The Edge of Desire (26 page)

“I doubt they’d know,” he answered evenly. “The school wouldn’t advertise the social standing of their governors’ scholars—the other boys would have imagined them impov
erished gentry.” He paused, then added, “If any had known, you would have heard of it long since.”

She nodded tersely. “True. So!” She drew in a tight breath. “Who else needs to know the details?”

He’d anticipated that question, too. “The others who are helping us—Trentham, and Jack Hendon, if he’s here. Without knowing that, they won’t understand what we’re dealing with. But you needn’t worry about their discretion. They won’t say a word—I guarantee it.”

She searched his eyes. “You know each other’s secrets, I suppose.”

He nodded.

She softly humphed, and looked out of the window. “I’ll have to tell Agnes—she’ll need to know. But I’m not going to tell Amarantha or Constance. They’d have the vapors, and that would be just the start of it.”

“There’s no need to tell anyone who’s not helping us unravel this mystery.”

After a moment she said, “I’ll have to tell Justin.”

Given Justin’s feelings over Randall and her marriage, her reluctance was understandable, but…“Yes, he has to know.”

When she said nothing more, he added, “And at some point, you’ll have to tell your father.”

A moment went by, then, still looking out of the window, she murmured, “He already feels so guilty over me having to marry Randall…we’ll see.”

He left it at that, not least because they’d reached Lady Hemming’s; the carriage slowed, joining the line of vehicles drawing up before her ladyship’s front steps to disgorge their fair burdens. A survey of those alighting confirmed that this was another highly select event. To his relief, Christian noted a smattering of gentlemen among the female throng.

Lady Hemming greeted them effusively, thrilled to have Letitia grace her event. Randall’s death was still a point of interest for the ton’s avid gossips, and having Christian appear as Letitia’s escort only heightened expectations.

Yet as they strolled into the crowd—a sea of color constantly shifting about the sculptures set up on her ladyship’s lawn—Letitia’s cool grace proved sufficient to keep the curious, if not at bay, then at least within bounds. They nodded and exchanged greetings, eyed Christian with open curiosity, but did not try to detain them or engage them in discussion of the “distressing events surrounding her husband’s death.”

Christian overheard the phrase more than once during their perambulation, whispered behind hands, eyes following Letitia and himself. Like her, he ignored both the whispers and the eyes.

“That’s Trowbridge.” Letitia halted by a bronze of a scantily clad nymph. She pretended to study the statue, but with a tip of her head indicated a gentleman standing before the next sculpture along. He was surrounded by a bevy of ladies, both young and old, who hung on his every word as he passed judgment on the piece.

Letitia continued to study the nymph, allowing Christian the opportunity to feign boredom and idly survey the group before the next statue.

Trowbridge was on the tall side of average, his hair an artful tangle of mousy brown locks, one of which fell artistically across his forehead. His features, while pleasant enough, were undistinguished, lacking the sharp angles and planes common among the aristocracy, but it was his dress that caused Christian to mentally raise his brows.

Trowbridge had elected to wear a coat of bold green, ivory, and black checks. His waistcoat was a perfectly matched spring green, the buttons on both coat and waistcoat large gold disks; his trousers were black. Instead of a cravat, he wore a floppy ivory silk scarf knotted about his throat.

Together with his gestures as he discoursed on the sculpture to the assembled ladies, the vision he presented made Christian wonder….

“I seriously doubt he has the slightest interest in any lady—other than the statue, of course.”

The dry comment from Letitia had Christian glancing at
her. Then he looked back at the group around Trowbridge. The ladies, one and all, appeared to be flirting outrageously with the man, while Trowbridge responded to the top of his bent. He frowned. “Do those ladies know that?”

“Of course.” Slipping her hand onto his arm again, Letitia murmured, “That’s why they flirt with him so openly—no matter how he responds, his preference for men makes him perfectly safe.”

Christian’s brows rose higher. “I see.”

They circled, holding to their own company but keeping Trowbridge in view. Eventually some of the ladies drifted away, then, having expounded at length on the points of a statue of a satyr, Trowbridge stepped back, allowing those left a moment to reflect.

Letitia and Christian exchanged a glance, and moved in.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Trowbridge.” Letitia gave him her hand. “I’m Lady Letitia Randall. We met at Lady Hutchinson’s event.”

Trowbridge smiled delightedly and with an extravagant flourish bowed over her hand. “Enchanted, my lady.”

“Allow me to present Lord Dearne.”

Christian exchanged a circumspect nod with Trowbridge.

“I wished to speak with you”—Letitia glanced at the ladies still studying the satyr—“to ask your advice on the relative merits of the pastoral style of works”—a wave indicated the pieces studding the lawn—“versus the humanistic style, from the viewpoint of long-term investment.”

Trowbridge blinked.

Turning away from the satyr—and the other ladies—Letitia started to stroll slowly down the lawn toward the river wall that marked its far end.

Trowbridge necessarily kept pace. “I…er, don’t really advise from an investment point of view. My interests are more on the artistic side—the skill of the artist in capturing his subject, his technique, the quality of execution. Sadly, investment value is more driven by what becomes popular, rather than by artistic merit.”

Contrary to Christian’s expectations, Trowbridge didn’t halt, ready to part from them and return to his bevy of admirers. Instead he continued to stroll beside Letitia, his gaze on her face. Waiting.

She glanced swiftly back, confirming they were out of earshot of all other guests. “I see. Regardless, Mr. Trowbridge, I have something I wished to discuss with you.”

“Yes?” Trowbridge’s tone was frankly expectant.

Christian had fallen back, strolling a pace behind Letitia’s shoulder, leaving Trowbridge’s interrogation to her—at least to begin with. He drew closer as she drew breath and said, “I daresay you’ve heard about the murder of my late husband, and that the authorities suspect my brother of the crime.”

Trowbridge’s face blanked.

Glancing up, Letitia saw, waited. When he said nothing, simply stared at her, she went on. “I believe you knew my husband rather well—you and he were close friends, were you not?”

Trowbridge halted. “Ah…no. Not close. Not anymore. Not for many years.”

Halting, too, Letitia raised her brows. “Indeed? Then it will come as a surprise to you that he left you a bequest in his will.”

“He did?” Trowbridge was either an excellent actor or was truly surprised. “But I thought…that is to say, we’d agreed—” He broke off altogether. After a moment of staring into space as if seeking clarification, he refocused on Letitia. “I really don’t know what to say, Lady Randall. Randall and I hadn’t been more than passing acquaintances socially for…well, the last decade.” He frowned. “What did he leave me?”

“You’ll no doubt hear from his solicitor in due course. It was an antique clock—he said you’d admired it.”

Trowbridge’s face lit. “The Glockstein?” When Letitia nodded, he rattled on, “Indeed, it’s a very fine piece. He came across it years ago and was wise enough to pick it up.
I was always envious. He even said it was knowing my taste that spurred him to buy it. Such ornate work on both the face and the hands. I’ve always—”

“Trowbridge.”

Christian’s deeper voice jerked Trowbridge back to blinking attention; he caught the man’s gaze. “How did you know Randall?”

Trowbridge’s eyes widened. “How?”

Christian felt his face harden. “Through what avenue did you first meet him? It’s a simple enough question.”

“Yes…but why do you want to know?”

“Because for obvious reasons we’re hunting for Randall’s killer, and a necessary part of our investigation is considering all who knew him well. He mentioned you in his will as a longtime friend, and if, as you intimated, you were green with envy over his acquisition of the Glockstein clock, then—”

“No, no!” Trowbridge waved his hands. “Good Lord. It wasn’t like that. Our acquaintance…well, friendship as it was, was nothing like that.” He looked sincerely horrified. “If you really must know, we met at school.”

Letitia opened her mouth. Christian silenced her with a look. “Which school?”

“Hexham Grammar School.”

Christian looked into Trowbridge’s large, slightly pro-truberant blue eyes. “Did you know Randall was a farmer’s son?”

“Yes, of course. We…ah, he wished it kept secret. Especially when he went up in the world.” Trowbridge glanced at Letitia, as if conscious of what such a secret would mean to her.

Christian grasped the moment to ask, “And what about you, Trowbridge? Have you come up in the world, too? Are you, too, hiding something?”

Abruptly Trowbridge looked him in the eye. “Patently, I’m hiding nothing at all.” He held out his arms, hands spread, inviting them to view him as he was. “From which you may
infer that deception isn’t my strong suit.” He glanced at Letitia. “It was Randall’s.” He looked again at Christian. “If I had half his talent, I would, without doubt, be more circumspect. As it is…”

Again he gestured, turning the movement into an extravagant bow. “If you’ll excuse me?”

With a nod, he turned away, and walked swiftly, rather stiffly, back up the lawn.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, Christian and Letitia watched him go.

“I’ll lay odds,” Christian murmured, “that he’s from a lower class family, too. That he was another governors’ scholar. His natural…flair, for want of a better word, is his disguise—in our circles quite an effective one.”

Letitia snorted. “If we’re to talk of odds, what are the chances of two governors’ scholars from Hexham Grammar School rising from nothing to walk our gilded circles?”

“I wouldn’t like to think.” Christian took her arm and started back to the house. “Regardless, what would you wager that when we learn about Swithin, he, too, will prove to have attended Hexham Grammar School, and that he, too, was a governors’ scholar?”

“Regardless of Trowbridge’s protestations, his particular bent, no matter how widely recognized, how relatively open and undisguised, still gives him a powerful motive for murder.”

Later that night, Christian moved about Letitia’s bedchamber; shrugging out of his coat, he laid it over the back of a chair. “For instance, if Randall, who must have known his secret, including numerous details—a gentleman who could claim long acquaintance—were to explicitly expose Trowbridge, then everything he’s worked for, his position in the ton, would evaporate overnight. The fact that he and Randall shared another secret wouldn’t matter—the secret of their births counts for much less, and affects them both equally.”

In light of Trowbridge’s “particular bent,” they’d had to wait until now, when they were free of both Agnes and Hermione, to discuss the subject.

Standing before the window looking out over the night-shrouded street, Letitia folded her arms. “No lady would be able to allow him to cross her threshold, not if his inclination was public fact.”

They’d returned to South Audley Street to find that Tristan had indeed arrived and spent several hours with Dalziel searching through the files and papers. They’d eventually departed, leaving a message with Hermione—chuffed to be a part of their investigation—to the effect that they’d return the following day to continue searching and share any news.

Beyond that, Hermione knew no more, which had done nothing to ease Letitia’s growing concern over the Orient Trading Company. She had a gnawing premonition that Randall being a farmer’s son might prove the least troubling of the secrets he’d left behind. She leaned against the window frame. “I wish I’d asked Trowbridge about the company—whether he knew anything of it, or whether, indeed, he was another part owner.”

On the journey back from Chelsea, they’d speculated as to whether Trowbridge and Swithin might prove to also be part owners in the company, accounting, perhaps, for the other two-thirds.

Unbuttoning his shirt, Christian crossed to stand behind her. “One step at a time. We’ve established that Randall and Trowbridge were once friends, that they’d known each other for decades, but that for some reason they grew distant with the years…or they played down and actively hid their association.”

Reaching for her, he drew her back against him; she let him, but remained stiff, spine straight, in his arms. He continued, “If Trowbridge is a part owner of the Orient Trading Company, then claiming he barely knows Randall won’t wash—they would have had to meet frequently, and with
Randall leaving him a bequest in a relatively recent will, citing their friendship, then Trowbridge’s claim of mere acquaintance isn’t believable.”

“Which in itself is strange—why hide a friendship if it were there? Trowbridge didn’t attend Randall’s funeral, yet he must have known of his death. He hasn’t called to offer his condolences—he didn’t offer any even today.”

Settling her against him, he reviewed the short interview. “Trowbridge was taken aback that Randall had named him in his will. It seemed to me his reaction had more to do with Randall acknowledging him at all, rather than that it was via a bequest.”

“Hmm.” She closed her hands about his at her waist. “What I don’t see is how any of this is helping us clear Justin’s name.”

Secure in the knowledge that she couldn’t see, he let his lips curve, then he touched them to her temple, drew them slowly down, barely touching, over the whorl of her ear to press a more definite kiss into the shadowed hollow behind it.

Eliciting an encouraging shiver.

“We’re identifying other possible suspects.” He murmured the words against the soft skin of her throat. “And once we know more about the Orient Trading Company, we’ll doubtless have more. If Randall was managing an enterprise directly engaged in trade, there’s always the chance of a disgruntled customer or supplier furious enough, or desperate enough, to commit murder. We now know we can add Trowbridge to our list. And most likely Swithin as well. The more potential suspects we can identify, the weaker the case against Justin.”