Stephanie Laurens - The Edge of Desire

That paragon of financial investigation quickly-and eagerly-grasped their direction. “An excellent notion!” He scanned the figures they’d gathered. “Yes, indeed-quite extraordinary. But I should certainly be able to trace these amounts.” He paused, a frown slowly replacing his bonhomie. “Except…”

Letitia frowned back. “Except what?”

Montague grimaced. He met her gaze. “I’ve been concentrating on the company itself. I can verify that Trowbridge and Swithin are indeed the other part owners-as with Randall, each owns a third share. Be that as it may, from what you’ve told me and what I’ve learned from sources in the banks, it appears that Randall was the primary active partner. He managed all three accounts, at least as far as the banks are concerned. From their perspective, the Orient Trading Company is wildly profitable and has been for some considerable time, more or less since its inception. Well and good, from the financial institutions’ point of view. What makes me uneasy is that, like you, I have failed-utterly failed-to find any trace of identifiable goods or cargo, or any real property the company might be trading.”

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.”

Christian blinked.

Cordelia saw and smiled intently. “Just so. You’re not the only gentleman of your age and relative standing hunting for a mature and capable bride.”

True, but he was the only one sharing Letitia’s bed.

Christian inclined his head. “Thank you, Aunt. I’ll…er, take your suggestion under advisement.”

Cordelia looked disgusted. “See you do. Heaven knows you need a woman like Letitia Vaux to show you what passion is.” With a curt nod, she swept around. “I’ll leave you to it.”

With more fondness than he’d allowed her to see, Christian watched her march out of the room.

When the door closed behind her, he returned to his letters, but while he sorted through communications from his various agents and stewards, his mind continued to dwell on Cordelia’s words, wrestling with what she’d come to tell him, and, more importantly, why.

Cordelia was very well anchored within the ton. She’d been born and bred within it; she knew it and its ways, understood both as instinctively as breathing. Her words were, indeed, a warning.

It didn’t take much thinking to concede she was right.

Once Letitia came out of mourning-and given she was a Vaux and not inclined to sit quietly at home, even before then-she would all but instantly become a gazetted prize; she was the sort of woman men fought over.

Although he was sharing her bed, he was well aware he had no guarantee she would, in the end, agree to marry him. To be his again, unreservedly.

A letter opened but unread in his hand, he considered what his life would be like if she decided against him.

Cordelia had also been right in that he needed Letitia to show him what passion was. In that respect, only she would do-only she had ever succeeded.

If he didn’t have her…

Hearing a crinkling sound, he glanced down. He’d crushed the letter he was holding. Opening his fist, he smoothed the sheet out and laid it on the blotter.

His aunt had been right in all respects.

Tie her up fast.

Wise advice, he felt sure.

They gathered at the Bastion Club later that afternoon. Christian met Letitia at the gate; they climbed the porch steps to find Gasthorpe receiving a packet from a messenger.

“Ah-here he is.” The majordomo bowed to Christian and Letitia, then extended the packet to Christian. “From Mr. Montague, my lord.”

“Excellent.” Christian took the packet, handed it to Letitia, and hunted in his waistcoat pocket. He tipped the messenger and dismissed him. The boy clattered down the steps just as Dalziel came walking up the path.

Dalziel exchanged nods with them, then waved Letitia and Christian into the house. After a few murmured words with Gasthorpe, he followed them up the stairs and into the library.

Tony, Jack, and Tristan were already there. They got to their feet as Letitia swept in; she smiled and waved them back to their chairs. Appropriating one of the armchairs by the hearth, she sank into it, laying the packet, which she’d retained, on her lap.

Entirely unexpectedly, the door opened again and Justin sauntered in. Although partly disguised in a heavy, nondescript overcoat with a cap pulled low over his face, with his height, build, outrageously handsome features, and distinctive coloring, he remained readily identifiable.

Christian sensed his fellow club members come alert. They exchanged glances with each other and with him; they were all dying to ask Justin where he’d been staying-and more to the point, who his host really was.

Justin flashed a smile around the room, then seeing Letitia’s surprise give way to ire, he held up his hands placatingly. “I came in through the back alley-no one saw me.”

She humphed, cast him, and then Dalziel, a darkling look, and subsided. She looked down at the package in her lap.

Christian was about to suggest she open it when Dalziel, sinking into one of the deeply padded wing chairs, stated, “I heard from my Hexham contact.”

All attention swung his way. He smiled, all teeth. “As we suspected, Swithin was indeed a peer of Randall and Trowbridge at Hexham Grammar School. They entered the school in the same year, and all three were governors’ scholars-the only three that year. They banded together from the first, no doubt to ward off the inevitable bullying. Randall as we know was a farmer’s son. Trowbridge’s father was a goldsmith-quite a talented one by all accounts-and his mother was a potter. His liking for artwork presumably grew from that. Trowbridge’s parents are still alive-he visits them occasionally, although the more he’s gone up in the world, the more awkward that’s become. However, the elder Trowbridges are proud of their son, if a trifle in awe. He’s risen far from his humble beginnings-in many ways his life is now beyond their comprehension.”

Settling his shoulders in the chair, Dalziel continued, “Which brings us to Swithin. His father was a merchant in the town. He’s still alive, but unlike Trowbridge, Swithin has cut all ties. Swithin the elder knows nothing about his son, not even his current address.”

“So Randall lost all ties to his past when his parents died,” Letitia remarked, “Swithin cut his ties, but Trowbridge didn’t.” She frowned. “Does that tell us anything?”

No one seemed to know.

“Why don’t we see what Montague’s sent?” Christian nodded to the packet in her lap.

“Yes, of course.”

While she broke the seal and spread out the sheets, Christian explained to the others what tack they were now following to locate the company’s customers. “Given that cash payments can’t be traced back to the payer, the direct approach is the only one left to us.”

Letitia was scanning Montague’s communication; from her expression it was clear the news was good. She glanced up, saw them all watching, and beamed. “Montague’s a wonder. He’s traced three of the large regular payments-all made on Mondays, one to each of the company’s three accounts-and all invariably made at the following three banks-Rothchild’s in Piccadilly, Child’s in Oxford Street, and Barkers in the Strand.”