Of giving him, as she had long ago, her heart and soul, unconditionally.
Last time she’d done that naïvely, without a second thought—without any idea whatever of the dangers—and when she’d needed him by her side to protect her heart, he hadn’t been there. So her heart had been broken and, as she’d told him, she’d put the pieces away, locked them away and buried the key. That was the only way she’d been able to survive, to distance herself from the pain.
She still remembered the pain.
Given that, now he was back, now he was there once again in her arms, before she dug up the key, unlocked the casket, took out her heart, put it back together and handed it to him again, she had to be sure.
Absolutely, beyond all doubt sure that her heart would now be safe with him.
Once bitten, twice shy; in her case the old adage rang true. Regardless, she was going to have to make up her mind, and soon.
With him so intent on pressing his suit, in the next few weeks she would have to decide if what he was offering—all she would gain—was worth facing, accepting, and taking that risk again—this time with full knowledge of the pain she would endure if she agreed and her decision proved wrong.
She lay in his arms, cocooned in his strength, listened to the muffled thud of his heart—and knew in her heart that she was where she belonged.
If only there existed some guarantee.
Or at the very least some sign…
She was on the cusp of sleep when clarity shone, a beam sharpened by the prism of her waning conscious.
She knew she loved him—that wasn’t, never had been, a part of her dilemma.
The resolution to her dilemma lay in the opposing direction.
She had yet to be convinced that he loved her.
Loved her as she loved him, with her heart, her soul—with everything in her.
She was a Vaux—love was, for her, a grand, burning passion. She needed proof that he loved her in the same way—to the depths of his conqueror’s soul—before she again surrendered her heart and gave it into his keeping.
Sleep rolled over her and dragged her down, but the essence of that moment of clarity remained, lodged very firmly in her brain.
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.
The Edge of Desire Page 32
