The Edge of Desire

by Stephanie Laurens

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 w
hispers, 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.”