Startled, Mrs. Rigby looked at him, then she grimaced. “Not so much heard as…there’s been a rumor, the veriest whisper, going around that Randall was thinking of selling. Not just this place but his whole operation. Who to, I—and the other owners I know—never heard, but you may be sure there’d be a lot of interest in the businesses, at least all those I know of.”
Given the sums regularly pouring into the company’s accounts, Christian could well believe that. He nodded to Mrs. Rigby. “Thank you.” He caught Letitia’s eye. “We won’t take up any more of your time.”
Letitia rose. “Indeed.” There was an almost feverish light in her eyes as she pulled on her gloves. “We have rather a lot to deal with.” She swung around and headed for the door. “Do remember, Mrs. Rigby, to send word if there’s any query about the business.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Rigby fell in at Letitia’s heels. “I’ll send Tiny with a note. That way I’ll know it gets to the right place—no one gets in his way.”
Letitia glanced back at the giant, and nodded. “Yes—I can see how that might be.” She continued her march toward the door.
The butler whisked about and preceded her down the corridor to the front door, there to bow her out with all due deference. Mrs. Rigby came, too, to stand at attention and nod a careful farewell.
Christian followed Letitia down the front steps. When the door shut behind them, she halted on the pavement.
He joined her. She was still rather viciously tugging at her gloves.
Her eyes were narrow slits of fury. “You know, I lied.”
“Oh?” He kept his tone mild. “How so?”
“I swore I would never have killed Randall. But if someone hadn’t already done the deed, if—when—I found out about this—his secret business—I would definitely have murdered him myself!”
Suppressed rage fell from her in waves. She swung around and stormed off, back toward Shaftesbury Avenue. “Let’s find a hackney and get back to the club.”
Abruptly she halted. Christian nearly ran into her.
He steadied her, his hands on her shoulders.
She stared straight ahead, as if she’d seen an apparition.
“I just realized…” Her voice was too calm. Terribly calm. “…if on this account alone I’m the part owner of four hells, and each regular deposit is a different hell, including for those other two accounts, then…”
Her voice faded away.
Fourteen hells, Christian thought. Soothingly, he said, “We don’t know that yet.” His hand at her back, he urged her on. “Let’s get back to the club and see what the others have learned.”
“You, it appears, are the part owner of a company running an extensive string of high-class gambling hells throughout London.” Dalziel considered Letitia. They’d all returned to the club and gathered in the library to report on what they’d found. Along with Christian and Letitia, Dalziel, Tristan, Tony, and Jack Hendon were all seated in armchairs forming a circle before the empty hearth.
Letitia didn’t respond to the startling summation; she appeared to be mentally elsewhere.
“They certainly went to considerable effort to minimize any chance of outsiders learning of their involvement.” Tony Blake spoke to the room at large. “Each hell manager knew only one of the partners, and had no idea any other partners existed.”
Christian nodded. “The payers into each bank account are answerable to a different partner—Randall handled all the hells paying in at Rothchild’s, Trowbridge handles those depositing at Child’s, while Swithin oversees those paying in via Barkers.”
Dalziel and Tristan had found themselves visiting a hell in Newport Place, not all that far from Rigby’s in Wardour Street, while Tony and Jack had been led to an establishment in King Street, not far from Covent Garden.
“If the three hells we’ve visited are anything to judge by,” Christian said, “then it seems the company targeted the very crème de la crème in terms of young gentlemen with money to lose.”
Dalziel shifted. “I asked around after we left—the hell in Newport Place is known as an establishment that rash young men with more money than wits simply have to patronize.”
“You know,” Tristan said, “in terms of making money from the ton, Randall, Trowbridge, and Swithin have demonstrated a fine appreciation of what will work in attracting young gentlemen.”
“That’s what they learned at Hexham Grammar School,” Christian dryly remarked.
“Which is all very well,” Letitia suddenly said, “but says nothing to my purpose. I don’t give a fig for whatever ingenuity my late and unlamented husband and his cronies demonstrated in setting up this enterprise—all I want is to be rid of it!”
She glanced pointedly around the circle, reserving her final near-glare for Dalziel and Christian. “A Vaux,” she declared, “cannot be the owner of a string of gambling hells. My father would quite literally have a seizure—and who could blame him?—and I don’t even want to think of how my aunts would react if ever they heard of it, which I fervently pray they never will.”
Her tone made it clear she was not merely troubled by what they’d discovered—she was horrified, aghast, tending toward overset. She was seriously upset, well beyond agitated; they all understood that. They exchanged wary glances, keeping very still.