The Edge of Desire (40 page)

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 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.

In South Audley Street, Letitia tried to keep her mind occupied, without much success. Hermione had been invited to a morning tea at Lady Hamilton’s town house, to meet with her ladyship’s daughters; Agnes had gone with her, leaving the house unhelpfully quiet.

Too restless to sit, Letitia drifted about her front parlor, repositioning ornaments, straightening curtains.

When Mellon entered to announce that Swithin had called to see her, she all but fell on his neck. “Yes—please show him in here, Mellon.”

She walked to one of the sofas and stood before it. When Swithin entered, she smiled. “Mr. Swithin.”

He came forward, politely grave. Taking the hand she offered, he bowed. “Lady Randall. I hope I see you well and that this time is convenient. Albeit belatedly, I wanted to pay my respects and convey my most sincere condolences on poor Randall’s death.”

“Thank you, Mr. Swithin.” With a wave, Letitia invited him to sit on the opposing sofa, and sank onto its mate. “Will you take tea?”

Swithin assented. Letitia rose, tugged the bellpull, then returned to the sofa. Mellon appeared almost instantly; while they waited for him to return with the tea tray, Swithin and she exchanged idle comments on the weather.

Once Mellon had reappeared with the tray and Letitia had poured and handed Swithin his cup, she raised her own, sipped, then said, “If you will, I would appreciate hearing any memories of my late husband you feel able to share. It seems I didn’t know him well.” Quite aside from being a distraction, it was possible Swithin might let fall some clue.

He nodded, set his cup gently on its saucer. “He, Trowbridge, and I were all born in Hexham. We grew up there, but we didn’t know each other until we met at the grammar school. Once we had…”

She listened while he gave her what was plainly a heavily edited account of Randall’s life, with more personal color than he’d imparted before, yet still carefully avoiding any mention of their lowly origins.

Eventually he came to the present. “I quite understand, of course, why Randall wanted to sell. Now that the company has served its purpose for all of us, there’s really no point retaining our interest, especially given the concomitant risk of exposure.”

Letitia nodded. “Indeed.”

Swithin looked slightly conscious. “Not, of course, that I wish to pressure you to sell. I agreed with Randall, and I
believe Trowbridge did, too, but perhaps you have reasons to want to hold onto the company.”

It wasn’t quite a question; she didn’t need to answer, yet if he agreed, and Trowbridge did, too…“On the contrary.” Letitia set aside her empty cup. “I’m absolutely determined to dissociate myself from the company with all possible speed.” She glanced at Swithin, realized she couldn’t read his expression at all well. Remembered he was known as a canny investor; presumably a poker face was something he’d cultivated. “As we all three agree that we want to sell, I’m hoping the matter can be arranged without delay.”

“Yes, indeed.” Swithin looked down, then leaned forward to hand her his empty cup. “In pursuit of that aim, I wonder if I might ask if I may take a look in Randall’s desk. In your presence, of course. When he suggested selling, I worked up some summaries of the latest profits. They will be useful to have when we’re deciding on a price—that’s why I gave them to him.”

Letitia frowned. “I can’t recall seeing any such papers.” She’d watched Barton’s search with an eagle eye.

“It might not be instantly obvious what they are.” Swithin stood.

Letitia rose, too. “Of course I wasn’t aware of the company at that time, so it’s possible I overlooked them.”

She led the way from the room, then diagonally down the hall to the study. She went straight to the desk. As her fingers brushed the edge, she heard the click of the door lock. Surprised, she glanced back.

Swithin stood just inside the door, his gaze locked on her. “We don’t want to be disturbed.”

She frowned; his manner had changed.
He
was now disturbing her.

His hand dipped into his coat pocket; he withdrew it—her eyes widened as she saw the small pistol he’d retrieved.

He leveled it at her. “No histrionics, please, or I’ll be forced to shoot you and flee.”

No histrionics?
Eyes locked on the pistol, Letitia swallowed an impulse to ask if he knew who she was. She blinked instead—and felt a most peculiar calm descend on her. “I’ve had people react to my temper before, but never with a weapon.”

Where the words, let alone her even diction, came from, she had no idea, but Swithin didn’t smile, didn’t react at all—which chilled her all the more.

“If you would open the door.” He waved with the pistol toward the secret door. “Please don’t pretend you can’t—it’s obvious you and Dearne found Randall’s room.”

She tried to think what to do—how to seize control—but her brain had stalled. Moving slowly, her attention helplessly locked on the pistol, she went to the window and depressed the catch hidden in the frame.

The bookcase popped ajar.

“Good. Now fetch the keys from Randall’s drawer—I know they’re there.”

She did, still moving with slow deliberation, while inside, panic of a degree she’d never felt before welled and swelled.

When she lifted the keys free, Swithin nodded. “Excellent. Now go down the steps and into the room.”

She hesitated, considering the pistol; its aim hadn’t wavered. If she screamed…given she’d screamed in this very room so often before, would Mellon react? Even if she screamed for help?

Regardless, searching Swithin’s face, she didn’t doubt he would do as he said; he’d shoot her and flee. There was something beyond desperate lurking behind his pale eyes.

An expression of impatience lent brief animation to his otherwise bland features. “If you would? We don’t have all day.”

His voice hardened on the last words; she’d dallied as long as she dared. She walked to the secret door, opened it wider, then went through and down, into the hidden room.

Swithin followed, dragging the panel closed behind him.

Halting in the center of the room, she faced him.

Swithin held out one hand, palm upward. With the other, he kept the pistol trained on her breast. “The keys.”

Drawing in a breath, trying desperately to think, she dropped them into his palm, fixed her gaze on his face. “You killed Randall.”

He met her gaze, his own unwavering. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“Because he wanted to sell the company.”

“But you would have got your share.” The longer she could keep him there, talking, the closer Christian would be.

“Indeed.” Swithin’s face tightened. “Much good would that have done me. I would have lost the steady, all but guaranteed income, which is what I currently desperately need.”

“But you’re wealthy—hugely wealthy.”

He sucked in a tight, tight breath; in a rigidly controlled voice he replied, “No. I’m not. I won’t bore you with the details, but thanks to two unscrupulous blackguards, almost all my capital is gone. Vanished.”

His teeth had clenched.

“But…” It took no effort to project confusion. “Why not simply tell Randall it didn’t suit you to sell? Neither he nor Trowbridge were in any great hurry, and as I understand it, they wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—forced you to sell.”

“No—but then they would have known.”

“Known what?”

“Known that I’d
failed
!” His hand fisted about the keys; for one instant his expressionless mask dissolved and twisted fury looked back at her. His lips curled; he spoke in a near hiss. “There they were, sitting pretty, Trowbridge with his art and Randall with you—they’d succeeded at our Grand Plan so much better than I. All I had was my money and my reputation—and now the money’s gone, my reputation is all I have left. If I’d told them, that would have gone, too.”

Frowning, truly puzzled, she shook her head. “But they
wouldn’t have told anyone—you could have sworn them to secrecy, especially considering your shared pasts.”

He looked at her as if she hadn’t understood a word he’d said. Then in a voice eerily devoid of emotion, stated, “
They
would have known.”

Pride. With a jolt of comprehension, she realized it was that—that
that
, a desperate clinging to pride in the face of fate, was what lay behind Randall’s death.

Juggling the keys, Swithin backed to the outer door, his expressionless gaze never leaving her. He glanced briefly at the lock—far too briefly for her to make the slightest move—then slid in the key. He unlocked the door, opened it, with the pistol motioned her through.

As she went past him, he murmured, “Remember—no sound, no fuss, and I won’t have to shoot you.”

If he wasn’t going to shoot her, what did he have planned?

Letitia walked the few paces to the lane door; as he moved past her to unlock it, she evaluated her options. She strained her ears, but could hear no maids in the lower yard, yet even if she could bring them running, Swithin would have shot her and fled long before anyone could reach her. The street outside—her nemesis Barton who was always there, keeping watch—was her best and only bet.