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-
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
