The Edge of Desire (Bastion Club 7)

“For all that he’s a typical, moody, broody painter—and yes”—Letitia raised her fork in acknowledgment—“I do realize I speak as a Vaux—I got the impression that they’re both very settled and content.”

She paused, staring unseeing across the table, then shook her head. “I really can’t see Trowbridge as Randall’s murderer. He’s…serene, content—he’s reached that point in life where he has all he wants, and he knows it. He has no ambition for more—doesn’t a murderer need ambition? Something to drive him?”

Christian grimaced. “Usually.” After a moment he asked, “What of Honeywell?”

Letitia snorted. “He’s even less likely.” She cocked a brow at him. “You saw his paintings, didn’t you?”

“I saw them—I didn’t study them.”

“Well, you should have. With the…” She waved her hand. “…intensity and focus he pours into his paintings, I’m surprised Honeywell has sufficient energy left to have any connection with anyone. His relationship with Trowbridge must absorb all that he has left in him—murder—any violent emotion—I really don’t think he could summon the strength.”

Christian knew she wasn’t talking of physical strength, and when it came to analyzing emotions, as a Vaux she was particularly well-qualified. Folding his napkin, he set it aside. “Very well. I agree that on an emotional basis neither Trowbridge nor Honeywell measure up well as the murderer, at least not based on what we know at present.”

“Hmm.” Letitia reached for her glass, took a long sip, then said, “At least Randall had the sense to set up this pending sale of the company. As Trowbridge is willing to sell, and Swithin is as well, there’s no reason I can’t rid myself of the encumbrance with all speed.”

Christian frowned, and checked his memory. “Trowbridge assumed Swithin agreed because Randall went ahead with organizing the sale. It didn’t sound like Trowbridge knew for certain what Swithin had said.”

Letitia frowned. “But Randall wouldn’t have gone ahead with organizing the sale if Swithin hadn’t agreed.”

“He might have.” If there was one thing with which Christian was willing to credit her late husband, it was that the bastard had to have been an expert at manipulation. “If Randall wanted to sell—and as he suggested it, we can take that as read—and Trowbridge was very willing—and that, as you’ve pointed out, is also highly believable—then if Swithin didn’t agree, but his disagreement wasn’t strong, then yes, I think Randall would have gone ahead and organized the sale, believing that once the deal was imminent, Swithin would fall into line—and that explains why Randall needed that letter from Trowbridge. He would also have needed the same from Swithin.”

Letitia frowned. “Why?”

“Because the potential buyer—or buyers—were clever enough to suspect that Randall didn’t truly have the agreement of both his partners.” Christian reassessed all they’d learned, measured it against what he’d just posited. He nodded. “We need to see Swithin and learn what he has to say about this proposed sale before you make any declaration of intent.”

Letitia humphed. “Your years as a spy are showing—you’re seeing deception and deceit where there is none.”

He was unmoved. “Better safe than sorry.”

Pushing back from the table, Letitia looked at the clock above the long marble mantelpiece. “In that case—as you insist—let’s go and talk to Swithin. Where does he live?”

Christian looked at her, tried to think of some way to distract her.

She frowned and narrowed her eyes at him. “I know you know, and I’m not going to be distracted, so just tell me and save us both the next hour.”

He looked into her eyes, saw her determination, inwardly sighed. “Swithin’s London house is in Curzon Street—just around the corner from South Audley Street. He’s usually in residence during the week.”

“Perfect!” Letitia stood. “It’s just after two o’clock—a perfectly acceptable time to call.”

Mr. Swithin, his butler informed them, was in. The butler showed them into a scrupulously neat drawing room; a minute later he returned to conduct them into his master’s study.

From behind a wide, highly polished oak desk half covered beneath stacks of papers, Swithin rose and held out his hand. “Lady Randall?”

Gliding forward, Letitia shook his hand, then waved at Christian. “Allow me to introduce Lord Dearne. He’s advising me in the matter of the Orient Trading Company.”

“Ah. I see.” Swithin shook hands with Christian, then waved them to the comfortable chairs set before the desk.

Letitia sat, mentally cataloging all she could see and sense. Swithin was a very different sort to either Trowbridge or Randall. Both the others had displayed a certain self-confidence Swithin appeared to lack. Where Trowbridge had been watchful, Swithin was wary; he reminded her forcibly of a rabbit, ready to bolt down his hole the instant Christian made a threatening move.

The analogy was so apt—so perfectly described the way Swithin eyed Christian—that she had to sternly suppress a laugh.

“Mr. Swithin,” Christian began—they’d again agreed that he should, in the main, handle the interview—“as you no doubt realize, on Mr. Randall’s death Lady Randall inherited his share of the Orient Trading Company. Consequently, we’ve been attempting to learn about the company and how it operates. We now know what the business of the company is, and the mechanics of its day-to-day operation, but we’d like to ask if you can tell us more about the company’s history, and its present state.”

Swithin didn’t immediately reply. He nodded slowly, as if collecting his thoughts. When he spoke, it was in a quiet, collected, largely unemotional tone. ?

??Randall, Trowbridge, and I first met at Hexham Grammar School. There…”

For all his reserve, Swithin told much the same story Trowbridge had, confirming the relevant facts—their common history, their Grand Plan, the development of their business and its consequent evolution into the Orient Trading Company. He also described their meetings in Randall’s secret room, the notes Randall would send via urchins to summon them, the unlocked doors whose keys only Randall had.