The Edge of Desire

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 whispers, 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.”

“Trowbridge and Swithin both made it clear Randall was the primary active agent when it came to running the company, and Montague confirmed that,” Christian reminded them. “So the fact they don’t know any details about a pending sale doesn’t mean it hadn’t progressed to the point that Randall had shaken hands on a deal.”

“If he had,” Tony said, “then given the hells and their profits, I’d place the bidder who missed out at the top of my suspect list.”

“Possibly,” Christian replied. “But I know who to ask for definite information, at least as to who the interested parties were and how far the sale had progressed.”

Dalziel cocked a brow at him. “Gallagher?”

Christian nodded.

“If you’re going to visit Gallagher,” Tristan said, “you’ll need someone to watch your back. I’ll come, too.”

“And as two is always better than one,” Tony quipped, “so will I.”

Letitia frowned and tried to catch Christian’s eye.