Roscoe inclined his head. “Very well. On that basis . . . in response to Randall’s fishing for buyers, I contacted him by letter. He came here . . .” Roscoe paused, then went on, “It was two days before his death. We discussed the sale—he’d had offers from others, Edson, Plummer, and Gammon, that I’m sure of, but none of them would take all the properties. They each wanted only certain ones, and there was overlap, so, quite aside from the price, if Randall went with any of them, things were going to get messy. So he and I sat and talked—we worked out an offer that satisfied us both. I agreed to take the entire company for a price he thought reasonable. Once the others heard I wanted the whole company, they would back off. Any further interest from them would only result in Randall making more, and while there’s no love lost between them and me, there was even less goodwill for Randall—essentially because he pretended to be something he wasn’t.”
“We’ve heard you had conditions,” Christian said, “and that you and he hadn’t yet shaken on the deal.”
Roscoe nodded. “I had two conditions Randall had to meet before I was prepared to do more than talk. The first is an obvious one—I wanted to see the books from each of the hells. I’m sure that wouldn’t have been a problem. The other condition was one peculiar to the situation.” Roscoe met Christian’s eyes. “As I’m sure you’ve discovered, Randall was the active partner of the three. Because of that . . .” Roscoe paused as if considering, then continued. “. . . and because of another piece of information which I suspect I was one of the few privy to, I asked Randall to provide a signed written statement from each of his partners to the effect that they were willing to sell their shares at this time.”
Trowbridge’s written statement. “Why insist on that,” Christian asked, “and what was the piece of information?”
Roscoe tapped a finger on his blotter. “I insisted primarily because I don’t have partners. I don’t have time for them—having any sort of partner would slow me down and generally get in my way. Although the Orient Trading Company is structured so it’s supposedly all or none for any sale to proceed, there’s ways around that, namely for the buyer—me—to take on one of their partners as my partner in a new company. That wasn’t going to happen. I made it clear I was only interested in acquiring the Orient Trading Company if I could buy it outright.”
“So it was all the shares in one deal, or no deal?” Dalziel asked.
“Just so.” Roscoe paused, then went on, “Obviously I would have asked Randall for those declarations anyway, but the reason I haven’t bothered to make any appointment with my bankers regarding the deal is because . . . well, frankly, I had serious doubts it would proceed.”
Justin’s eyes had narrowed. “You thought one of the other two wouldn’t sell?”
Roscoe nodded. “I made my offer for the company primarily to ensure it wasn’t sold to anyone else.” He paused, then went on, “That piece of information I mentioned came to me in a roundabout way. I was approached about an investment—it sounded an excellent prospect, but instinct reared its head and at the last I didn’t buy in. Naturally I kept an eye on what happened. The investment was a swindle, a very sophisticated one but a swindle just the same. Everyone who’d invested lost every penny they’d put in.”
“Swithin,” Christian guessed.
Roscoe met his gaze. “He was mentioned as one of the principal investors. The gentlemen behind the scheme specifically targeted the knowledgeable investors—they courted us, pandered to our vanity. That was what made me suspicious, but in Swithin’s case it apparently played into his hubris. His reputation went to his head, and he risked . . . a very great deal.”
“So, he’s what?” Justin asked. “Ruined?”
“No, but my sources suggest he’s very close to it, and he’s taking extreme care to hide the fact. He knows money, how to move it around, how to practice sleight of hand with it to conceal his state. But he’s already liquidated most of his other investments, and even his new wife’s portion is gone. He still owns two houses, one in London and one in Surrey, but when it comes to cash, he’d be lucky to lay his hands on two pennies to rub together.”
“But,” Dalziel said, “if he needs money so desperately, wouldn’t that make him more likely to sell, rather than less?”
Roscoe shook his head. “You’re forgetting what the Orient Trading Company is—it’s a cash-generating machine. Swithin has liquidated all the assets he can that don’t show. He desperately needs more cash, but he can’t sell his houses without people knowing—and if it becomes common knowledge that he—the canny, wily investor—was ruined by some smooth-talking swindlers, his reputation as a man to go to for investment deals will evaporate. His standing in the ton will be gone.”
Glancing at their faces, Roscoe went on, “My guess is that Swithin is counting on—banking on, if you will—the steady income from the Orient Trading Company to keep him afloat. If the company is sold and he gets his third share, it won’t be enough to cover his debts and generate any future income. But the company has always been a gold mine, and with that steady income behind him, he can go to a bank and take out a loan to cover his shortfall—the bank will look at the company’s income and happily agree.”
Roscoe leaned back in his chair. “What I suspect, gentlemen, is that Swithin is down to his last penny and was preparing to make that trip to the bank when Randall proposed selling the company. My understanding is that the three partners weren’t close, so Randall’s tack might well have come as a complete shock to Swithin, and given Randall was sitting in my office discussing the sale, it seemed Swithin hadn’t shared his situation with his partners. My request for a written statement from Trowbridge and Swithin would, I reasoned, force Swithin to tell Randall and Trowbridge of his difficulties, and that would be the last we’d hear of any sale, at least in the short term.”
He met Christian’s eyes. “All that said, I have no idea if Swithin killed Randall. I honestly can’t see why he would have—Randall and Trowbridge couldn’t have forced him to sell. However, I know he had a very good reason for not wanting to sell his share of the Orient Trading Company.”
Christian exchanged a glance with Dalziel and Justin, then looked back at Roscoe. “You’ve been a great help.”
They all got to their feet. Christian held out a hand. After a fractional hesitation—one induced by surprise—Roscoe gripped it.
Dalziel’s lips quirked; he nodded to Roscoe. Justin opted to shake the man’s hand.
Roscoe remained standing behind his desk while they walked to the door. As they reached it, he said, “Dearne, Vaux—you will remember our agreement. When all this is over, I’ll still want to buy.” His lips lifted slightly. “And I daresay the lady will want to sell.”
Justin nodded. Christian raised a hand in salute and followed Dalziel out of the door.
“Mr. Roscoe, my lord. My lady.”
Letitia rose from the chaise in the smaller drawing room of Allardyce House, Christian beside her. Her gaze fixed on the doorway as Percival stepped back; she would own to considerable curiosity over Neville Roscoe. Quite aside from the fact that she expected to divest herself of the troublesome business of the Orient Trading Company, everything Christian had told her of the mysterious Roscoe had only whetted her appetite.
Four days had passed since Swithin had tried to push her to her death; somewhat to her surprise, her fear-filled memories had all but immediately been overlaid by feelings of relief, and then happiness.
Christian had been responsible for both.
He’d also contacted Roscoe. She in turn had visited the house in Cheyne Walk, to tell Trowbridge and Honeywell all that had transpired, and to get from Trowbridge his written agreement to sell his share of the company if and when she did.
She’d also sent one of Christian’s grooms into Surrey with a letter for Mrs. Swithin confirming the business of the Orient Trading Company and the desirability of a sale, and the consequent need for a written agreement. She had received by re
ply the requested agreement, along with a declaration from Swithin’s solicitor, who had, most fortuitously, been in Surrey dealing with Swithin’s affairs.
So all was in readiness to effect the sale.
Roscoe appeared; he literally darkened the doorway. With his close-cropped dark hair, dark clothes, and cynical, dark blue eyes, he looked the epitome of a dangerous character. With an inclination of his head, he moved past Percival and approached them; he walked with the same arrogant, faintly menacing stride Dalziel employed. Not so much an intentional affectation as an expression of what, underneath the sophisticated glamour, they really were.
As he neared, she saw that Roscoe was as tall as Christian, but not quite as large, as heavy, his build more rangy, but in no way less lethal for that.
Christian extended his hand.
Roscoe quirked a brow—apparently at being accorded the courtesy—but gripped and shook nonetheless. “Good evening.”
It was after ten o’clock.
Christian inclined his head. “Thank you for coming.” He turned to her. “Allow me to present Lady Letitia.” He left out the Randall, she was quite sure deliberately.
Letitia gave Roscoe her hand, smiled as she looked into his face . . . and barely felt his fingers close about hers.
Barely heard his proper, “Lady Randall,” barely registered the rumble of his deep voice or his perfectly executed bow.
She knew, looking into his eyes, that she’d met him before—long ago, when they’d been in their teens.
She let her smile widen, and sensed his wariness grow. “I believe we’ve met before, Mr. Roscoe, although I can’t at the moment recall where. But then I expect you would rather I didn’t recall at all, so perhaps”—retrieving her hand from his suddenly slack grasp, she waved to the armchair opposite the chaise—“we should get down to business before I do.”
Roscoe cast Christian a look, then moved to comply.
Still smiling delightedly, Letitia sat and promptly took charge of the negotiations.
Much to Roscoe’s disquiet.
Realizing that the threat of her knowledge of his identity, plus the inherent difficulty a man like Roscoe faced in negotiating business with a female of Letitia’s class, played heavily into her hands—and that she was supremely well-qualified to capitalize on the fact—Christian sat back and left her to it.
She did well, extracting both a higher price and more favorable payment terms than Roscoe had expected to have to concede; that much was clear from the irritation that briefly shone in his dark eyes.
But he took it well.
When, all the details thrashed out and agreed upon, the written agreements from Trowbridge and Mrs. Swithin tendered and accepted, they all rose and Roscoe shook Letitia’s hand, there was a reluctantly admiring glint in his eyes. “I’ll have my man of business draw up the contract in conjunction with . . .” Roscoe cocked a brow at Christian. “. . . Montague?”
Christian nodded. “He’s under instruction to take over the management of Lady Letitia’s affairs.”
Roscoe’s lips quirked. “Naturally.” He looked at Letitia, hesitated, then said, “I understand felicitations are in order.” He bowed, inherently graceful. “Please accept mine.”
Letitia glowed. “Thank you.”
Straightening, Roscoe met her eyes. “And don’t try too hard to remember our previous meeting.”
She waved airily. “I doubt I’ll have time, what with all else that’s going on.”
“Good.” With that dry comment, Roscoe turned to Christian; this time he spontaneously held out his hand. “Dearne.”
Christian gripped his hand, entirely content with how the meeting had gone. “Come—I’ll walk you out.”
Roscoe bowed again to Letitia, then fell into step beside Christian as he headed for the door. While Christian opened it, Roscoe glanced back—at Letitia settling on the chaise to await Christian’s return.
Then he turned and went through the door.
As they passed down the corridors and into the front hall, Christian was aware of Roscoe glancing about—not so much taking note as breathing in the ambience. “Do you ever think you’ll return to”—he gestured about them—“tonnish life?”
Roscoe didn’t immediately reply. When they reached the front door, he turned and faced Christian. “Much as I might envy you the life you now have, I long ago realized it wasn’t in the cards for me.”
There was a finality in his tone that closed the subject.
Roscoe accepted his cane from Percival, then, when that worthy opened the door, nodded to Christian and went out into the night.
Christian watched him go, saw him disappear into the gloom before Percival shut the door. He stared unseeing at the panels for a minute more, then recalling all that awaited him in the smaller drawing room, he smiled, turned, and strolled back to embrace it.
And her. The love of his life and, God willing, the mother of his children.
From The Reckless Bride
January 5, 1823
City of London
Rafe met Gabriel on the pavement before the building in which Sir Charles Manning maintained a business office. Rafe glanced back at the unmarked black carriage that stood waiting at the curb half a block away. Loretta had accepted that dealing with Manning would be best left to men, but had wanted to be near to hear the results immediately.
Gabriel blew on his hands and glanced about. It was early afternoon, yet even in this season the city pavements were bustling with clerks of all descriptions scurrying hither and yon. “Roscoe should be here soon.”
Rafe nodded. Neville Roscoe’s involvement in their plan had been a surprise to everyone. Christian had suggested asking Roscoe, who apparently knew a great deal about the shady side of London business dealings, for his opinion on Manning and how best to deal with him. Montague, the highly respected Cynsters’ man of business, who also acted for Esme, had supported the suggestion; he, too, knew of Roscoe and patently valued the man’s insight.
Royce and Minerva had come down to London as Royce had more yet to do with bringing the charges against the Black Cobra. Rafe was staying with the ducal couple at Wolverstone House while Loretta had returned to her brother’s roof. But as soon as Manning was dealt with and Esme’s release from captivity assured, Rafe and Loretta would head into the country, first for a visit with Margaret, Loretta’s eldest sister, then to stay for a time with Rafe’s family, who were, after all these years, eager, even ecstatically so, to embrace him and his betrothed to their collective bosom.
All those involved in dealing with Manning had met the previous evening at Wolverstone House. Royce, Rafe, Loretta, Christian, Gabriel, and Tristan had all been present, as had Montague, and, to everyone’s surprise, Roscoe had sent word that he would attend, too.
When he’d arrived, Minerva had blinked, but then she’d smiled, welcomed him, then left them to their deliberations.
Roscoe had exchanged a look with Royce, but then had sat and told them what he’d learned of Manning’s business affairs. Montague had confirmed some points, but had been intrigued to hear of others, his attitude leaving little doubt he considered Roscoe’s intelligence sound.
Once all their information had been verbally laid on the table, they’d concocted a plan—a reasonably simple one they’d all felt would work.
However, while Roscoe had agreed that their plan would release Esme from any threat from Manning, he’d pointed out that the most likely result was that Manning would sell his shares to someone of similar ilk who would then take up where Manning had left off, and Esme and her fellow shareholders would once again be besieged.
Roscoe’s proposal to eliminate that risk had made them all blink, but Montague had seconded the idea, and after a moment’s consideration, Royce had given it his imprimatur as well. That had been enough for the rest of them.
Which was why Rafe and Gabriel were waiting for Roscoe to join them before confronting Manning in his lair.
The various bells
of London had just started tolling two o’clock when the tall figure of Roscoe, impeccably groomed, turned the corner. He saw them and strode briskly up.
Roscoe exchanged nods, then tipped his head toward the door. “You lead. I’ll play the part of silent and enigmatic supporter until we start explaining what will happen next.”
Feeling very much like he was leading another charge, Rafe led the way up the narrow stair. They walked into Manning’s outer office without knocking, awed the crafty-looking secretary and sent him scurrying into the inner office to announce their presence and convey their desire to speak with Manning on a matter of urgency regarding Argyle Investments.
Less than a minute later, they were shown into Manning’s inner sanctum.
The man himself—a gentleman, well-dressed, elegantly turned out, of middle age and just a touch portly—rose from the chair behind a large desk. “Gentlemen.” His gaze flicked from Gabriel to Rafe. “I take it you are the Mr. Carstairs who has recently become betrothed to Miss Michelmarsh?”
Their engagement had been announced in the Gazette three days before. Rafe nodded. “Indeed.” He gestured to Gabriel. “I assume you’ve heard of Mr. Cynster.”
“Ah, yes.” Manning’s expression suggested he couldn’t understand what Gabriel was doing there; the uncertainty took the edge off his arrogant assurance.
Especially when neither Rafe nor Gabriel made any move to offer their hands. Nor did Rafe introduce Roscoe, who had hung back by the wall just inside the door.
An awkward pause ensued, then, considerably more sober, Manning waved to the chairs before the desk. “Please be seated, gentlemen.”
They all sat; Roscoe subsided into a straight-backed chair against the wall. Rafe hid a smile. Christian had warned that while Manning wouldn’t recognize Roscoe by sight, learning his name would have a definite effect. Apparently Roscoe ran a number of questionable enterprises with an iron fist, but the code he adhered to was rigid, unbreakable; he was one of the few men in London guaranteed to put the wind up a slippery practitioner like Manning.
The Lady Risks All Page 47
