Regardless, searching Swithin’s face, she didn’t doubt he would do as he said; he’d shoot her and flee. There was something beyond desperate lurking behind his pale eyes.
An expression of impatience lent brief animation to his otherwise bland features. “If you would? We don’t have all day.”
His voice hardened on the last words; she’d dallied as long as she dared. She walked to the secret door, opened it wider, then went through and down, into the hidden room.
Swithin followed, dragging the panel closed behind him.
Halting in the center of the room, she faced him.
Swithin held out one hand, palm upward. With the other, he kept the pistol trained on her breast. “The keys.”
Drawing in a breath, trying desperately to think, she dropped them into his palm, fixed her gaze on his face. “You killed Randall.”
He met her gaze, his own unwavering. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted to sell the company.”
“But you would have got your share.” The longer she could keep him there, talking, the closer Christian would be.
“Indeed.” Swithin’s face tightened. “Much good would that have done me. I would have lost the steady, all but guaranteed income, which is what I currently desperately need.”
“But you’re wealthy—hugely wealthy.”
He sucked in a tight, tight breath; in a rigidly controlled voice he replied, “No. I’m not. I won’t bore you with the details, but thanks to two unscrupulous blackguards, almost all my capital is gone. Vanished.”
/> His teeth had clenched.
“But…” It took no effort to project confusion. “Why not simply tell Randall it didn’t suit you to sell? Neither he nor Trowbridge were in any great hurry, and as I understand it, they wouldn’t have—couldn’t have—forced you to sell.”
“No—but then they would have known.”
“Known what?”
“Known that I’d failed!” His hand fisted about the keys; for one instant his expressionless mask dissolved and twisted fury looked back at her. His lips curled; he spoke in a near hiss. “There they were, sitting pretty, Trowbridge with his art and Randall with you—they’d succeeded at our Grand Plan so much better than I. All I had was my money and my reputation—and now the money’s gone, my reputation is all I have left. If I’d told them, that would have gone, too.”
Frowning, truly puzzled, she shook her head. “But they wouldn’t have told anyone—you could have sworn them to secrecy, especially considering your shared pasts.”
He looked at her as if she hadn’t understood a word he’d said. Then in a voice eerily devoid of emotion, stated, “They would have known.”
Pride. With a jolt of comprehension, she realized it was that—that that, a desperate clinging to pride in the face of fate, was what lay behind Randall’s death.
Juggling the keys, Swithin backed to the outer door, his expressionless gaze never leaving her. He glanced briefly at the lock—far too briefly for her to make the slightest move—then slid in the key. He unlocked the door, opened it, with the pistol motioned her through.
As she went past him, he murmured, “Remember—no sound, no fuss, and I won’t have to shoot you.”
If he wasn’t going to shoot her, what did he have planned?
Letitia walked the few paces to the lane door; as he moved past her to unlock it, she evaluated her options. She strained her ears, but could hear no maids in the lower yard, yet even if she could bring them running, Swithin would have shot her and fled long before anyone could reach her. The street outside—her nemesis Barton who was always there, keeping watch—was her best and only bet.
It was time Barton earned his salary.
And damned if he hadn’t been right—the murderer had, indeed, returned to the scene of the crime.
Swinging the laneway gate open, Swithin all but pushed her through, crowding close by her shoulder in the narrow lane. His fingers clamped about her elbow; the muzzle of the pistol dug into her side.
A chill slid through her at the touch of cold metal through her silk gown.