The Edge of Desire

  Tony looked down at them and shook his head. “Frankly, this is bizarre. These aren’t inventory.” He picked up one ledger and flicked through it. “It’s coded like everything else, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s a property ledger.” He stopped flicking pages to scan one leaf. “There’s furniture, and furnishings.” He turned a few pages. “And what looks like staff rolls and payments, although they don’t seem to go on for very long—several months, but not more than a year.” He flicked through to the end of the book, closed it, and looked down at the pile, then at the other files and papers they’d set aside. “There’s nothing here—no trace at all, either incoming or outgoing, of tradable stock.”

  “Conversely,” Jack Hendon said, an account ledger open in his hands, “we have extremely, even obsessively, detailed accounts going back”—he glanced down at the pile—“for twelve years.”

  “That’s how long the Orient Trading Company has been in existence,” Christian supplied. “According to Montague, it first appeared twelve years ago, at much the same time as Randall moved to London.”

  Tristan pricked up his ears. “Any word on where he came by his money?”

  Christian shook his head. “It’s Montague’s considered opinion that Randall opened his London bank accounts with cold, hard cash.”

  Eyebrows were raised.

  Christian had already reported Montague’s findings to Letitia; she was busy thinking of other things.

  “Could he have been renting properties?” She looked around, her gaze coming to rest on Jack Hendon.

  He pulled a “could be, might be” face, and stood to start resorting the account ledgers. “Let’s take a look at the last year’s incomings. That might give us a clue.”

  Tony forsook his disappointing pile and went to help. Tristan and Christian gravitated in the same direction. Dalziel remained slumped on a straight-backed chair, his hands sunk in his pockets, his long legs stretched before him, his face a mask denoting that he was thinking. Furiously, on many different tracks at once.

  They left him to it, crowding around Jack to read over his shoulder as with an “Ah-ha!” he stood, a blue account ledger in his hands, and opened it.

  From the chair behind the desk, Letitia, with Hermione perched on the desk beside her, watched.

  The four of them scanned the incomings, Jack running his large finger down the relevant column.

  “He wasn’t renting properties,” Christian concluded. “These incoming amounts are simply too large, even if he owned half of Mayfair.”

  “Not only that,” Tony said, pointing to the dates column of the ledger. “These payments are too frequent, especially given their amount, to be rent.” He shook his head. “This looks like what you’d expect it to be—the lodgings of business takings, the sort any shop or store that sells things would make.”

  Dalziel rose and joined the group; picking up another of the account ledgers, he opened it and scanned. “Could it be that the Orient Trading Company has a number of different shops?” He glanced across the room at Tony’s deserted pile. “Fourteen, perhaps? Might that explain the high amounts?”

  “Fourteen excellent shops, if that’s the case…” Reading over Jack’s shoulder, Tristan frowned. “But it might be so.” He, too, reached for an account ledger. “If there are only fourteen initials, signifying fourteen different payers into the accounts…perhaps the Orient Trading Company does have fourteen shops.”

  “Perhaps,” Tony replied. “But if so, what the devil are they selling?”

  “Bizarre is indeed the word for it,” Dalziel murmured, his attention on the ledger he held. “It’s almost as if they’re selling something that’s not real….”

  Slowly he lifted his gaze and met Christian’s eyes.

  For a moment no one spoke.

  Letitia knew what they were thinking, but none of them would say the words “prostitution” or “brothel” in front of her, and even less in front of Hermione, although neither of them would swoon.

  Regardless, she felt very real relief when Jack Hendon shook his head. “I don’t think it can be that either. Just look at this amount.” He pointed to a figure, waited while the others looked, then flicked the page. “And then here again, a week later. Establishments of that sort simply cannot clear those sort of sums in that time. It’s simply not physically possible.”

  There was a general easing of the tension.

  “Not that, then.” Christian sounded relieved, too.

  “No—and here’s something else.” Tony had picked up a red ledger, presumably one listing expenses. That was confirmed when he said, “Just look at these outgoings. Compare them to the incomings, and it’s clear that the incomings outweigh the outgoings by a positively massive margin.” He shook his head, poring over more figures. “The Orient Trading Company, whatever the devil it sells, is a cash-generating operation. Whatever they’re trading in, it’s not just profitable, but wildly, hugely so.”

  “And,” Christian said, a green ledger in his hands, “it looks as if we have three owners.” There was a note of triumph in his voice. He looked across the room at Letitia. “They’re only identified by their initials—R, T, and S.” He smiled intently. “I wonder who…”

  “Randall, Trowbridge, and Swithin.” Letitia sat up. “It has to be Trowbridge and Swithin.” She looked at the men. “Have we learned anything about Swithin?”

  “I’ve gathered a little, more or less by accident.” Tristan glanced at the others. “Swithin lives very quietly. He’s recently married, and a little before that he bought a house in Surrey—I know because it’s not far from my principal estate.” He grinned at Letitia. “I have aunts, cousins, and female connections—lots of them. A bevy live in my Surrey house, and their primary occupation is keeping an eye on all and sundry in the neighborhood. One came up to town to visit the group who prefer to remain in London—she had all the news about Swithin and his new wife. Apparently he paid above the mark to secure the house, then spent even more redecorating for his new wife, who, so they tell me, is quieter than he—a mouse is how they described her—from one of the minor branches of the Carstairs.”

  “The Carstairs.” Dalziel prowled over to sit again in the straight-backed chair.

  “That suggests,” Christian said, “that Swithin, too, is accepted within the ton.” He raised a brow at Tristan. “Any hint as to his background?”

  “None—and given my aunts’ propensities for ferreting out everything about everyone, that really means absolutely nothing is known of his background by anyone.” Tristan shifted. “As for his standing in the ton, I got the impression that was beyond question. He appears well-entrenched, firmly established with a solid reputation as an exceedingly sound man on the subject of capital raisings. He apparently has a long history in financing this project or that, highly successfully. When I asked around at White’s, quite a few of the old guard spoke warmly of him—Lord Lanthorne and Lord Quilley to name two.”

  “And they’re not fools,” Dalziel put in. “Certainly I wouldn’t describe either as being easily taken in.”

  “So,” Christian said, “Swithin, if he truly is as we suspect and is another ex–Hexham Grammar School governors’ scholar, has also managed, in his own quiet way, to succeed to a similar degree as Randall and Trowbridge in becoming a fixture within the ton.”

  Hands clasped on the desk, Letitia frowned. “Trowbridge is flamboyant—that’s his nature. Randall wasn’t, yet neither was he quiet or shy.” She looked across the room at Christian. “Randall was always, first and last, all business.”

  Christian nodded. “Against that, Swithin was the quiet one.” He looked at Dalziel. “Any word from your contact in Hexham?”

  “Not yet.” For the benefit of the others, he explained, “After learning about Trowbridge and Swithin, I sent to Hexham again, to see if in fact they, too, were on the Hexham Grammar roll as governors’ scholars, as we’ve surmised. I’ve also asked after their backgrounds.” He looked back at Christia
n. “With luck, we’ll hear tomorrow. However, I would stress that we need to tread warily. We’ve assumed Trowbridge and Swithin are the Orient Trading Company’s T and S, but there are a lot of surnames beginning with T and S. We need to be sure before we press either Trowbridge or Swithin harder.”

  Christian grimaced; he met Letitia’s eyes. “I just realized…when we first approached Trowbridge, he was quite happy if not eager to hear what you had to say, even after you made it clear it wasn’t about sculpture. But then—”

  “I mentioned Randall’s murder.” Letitia grimaced back.

  “And he shut up, took a giant step back and put up all his shields.” Christian nodded, remembering. “He thought you’d come to talk about the company—he and Swithin, assuming he’s S, must have guessed Randall’s share would come to you.”

  “Yes.” Letitia sat up. “He was expecting me to ask him about the company.” She looked at Dalziel. “Which means there’s no reason we can’t go and speak with him about the company now, openly….”

  She trailed off, because Dalziel was shaking his head.

  “Wait,” he cautioned. He glanced at Christian, met his eyes. “Before you question Trowbridge—and Swithin, if the S is he—you need at least to know what type of business the Orient Trading Company conducts. We need to trace at least some of these incoming payments to their source, and find out what the company is selling. Without that knowledge, your position is weak.”

  He looked again at Letitia. “By your own account, Randall was no fool. I doubt from what we’ve heard that Trowbridge and Swithin are either. If you try to question them about the company without any idea of what the business actually is, you’ll give away your ignorance—you won’t know what questions apply and which don’t—and then who knows? They could tell you whatever they choose, and you’ll have to believe them, at least until you learn more.”

  “If you ever learn more,” Tristan put in, “once they realize you don’t have the knowledge.”

  Letitia wrinkled her nose at Dalziel. “Much as it pains me to admit it, you’re right.” She glanced at Christian. “We need more ammunition to make sure they tell us the truth.”

  Christian held her gaze and nodded, hoping she didn’t notice the grin Dalziel wasn’t sufficiently successful at hiding. “Indeed,” he replied. “And the only ammunition that will do the trick is learning who’s paying the Orient Trading Company, and for what.”

  Letitia, Christian, Tony, and Jack spent the next few hours poring over the ledgers. Once they’d fixed on an approach they thought would work to identify at least some of the regular customers of the Orient Trading Company, Dalziel and Tristan took their leave, citing other engagements. Hermione hovered, then, finding it all rather dull, went off to report their findings to Agnes.

  In the end, their plan was simple. Concentrating on the last month, they listed all the regular payments from the company’s coded sources; most made payments weekly, a few twice a week. Those sources they elected to focus on all paid very large amounts.

  “Traceable amounts,” Christian stressed.

  Unexpectedly, and with considerable triumph, they unearthed details of the company’s bank accounts. Three accounts, each with a different London bank.

  That done, they called it a day.

  The next morning, Christian and Letitia set out at nine o’clock to lay their findings before Montague.

  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.” br />
  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?”