Abruptly, silence fell, then the door opened.
The woman they’d seen at the bank entered, the giant once again in her train. The butler, Christian noted, hovered by the open door.
The woman came to stand at the front corner of the desk, facing Letitia. Little showed on her handsome face, yet she seemed wary.
Letitia got to her feet. Both she and Christian were taller than the woman, but neither were taller than the giant, who lumbered around to stand behind the woman, openly protective. He’d removed his cap, exposing a balding pate; the face beneath was unprepossessing in the extreme—Christian suspected he’d been a pugilist in earlier years.
Having confirmed Letitia’s quality, and his, the woman drew in a breath. Hands clasped before her, she fixed her gaze on Letitia’s face. “You’re Lady Randall—Mr. Randall’s wife, I assume?”
Letitia nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.”
The woman straightened, her gaze shifting to a point by Letitia’s right shoulder. “I understand you wish to speak with me, ma’am.”
Letitia inwardly frowned; the woman was behaving like a housekeeper. “Yes.” Where to start? “As you may or may not know, Randall died unexpectedly.” Brows rising, she amended, “Well, not to put too fine a point on it, he was brutally murdered. Consequently, through his will, I learned I’d inherited a third share of the company he managed, the Orient Trading Company.”
The woman clearly knew the name.
Encouraged, glancing at Christian and receiving a tiny nod in reply, Letitia looked back at the woman. “Subsequently, I and”—she waved at Christian—“others acting on my behalf, have been trying to establish just what the business of my late husband’s company was. We know that you regularly, every Monday, pay in a large sum to one of the company’s accounts. If you would, I’d like you to explain to us what that payment is in relation to.”
The woman frowned. “It’s the week’s takings.?
?
Letitia blinked. “The week’s takings from what?”
“From the hell,” the woman replied.
“The hell?” Feeling suddenly unsteady, Letitia felt behind her for the chair.
Frowning more definitely, the woman looked at Christian. “That’s what this place is. Rigby’s—one of the most exclusive hells in London, if I do say so myself.” She looked from Christian to Letitia. “I’m Mrs. Rigby. I run the place.”
Letitia sank into the chair. “And Randall?”
“Owned it.”
When Letitia stared blankly and said nothing more, Mrs. Rigby went on, “I came to work for Mr. Randall…well, it’d be all of twelve years ago. He was setting this place up and needed someone who knew the ropes to run it. I’ve been here, running it, ever since.”
Letitia blinked. “So I own one of the most exclusive gaming hells in London.” Not a question. On the one hand she couldn’t believe it; on the other, faced with the evidence, with her evolving premonition, she did.
“Not just one,” Mrs. Rigby informed her, effectively reclaiming her attention. “I don’t know how many Randall had in his stable—I don’t know anything about any other accounts—but I do know of at least three other hells in this neighborhood who pay into the same account we do.” She paused, then added, “Not that we’re supposed to know about each other—Randall was always very careful, and never let on he had any other properties—but we do talk, those of us who manage the major hells.”
Christian thought of the entries they’d found for furniture and decoration, of the fourteen slim ledgers Tony had described as property ledgers.
Letitia continued to stare at Mrs. Rigby. “Not one, but a stable of gaming hells.” Her voice, weak before, had gained in strength.
Sensing a Vaux storm brewing—entirely understandably—Christian shifted, drawing Mrs. Rigby’s attention. “Did you ever meet any of the other partners in the company?”
Mrs. Rigby shook her head. “No. I never knew there were any other partners to meet.”
Christian nodded. He was starting, finally, to get the lie of Randall’s land. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out his card case. “If any others approach you, either saying they’re Randall’s partners or wishing to take the business over, send word to me at this address.” He handed Mrs. Rigby a card.
She took it, read it. Her brows rose. She looked at him. “Grosvenor Square?”
He met her gaze. “I act for Lady Randall.” He glanced at Letitia.
She caught his gaze, then looked at Mrs. Rigby and nodded. “Indeed. Please send word if you hear anything at all. We’re in the process of sorting out Mr. Randall’s affairs, and need to know anything pertinent—including if there’s any interest in the business from others.”
Consciousness passed behind Mrs. Rigby’s eyes. Christian noted it. “Have you heard anything?”