The Edge of Desire

was brutally murdered. Consequently, through his will, I learned I’d inherited a third share of the company he managed, the Orient Trading Company.”

The woman clearly knew the name.

Encouraged, glancing at Christian and receiving a tiny nod in reply, Letitia looked back at the woman. “Subsequently, I and”-she waved at Christian-“others acting on my behalf, have been trying to establish just what the business of my late husband’s company was. We know that you regularly, every Monday, pay in a large sum to one of the company’s accounts. If you would, I’d like you to explain to us what that payment is in relation to.”

The woman frowned. “It’s the week’s takings.”

Letitia blinked. “The week’s takings from what?”

“From the hell,” the woman replied.

“The hell?” Feeling suddenly unsteady, Letitia felt behind her for the chair.

Frowning more definitely, the woman looked at Christian. “That’s what this place is. Rigby’s-one of the most exclusive hells in London, if I do say so myself.” She looked from Christian to Letitia. “I’m Mrs. Rigby. I run the place.”

Letitia sank into the chair. “And Randall?”

“Owned it.”

When Letitia stared blankly and said nothing more, Mrs. Rigby went on, “I came to work for Mr. Randall…well, it’d be all of twelve years ago. He was setting this place up and needed someone who knew the ropes to run it. I’ve been here, running it, ever since.”

Letitia blinked. “So I own one of the most exclusive gaming hells in London.” Not a question. On the one hand she couldn’t believe it; on the other, faced with the evidence, with her evolving premonition, she did.

“Not just one,” Mrs. Rigby informed her, effectively reclaiming her attention. “I don’t know how many Randall had in his stable-I don’t know anything about any other accounts-but I do know of at least three other hells in this neighborhood who pay into the same account we do.” She paused, then added, “Not that we’re supposed to know about each other-Randall was always very careful, and never let on he had any other properties-but we do talk, those of us who manage the major hells.”

Christian thought of the entries they’d found for furniture and decoration, of the fourteen slim ledgers Tony had described as property ledgers.

Letitia continued to stare at Mrs. Rigby. “Not one, but a stable of gaming hells.” Her voice, weak before, had gained in strength.

Sensing a Vaux storm brewing-entirely understandably-Christian shifted, drawing Mrs. Rigby’s attention. “Did you ever meet any of the other partners in the company?”

Mrs. Rigby shook her head. “No. I never knew there were any other partners to meet.”

Christian nodded. He was starting, finally, to get the lie of Randall’s land. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out his card case. “If any others approach you, either saying they’re Randall’s partners or wishing to take the business over, send word to me at this address.” He handed Mrs. Rigby a card.

She took it, read it. Her brows rose. She looked at him. “Grosvenor Square?”

He met her gaze. “I act for Lady Randall.” He glanced at Letitia.

She caught his gaze, then looked at Mrs. Rigby and nodded. “Indeed. Please send word if you hear anything at all. We’re in the process of sorting out Mr. Randall’s affairs, and need to know anything pertinent-including if there’s any interest in the business from others.”

Consciousness passed behind Mrs. Rigby’s eyes. Christian noted it. “Have you heard anything?”

Startled, Mrs. Rigby looked at him, then she grimaced. “Not so much heard as…there’s been a rumor, the veriest whisper, going around that Randall was thinking of selling. Not just this place but his whole operation. Who to, I-and the other owners I know-never heard, but you may be sure there’d be a lot of interest in the businesses, at least all those I know of.”

Given the sums regularly pouring into the company’s accounts, Christian could well believe that. He nodded to Mrs. Rigby. “Thank you.” He caught Letitia’s eye. “We won’t take up any more of your time.”

Letitia rose. “Indeed.” There was an almost feverish light in her eyes as she pulled on her gloves. “We have rather a lot to deal with.” She swung around and headed for the door. “Do remember, Mrs. Rigby, to send word if there’s any query about the business.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Rigby fell in at Letitia’s heels. “I’ll send Tiny with a note. That way I’ll know it gets to the right place-no one gets in his way.”

Letitia glanced back at the giant, and nodded. “Yes-I can see how that might be.” She continued her march toward the door.

The butler whisked about and preceded her down the corridor to the front door, there to bow her out with all due deference. Mrs. Rigby came, too, to stand at attention and nod a careful farewell.

Christian followed Letitia down the front steps. When the door shut behind them, she halted on the pavement.

He joined her. She was still rather viciously tugging at her gloves.

Her eyes were narrow slits of fury. “You know, I lied.”

“Oh?” He kept his tone mild. “How so?”

“I swore I would never have killed Randall. But if someone hadn’t already done the deed, if-when-I found out about this-his secret business-I would definitely have murdered him myself!”

Suppressed rage fell from her in waves. She swung around and stormed off, back toward Shaftesbury Avenue. “Let’s find a hackney and get back to the club.”

Abruptly she halted. Christian nearly ran into her.

He steadied her, his hands on her shoulders.

She stared straight ahead, as if she’d seen an apparition.

“I just realized…” Her voice was too calm. Terribly calm. “…if on this account alone I’m the part owner of four hells, and each regular deposit is a different hell, including for those other two accounts, then…”

Her voice faded away.

Fourteen hells, Christian thought. Soothingly, he said, “We don’t know that yet.” His hand at her back, he urged her on. “Let’s get back to the club and see what the others have learned.”

“You, it appears, are the part owner of a company running an extensive string of high-class gambling hells throughout London.” Dalziel considered Letitia. They’d all returned to the club and gathered in the library to report on what they’d found. Along with Christian and Letitia, Dalziel, Tristan, Tony, and Jack Hendon were all seated in armchairs forming a circle before the empty hearth.

Letitia didn’t respond to the startling summation; she appeared to be mentally elsewhere.

“They certainly went to considerable effort to minimize any chance of outsiders learning of their involvement.” Tony Blake spoke to the room at large. “Each hell manager knew only one of the partners, and had no idea any other partners existed.”

Christian nodded. “The payers into each bank account are answerable to a different partner-Randall handled all the hells paying in at Rothchild’s, Trowbridge handles those depositing at Child’s, while Swithin oversees those paying in via Barkers.”

Dalziel and Tristan had found themselves visiting a hell in Newport Place, not all that far from Rigby’s in Wardour Street, while Tony and Jack had been led to an establishment in King Street, not far from Covent Garden.

“If the three hells we’ve visited are anything to judge by,” Christian said, “then it seems the company targeted the very creme de la creme in terms of young gentlemen with money to lose.”

Dalziel shifted. “I asked around after we left-the hell in Newport Place is known as an establishment that rash young men with more money than wits simply have to patronize.”

“You know,” Tristan said, “in terms of making money from the ton, Randall, Trowbridge, and Swithin have demonstrated a fine appreciation of what will work in attracting young gentlemen.”

“That’s what they learned at Hexham Grammar School,” Christian dryly remarked.

“Which is all very well,” Letitia suddenly said, “but says nothing to my purpose. I don’t give a fig for whatever