The Edge of Desire (23 page)

“Two years old,” Christian replied. “Recent enough.” He looked at Justin. “Any ideas?”

Justin grimaced. “I’ve seen Randall speak with Trowbridge, and Swithin, too—I only know their names because he mentioned them in passing. On different occasions, each stopped him to have a word when he was with me—although they stepped aside, I got the impression it was simply that—a word or two. Nothing of deep import. But…” He grimaced again, and looked at Letitia. “If one goes by how people stand—how close, how relaxed they are—then it did seem as if he knew them well.”

“It sounds as if Swithin and Trowbridge go on our list of potential friends-cum-murderers.” Dalziel raised a brow at Justin. “Can you think of anyone else—anyone Randall classed as friend, whether by word or deed?”

“I’ve spent the last days racking my brains, but other than Trowbridge and Swithin, who I did recall, there’s no one else I can name, or even point to. Looking back, it’s really quite bizarre, but Randall simply didn’t appear to have the usual circle of male acquaintances all other gentlemen do.”

Frowning, as they all were, Tristan asked, “How did he spend his evenings? Surely he must have had some social circle of sorts?”

It was Letitia who answered. “He spent a lot of his evenings in his study. Often to all hours. Business, he said, although I never knew what.” She grimaced. “I had no interest in knowing, so never asked.” She paused, then added, “And I’m not sure even if I had asked, that he would have told me. He was rather secretive about his financial affairs.”

“That’s true.” Justin looked at Tristan. “He probably spent half his evenings out—sometimes with Letitia at dinners, and sometimes trawling the clubs, but at least in the latter case, on the times I went with him or saw him out and about, it always seemed that he was there to see and be seen, not to do anything specific like meet someone or play cards or dice. He’d walk through the rooms, stopping and
chatting with whoever was there. If you watched him long enough, you’d see him just keep walking until he’d passed everyone, and then just walk out again. Most never noticed, but I did because I watched—it always struck me as deuced strange.”

A moment passed, then Dalziel said, “So we have Swithin and Trowbridge as possibilities, and no one else. What do we know of them?”

Letitia shook her head. “I never encountered them with Randall—I never heard him mention them, nor heard that they’d called at the house. Swithin I’ve never met at all—I know nothing about him. Trowbridge I have met socially—we’ve been introduced.” She glanced around. “He’s something of an authority on paintings and sculpture, and as the latter is currently very popular with the ladies of the ton, Trowbridge is in demand. When I met him it was at a private exhibition of figurines—he was one of the critics the hostess had invited. But that’s all I know of him, although courtesy of Randall’s will, we now know he lives in Chelsea.”

“That’s more or less all that I managed to learn about Trowbridge,” Tristan put in. “As his and Swithin’s were the only names I turned up, I asked around very quietly. Trowbridge seems well established within the ton. All I heard about Swithin, however, was that he was known as a canny and very private investor.”

“Clearly we need to learn more about Trowbridge and Swithin.” Having stolen his thunder, Letitia turned to Dalziel. “I presume you haven’t heard anything from Hexham yet?”

Dalziel shook his head. “I’ve sent word to contacts I have there—they’ll visit the grammar school and see what they can find, but it’ll be a day or two yet before they send anything back. However, I also made inquiries through other, closer sources, hoping to turn up something on Randall. Unfortunately, all I turned up were negatives—he’s never been in any of the services, never attached to any government department or embassy, never had a position in any ministry, royal house, or parliamentary enterprise. Nor was
he ever connected with the church—as deacon, sexton, or any such capacity.”

Letitia wrinkled her nose. “So my late husband remains an enigma.”

No one argued.

Christian broke the silence. “Have any of you heard of the Orient Trading Company?” When they all shook their heads, he went on, “Randall owned a third of the company—we should find out who the other owners are. It’s possible that company affairs provided someone with a motive for murder.” He looked down at his notebook. “Letitia and I have to visit Montague anyway, to ask what he’s learned regarding the original source of Randall’s wealth, and now also to give him the details of Randall’s estate so he can give us an estimate of its worth. As part of that, he’ll need to assess the Orient Trading Company—I’ll ask him to ferret out the other owners, and whether the company is profitable, too.”

“Do.” Dalziel looked around. “It seems we all have clues to pursue. I’ll continue to see what I can uncover regarding Randall’s background. I’ll also see what I can learn about the company.”

Tristan nodded. “The Orient Trading Company sounds like an import-export business—I’ll see what I can learn of them around the docks and through the shipping companies. Alongside that, I’ll keep pursuing Swithin—we know far too little about him.”

“Indeed.” Letitia glanced at Christian. “I’m sure I can arrange to come up with Trowbridge socially—that might be the best way to approach him about his connection with Randall. I could mention the bequest.”

Christian nodded. “Good idea. I’ll go with you. We’ll concentrate on Trowbridge. Otherwise, for the company and Randall’s finances, it’s Montague we most need to alert—we’ll do that as soon as we can.”

They all rose, pleased to have something to sink their teeth into. All except Justin, who clearly felt left out.

“You’ll just have to grin and bear it,” Letitia informed
him, “for I’ll never forgive you if you give that weasel Barton the satisfaction of taking you up.” She hugged him. “Stay…where you’re told to stay, and don’t be a nuisance.”

Justin rolled his eyes but settled back into a chair to read a book readily enough. Dalziel had already departed, having ordered Justin to be ready to leave the club at two the next morning.

Letitia followed Christian down the stairs. “Dalziel at least is taking the threat of the authorities seriously.”

Christian snorted. “He should know—he’s one of the authorities’ ultimate threats.”

Gasthorpe, as ever efficient, had a hackney waiting. Letitia climbed in; Christian told the jarvey to take them to South Audley Street, then joined her.

To find her frowning at him. “What about going to see Montague?”

He shook his head. “It’s nearly five o’clock. We’d never make it in time—he’ll have left his office before we reach it.”

“But—” She stared at him. After a moment she asked, “Don’t you know where he lives?”

Her impatience had resurfaced. “No.” Then he added, “And even if I did, I wouldn’t use the knowledge. There’s nothing he could accomplish tonight.”

Slumping back against the seat, she grumped, “He could
think
.”

Leaning back, he smiled, caught her hand and held it. “We’ll go and see him first thing in the morning. Until then, you’ll simply have to possess your soul in patience.”

Patience was not a Vaux trait. Letitia wasn’t sure she had a patient bone in her body. However…she did have other matters to attend to—even if she hadn’t yet divined just how she was supposed to eradicate the assumption that appeared to have lodged with quite ridiculous firmness in the majority of the grande dames’ minds.

That evening she stood in the middle of the Marchioness of Huntly’s drawing room, and wondered where—and
how—to start. While she’d assumed Christian’s appearance beside her in her carriage in the park the previous afternoon would engender a certain amount of speculation, she hadn’t anticipated just how rabid and deep-rooted that speculation would be.

Her initial intention—to simply ignore all comments—had been rendered ineligible when her hostess, one of the most influential females in the ton, had commented, in her calm, collected, commanding voice, on how pleased she was to see Letitia and Christian together again.

Huh!
They were together in the sense he’d escorted her there—but together in the wider, long-term sense, in the sense of having a future together…as to that, she still didn’t know.

And the last thing she wanted was to get hemmed into a corner by the ton’s expectations. To have her decision effectively taken out of her hands—she was perfectly aware that could happen if the ton’s assumptions were allowed to grow unchecked. Admittedly, as a Vaux she could ultimately do whatever she pleased and the ton be damned—something the ton, perversely, would accept as perfectly normal for a Vaux—but she currently had enough scandal in her life; she didn’t need to court more.

And she would infinitely prefer that the grande dames stopped watching her and Christian like beady-eyed eagles.

Or was that gossipy vultures?

Regardless, the conclusion was obvious—she needed to pour ice-cold water all over the ideas blossoming beneath the various coiffures bobbing about the room.

Around her, the guests at the extremely select soiree filled the elegant room with a multitude of murmuring voices. With Randall so recently dead, soirees of this nature were the only “entertainments” she felt it was permissable for her to attend. Of course, ever since Randall’s sensational demise, the flow of invitations had dramatically increased, ladies she barely knew inviting her to afternoon teas and the like.

Much good would it do them. She’d chosen to attend the marchioness’s event because she’d known all the most influential ladies—those whose thoughts she most needed to monitor—would be present. Beyond managing the opinions society held of her, Justin, and her family in general, she had little interest in social affairs, not with Justin in hiding and Randall’s killer as yet unmasked.

And Randall proving even more peculiarly secretive in death than he had in life.

She’d left Christian with a bevy of gentlemen discussing political affairs; neither he nor she needed support in this arena.

Surveying the company, she wondered which grande dame she ought to approach first.

A sharp rap on her arm—not from a hand but the head of a cane—answered her question. Summoning a delighted smile—perfectly genuine; she knew who her accoster was, and no lady was more relevant to her task—she turned and met a pair of obsidian eyes. “Lady Osbaldestone! How lovely.”

She didn’t curtsy—Lady Osbaldestone’s title was inferior to her own; instead she grasped her ladyship’s beringed fingers, squeezed gently as she leaned in to touch cheeks.

“Well, miss.” Lady Osbaldestone transfixed her with an incisive gaze. “So you’re a miss again, after a fashion, and not a moment too soon in my opinion. You wasted enough years with that man—I can’t say I view his demise as any great loss. And I see Dearne’s come to his senses, which is exactly as it should be.”

“Dearne’s been a great support in tracking down Randall’s murderer.” Letitia knew she had to adhere firmly to that line; her ladyship had one of the shrewdest brains in the ton. “I fear I wouldn’t have known where to start.”

Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes regarded her unblinkingly. A second ticked past, then her ladyship said, “To be blunt, my dear, I’d heard that the authorities had your brother firmly at the top of their list.”

Letitia waved dismissively. “You know what the authorities are like—they have to have
some
name on their list, so they put Justin’s on it. As his is the
only
name they have, ergo he’s at the top, but that will change once they have the correct suspect.”

“And Dearne is helping you locate this suspect?”

“Indeed. He was kind enough to agree to assist. With his background, he’s the perfect gentleman for the job.”

Her ladyship’s lips quirked. “Indubitably.” A subtle smile curved her lips. “I doubt, my dear, that you’ll find many who will argue that point.”

Letitia blinked, replayed her words—and inwardly cursed. She hadn’t been referring to Christian’s past with her. She quickly said, “His experience in…er, covert operations, as I believe they’re termed, has proved very valuable—”

She broke off; from the amusement glowing in Lady Osbaldestone’s black eyes, she wasn’t advancing her cause. Where were the right words? Ones that weren’t ambiguous?

“I quite understand, dear.” Lady Osbaldestone patted her hand in a way that suggested she truly did. “And here comes Helena—you must tell her precisely what you told me. She won’t have been so entertained in years.”

Letitia had to fight to keep her eyes from narrowing as they both turned to greet the shorter, slighter—but no less powerful—Duchess of St. Ives, or Dowager Duchess as she preferred to be styled in a very public attempt to spur her only son, now the duke, into marrying.

“My dear Letitia!” The duchess enveloped her in an exuberant, scented embrace, touching first one cheek, then the other, to hers. “Such a happening! I would offer my condolences, but then again, while I did not know your late husband well, one cannot imagine that his absence is devastating.”

The duchess was French. Outrageous was her middle name. She could give—and over the years had at times given—the Vaux a run for their money.

“Letitia was just telling me that Dearne’s been helping her find Randall’s murderer.” Lady Osbaldestone leaned on her cane.

“Excellent!” The duchess opened her lovely pale green eyes wide. “So useful to have a gentleman about who has more than one string to his bow,
nein
?” She beamed at Letitia.

Who inwardly sighed. If she decided to break with Christian, she would simply have to weather the scandal.

Nevertheless, while she chatted with Lady Osbaldestone and the duchess, then after parting from them, with various others, she continued to adhere to her story that he was merely helping with the investigation into Randall’s death. Nothing more.

Much good did it do her. Her aunts Amarantha and Constance were a case in point; they cornered her, literally, and demanded to be told all.

“Such a wonderful thing—well, I know one is not supposed to say that over a death,” Constance quickly amended, “but really it’s very hard to mourn Randall. I’ve tried to think of him, but it seems we hardly knew him.”