Montague studied the list they’d prepared for him. “Which brings me to my reservation as to tracing any of these ‘customers’ through the banking system. When I investigated the payments into the company’s accounts, I turned up a most surprising finding. All the inward payments—every last one—are in cash. They always have been. And that, to me, is the most curious, and indeed suspicious, aspect of this case.”
He tapped their summary with one finger. “As you’ve noted, the sums are quite often staggeringly large, yet whoever is paying those sums never uses a bank draft or other monetary instrument. Given the regularity of payments, that’s very odd.”
When he fell silent, studying their list, Letitia asked, “You can’t trace cash payments back to whoever pays them in, can you?”
Montague shook his head. “There’s no record kept of who pays the money in, only of the money itself—the amount and its destination.”
Christian grimaced. “So there’s no way forward—”
“No, wait.” Letitia spoke over him, still focused on Montague. “These are regular payments.” She leaned over the desk to point at one entry. “Look at this one—made into what we’ve called account number two. This customer, whoever they are, makes a sizable payment into that account every Monday. So every Monday, someone actually goes into a bank somewhere and pays a large amount of cash into that account.” She caught Montague’s eyes; suppressed excitement lit hers. “Can we learn which branch of which bank?”
Montague blinked. His gaze grew distant. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yes. I’m certain we can.”
“Excellent.” Intent and determined, Letitia looked at Christian. “As we need to know why these people are paying huge sums to the Orient Trading Company, might I suggest we simply approach them and ask?”
They left Montague energized, throwing himself and his people into the task of identifying which particular bank branches were used to pay the largest regular amounts into each of the three company accounts.
“I need to attend an at-home this morning.” Letitia glanced at Christian as the hackney picked its way along Piccadilly. “It was recommended that I attend.”
He raised his brows. “By whom?”
“Lady Osbaldestone.”
“Ah.”
“Indeed. So you may drop me in South Audley Street. I’ll meet you at the Bastion Club later this afternoon.”
Christian nodded. After escorting her up the steps and into Randall’s house, he paid off the hackney and walked the short distance to Grosvenor Square. Crossing the square, he entered his own house; he hadn’t spent much time there in recent days.
He’d barely settled behind the desk in his study, his accumulated correspondence piled before him, when Percival opened the door to announce, “Lady Cordelia, my lord.”
His aunt swept in. Christian inwardly sighed and laid aside his letter opener. He’d long suspected that Cordelia posted a footman to keep watch on his house from hers across the square whenever she wanted to see him; others had difficulty catching him when he didn’t want to be caught, but he rarely succeeded in avoiding her.
“Yes, aunt?” he inquired, resigned and mild.
Resplendent in rose-striped figured ivory silk, Cordelia flopped into one of the armchairs before the desk. “I’ve heard whispers that you and some of your friends are busy investigating Randall’s financial concerns.” Her gaze grew acute. “So what’s going on? You may as well tell me, for I mean to pester you until I receive a reasonable account.”
Viewing the firm set of her lips, the determined glint in her eye, Christian rapidly sifted through what they knew and their current tack. “From revelations contained in Randall’s will, we discovered that he was engaged in a business of sorts. We’re still establishing the details, but it seems likely some disagreement on that front led to his murder.”
Cordelia narrowed her eyes, reading between his lines. “Not Justin Vaux?”
He raised his brows. “A Vaux involved in business? What a fanciful notion, Aunt.”
Cordelia humphed. She sat digesting the little he’d revealed, no doubt wondering if he might reveal more. He picked up an envelope, slit it, extracted the paper from within, glanced at it, then laid it aside and looked at her again. “Was there anything else?”
She studied him for a moment, as if debating whether to speak. “As a matter of fact, there is something else. A related issue—namely Letitia Vaux, or Randall as she now is.” Cordelia eyed him shrewdly, trying to see past the mask his face had become. “She might be a widow, but you could do very much worse than ask for her hand, as I’m sure you’re aware. Very good ton, the Vaux. And, of course, once this nonsense over Justin having murdered Randall blows over, as you and your friends seem bent on ensuring…well, once that’s resolved, there’s nothing in the way of you and Letitia marrying.”
When he reacted not at all, simply sat and watched her in stoic silence, Cordelia dropped all pretense and grimaced. “Lord, boy, I know you’ve been dragging your feet over choosing your bride, but choose you must, and if—as I strongly suspect—it’s that old business with Letitia that’s behind your reluctance, well, no need to hang back now, is there?”
When, eyes wide, she pointedly waited for some response, Christian merely nodded. “Indeed.”
Cordelia snorted. “Damn me if you don’t get more like your father every day.”
Christian smiled quite genuinely. “Thank you.”
Cordelia flapped a hand at him and rose. “You’ll go your own road regardless, just as he did, but I wanted to drop a word in your ear. If it’s Letitia Vaux you want, then tie her up fast, because once this business is settled and done, and she comes out of mourning, she’ll be mobbed.”