The Edge of Desire (36 page)

“My dear, you’ve failed to offer your guests some refreshments. It
is
after eleven.”

The drawl from the door drew all eyes. A gentleman—he was undoubtedly that despite his rather unusual attire—well-cut breeches and a soft shirt topped by a long, dun-colored coat that hung straight from his shoulders to brush his highly polished boots—stood in the doorway idly observing them through heavy-lidded dark eyes.

Letitia glanced at Trowbridge. His smile had grown warmer.

He made an elegant gesture toward the newcomer. “Allow me to present Lord Rupert Honeywell. Lady Letitia Randall and Lord Dearne.”

Honeywell’s eyes passed over Letitia and Christian, lin
gered for an instant on Christian, then he bowed elegantly. “Charmed, my lady.” Straightening, he nodded to Christian. “Dearne.”

“Be a dear, Rupert, and ring for Cuthbert. Tell him to bring tea.” Trowbridge looked back at Letitia. “You will stay and take a cup, won’t you?”

Letitia smiled back. “I’d be delighted. Thank you.”

Cuthbert was summoned; tea, in an exquisite service, was duly delivered. At Trowbridge’s invitation, Letitia poured. When she complimented him on the china, Trowbridge insisted on showing her some of his treasures.

A half hour passed pleasantly. Although initially standoffish, when neither she nor Christian made any comment on what was plainly a ménage, Honeywell thawed. At Trowbridge’s suggestion, he took Letitia to view his canvases, set out in a little room off the front hall. As they were of excellent quality, she found no difficulty enthusiastically complimenting him.

At which he thawed even more.

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 am
bition 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 cov
ered 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.”