to be vague and flighty, especially about money and business. “I suspect it will be some little time before I can form any opinion on a sale.”

Swithin held his hands wide, paternalistically soothing. “There’s absolutely no reason for any rush.”

Politely inquiring, he looked at Christian. “Is there anything else?”

There wasn’t. Christian rose, assisted Letitia to her feet, and they took their leave.

They walked back to Randall’s house, summoned Letitia’s carriage, and directed the driver to the Bastion Club.

Leaning back against the squabs, oddly comforted by the large, warm body beside her, Letitia considered her impressions of Trowbridge and Swithin, contrasted that with her memories of Randall. “You know, while in retrospect there were some very telling oddities in Randall’s makeup, I would never have suspected him of being a farmer’s son. He’d…I suppose you might say ‘lost the roughness,’ long ago-he was certainly polished enough to pass muster. As for Trowbridge, he’s so flamboyantly at ease in the ton, no one would suspect him of being a tradesman’s brat. But Swithin…he’s so quiet, so retiring, so patently avoiding notice, that that would, I think, if I didn’t know his background, make me wonder.”

She thought, then grimaced. “I might have wondered why he was so retiring, but I seriously doubt I would have questioned his antecedents.” After a moment she said, “I would have thought him-do think him-a trifle out of his social depth.”

“It’s the way he watches people,” Christian said.

She nodded. “Yes-as if he fears getting caught out. As if he knows he’ll need to think before he reacts, and so has to watch carefully so he doesn’t make a mistake. Neither Randall nor Trowbridge were like that. If one were assessing how well each had performed in their Grand Plan, while all three succeeded in being accepted by the ton, Randall and Trowbridge were completely at ease, entirely confident of their place, but Swithin still doesn’t feel secure in his.” She glanced at Christian. “Is that how he struck you?”

He nodded. “Not entirely comfortable, not assured, but no one would ever guess why.”

“True. Most would simply think him a quieter, more nervous sort-which he is.”

The carriage drew to a halt before the club’s gate. Christian alighted and helped Letitia down. Inside, they discovered Justin in the library, along with Dalziel, Tristan, and Tony.

“Jack sends his regrets,” Tony informed them.

But Letitia’s gaze had fixed, fulminating, on her brother. “What are you doing here?”

Her tone suggested there was no answer she would find acceptable.

Justin merely raised his brows. “Better I come here than get eaten by boredom to the extent I slip my leash and go on the town.”

Christian watched as Letitia narrowed her eyes, but an inability to bear boredom was something she understood. In the end she sniffed and turned away-fixing Dalziel with a look dark enough to have him defending himself with, “He’s safe enough.”

Letitia’s expression said he’d better be. She consented to sit; with, Christian suspected, identical inward sighs of relief, all the men sank into armchairs.

“We spoke with Trowbridge, and then later with Swithin.” He seized the stage and outlined what they’d learned, especially the concept of the men’s Grand Plan, which made sense of many things.

“I heard back from Oxford and Cambridge,” Dalziel said. “I can confirm those hells of theirs are still operating, and are known to rake in large sums from the more well-heeled students. Both hells are tolerated because they don’t encourage excessive drinking, actively discourage womanizing, and by and large keep the students off the streets.”

“So both Trowbridge and Swithin told exactly the same story,” Christian concluded, “which suggests that, at least in what they told us, they were telling the truth.”

A knock on the door heralded Gasthorpe. He bore his silver salver, which he presented to Christian. “From Mr. Montague, my lord.”

“Thank you, Gasthorpe.” Christian opened the missive with the small knife on Gasthorpe’s salver; while the majordomo retreated, he unfolded the note and read, then looked up. “I sent to Montague earlier to ask how many different regular payments were made into the company’s accounts. The answer is fourteen, which matches the number of hells.”

“Twelve hells in London, and one each in Cambridge and Oxford.” Tristan raised his brows. “Anything else?”

Christian nodded. “Montague confirms that those fourteen regular payments-the profits from the hells-account for the entire income of the Orient Trading Company. It appears that once established, as all the hells now are, each hell runs its own books for upkeep and all day-to-day running costs. What appeared in the fourteen property ledgers we found were the initial costs to set up each hell-the furniture, decorating, salaries, and so on for a time, until the hell could pay its way. Subsequently, all profits were paid into the three company accounts. Those fourteen hells form the sum total of the company’s assets-there’s nothing else within the company we need consider.”

“Nothing else?” Letitia muttered. “I would have thought fourteen gambling hells was quite enough.” She looked around the group. “Did anyone learn anything about this sale Randall was organizing?”

“I heard rumors, whispers, and so did Jack,” Tony reported. “But neither of us could unearth anything definite.”

Tristan nodded. “I found much the same-the prospect of a sale of fourteen highly profitable hells has naturally caused ripples in the murky pond of the underworld, but while my contacts had caught whispers, including some names, none move in the right circles to have heard anything certain.”

The London underworld was Christian’s arena, as all his colleagues knew. He thought, then said, “There are only so many operators who could aspire to buy such a portfolio of properties. I doubt any of the others would band together, so that leaves us with Edson, Plummer, Netherwell, Gammon, Curtin, Croxton, and of course Roscoe.”

Tony’s, Jack’s, and Tristan’s contacts had mentioned all the above except for Gammon and Croxton.

“No hint who the leading bidder might be?” Dalziel asked.

Tristan shook his head. “No one even seemed sure that a sale had as yet been agreed upon.”

Christian glanced at Dalziel. “There’s a wealth of suspects in that list alone. Together with the others-Trowbridge, Swithin, any disgruntled managers, employees, or patrons-we have a plethora of potential murderers.”

“All of which suggests,” Letitia acerbically said, “that selling the holdings of the Orient Trading Company with all possible speed, so I can wash my hands of this entire business, is the most sensible thing to do.”

All the men looked at her.

Leaving it to Christian to, very mildly, say, “Actually, no. All we’ve learned argues for extreme caution, and that you should avoid any mention, however slight, of any intention to sell until we catch Randall’s murderer.”

She looked at him, harassed frustration plain in her face. “Why?” She delivered the single word with a level of dramatic force only a Vaux could command.

“Because,” he replied, clinging to his mild, unchallenging tone, “as things stand, it remains very likely that Randall’s move to sell was what provided the motive for his murder.”

For a long moment she held his gaze, then she pulled a face. “Very well.” Her tension left her. “So what now?”

“Now,” Dalziel said, “we need to learn, definitively and absolutely, if Randall had chosen a buyer. If his negotiations had proceeded to the point where he’d made a decision, and even perhaps taken the first steps toward formalizing the sale.”

“Trowbridge and Swithin both made it clear Randall was the primary active agent when it came to running the company, and Montague confirmed that,” Christian reminded them. “So the fact they don’t know any details about a pending sale doesn’t mean it hadn’t progressed to the point that Randall had shaken hands on a deal.”

“If he had,” Tony said, “then given the hells and their profits, I’d place the bidder who missed out at the top of my suspect list.”

“Possibly,” Christian replied. “But I know who to ask for definite information, at least as to who the interested parties were and how far the sale had progressed.”

Dalziel cocked a brow at him. “Gallagher?”

Christian nodded.

“If you’re going to visit Gallagher,” Tristan said, “you’ll need someone to watch your back. I’ll come, too.”

“And as two is always better than one,” Tony quipped, “so will I.”

Letitia frowned and tried to catch Christian’s eye.

But he was looking at Tony and nodding. “Tonight, then. Let’s meet here at eight.”

Tristan and Tony agreed. “Eight,” Tony said as the men all stood. “Ready for an evening in the stews.”

“What did Torrington mean-an evening in the stews?”

Swiveled on the seat of her carriage, Letitia looked into Christian’s face.

He waved. “Just a figure of speech. A joke of sorts.”

She frowned direfully. “I know you’re not planning an evening of dissipation. What I wish to confirm is that you are, indeed, planning on going into some dangerous, far from salubrious area of the slums, there to meet with some man named Gallagher, who’s the sort of acquaintance with whom both Trentham and Torrington judged you need physical support.” She glared at him. “That’s what I’m asking-as you damned well know!”

Christian’s lips lifted; he tried to straighten them. Reaching out, he closed a hand around one of hers. “Sssh. You’ll scare your coachman.”

“He’s been with me for years. I could scream and he-and his horses-would simply plod on. Don’t change the subject.”

“Which subject was that?”

“The subject of you swanning off on some dangerous enterprise at the first opportunity.” She wasn’t sure why the point so exercised her; it simply did. “Bad enough you were gone for twelve years plunging into God knows what dire situations, but there’s no reason-none whatever-that you need do so now, and certainly not on my account.” Perhaps that was it? Yes, obviously. “I don’t want you on my conscience. All very well to have Torrington and Trentham at your back-who’s going to be protecting your front? You men never think. I want you to promise me you won’t-absolutely will not-take any unnecessary risks. Any undue risks-for that matter I think this whole excursion qualifies as an undue risk. Learning about the likely buyer might be important-especially as I wish to pursue the sale-but I’m sure if we just wait, he’ll contact us, or Trowbridge or Swithin. You don’t have to go and consult some nefarious underworld figure-I assume from the fact that Torrington and Trentham both knew his reputation that he’s some sort of criminal magnate-who knows what he’ll demand in return?”

Her voice was rising, growing suspiciously unsteady. Christian squeezed her hand. “Meeting Gallagher’s price won’t be a problem.”

“He’ll have a price? Great heavens-he should help you for the honor of it, in repayment of his debts. You’re a damned war hero, and I’m quite sure he-whoever he is-has never bestirred himself in the service of his country.” She barely paused for breath. “I’m really not happy about any of this.”

“Yes. I know.” Raising her hand, Christian placed a kiss on her fingers just as the carriage rocked to a halt outside the house. He’d always wondered how she’d viewed his secret service; now he knew-she thought him a hero. He’d always wondered if she’d worried about him while he’d been on the Contintent; apparently she had. To now hear her so agitated over him perversely left a warm glow about his heart.

Releasing her, he opened the door, stepped down, then helped her to alight. Meeting her gaze levelly, he calmly stated, “Regardless, I’ll be meeting with Gallagher tonight.”

She made a frustrated sound like steam escaping. She went to wave her arms, but he’d kept hold of her hand.

Smiling, he raised it and kissed her fingers again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and tell you what I learn.”

She blinked at him. “Tomorrow? What about tonight?”

Releasing her, he stepped back and saluted, battling a grin. “No telling what time I’ll get back. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Turning, he sauntered off up South Audley Street. He could feel her dagger gaze boring into his back, but he didn’t glance back.

He didn’t whistle, but he felt like it.

Seeing Barton’s carroty head peeking over the edge of another set of area steps, he waved and, surprisingly content, continued on his way home.