The Lady Risks All (47 page)

From
The Edge of Desire

C
hristian alighted from the hackney he, Dalziel, and Justin had taken from the Bastion Club, joining the other two on the pavement in Chichester Street, Pimlico. As the hackney rattled away, they all stood and surveyed the large white-painted mansion that was Neville Roscoe’s residence; overlooking Dolphin Square, it was an imposing sight.

Yet there was nothing overdone about it. The house was a simple statement of solid wealth and permanence, a description that fitted the owner as well.

They trooped up the steps and rang the bell.

The butler was expecting them; he led them through halls and corridors that could very easily have graced any of their houses. Opening a door at the end of one wing, he announced them, then stepped back, allowing them to enter an airy, excellently proportioned room, well-lit by long windows and elegantly furnished as a gentleman’s study.

Tall bookcases were built into one wall. Pedestals bearing a set of superb busts stood between the windows. A large mahogany desk, its lines clean and precise, dominated the room. Various furniture polished to a lustrous gleam, green leather upholstery, brass lamps and two spindle-legged side tables completed the decor.

That the gentleman who rose from the chair behind the wide expanse of the desk belonged in such refined surrounds no one could doubt.

Neville Roscoe was an enigma. He was rumored to be the scion of a minor branch of one of the major ton houses, although no one had ever identified which. Roscoe almost certainly wasn’t the surname he’d been born with. Tall, with the same aristocratic features that marked all of them as descended from one or another of William’s nobles, long limbed and rangy, blessed with an athletic physique and the muscles to match, after a cursory glance at Christian, who he’d met before, and a curious glance for Justin, who he hadn’t, Roscoe fixed his dark gaze on Dalziel.

The only obvious difference between the two men was that Roscoe wore his dark hair in a close crop, while Dalziel’s sat in elegant waves about his head.

Watching the pair take stock of each other, Christian hid a wry grin. “I believe you haven’t previously met. Dalziel. Neville Roscoe.”

After an instant’s hesitation, both inclined their heads, the action eerily similar.

Roscoe transferred his attention to Justin. “And this, I take it, is Lord Justin Vaux.”

Justin politely inclined his head.

Roscoe didn’t offer to shake hands; he waved them to the three substantial chairs set before the desk.

Christian knew Roscoe’s history. He’d appeared in London about a decade earlier, and had made his fortune much as Randall had, although in Roscoe’s case he’d had no truck with secrecy—that wasn’t his style. The other difference was that, while Randall had worked to come up in the world, Roscoe had patently, and very deliberately, stepped down from whatever his base within the aristocracy was to run a string of select gambling hells. He was a superb card player, was known to have won fortunes, yet rarely lost more than modest amounts. Even by the ton’s jaded standards, he was a gamester extraordinaire. Yet although he was now very wealthy, rather than attempt to rejoin the ton—something he most likely could do with reasonable ease—he continued to eschew society. Indeed, he lived a very private life.

One of the few concessions he made to his true station was his surroundings; he lived in luxury, and the way he moved within the elegance of his house verified beyond doubt that that was, indeed, the milieu to which he’d been born.

He sat as they did, then arched his brows. “And how may I help you, gentlemen?”

“At this stage,” Christian replied, “we’re interested in information about the proposed sale of the Orient Trading Company. We’ve been led to believe you were hoping to be the buyer.”

Roscoe’s eyes were watchful. “And what’s your interest in the sale?”

“I’m acting for Lady Letitia Randall née Vaux, Randall’s widow.” Christian waved at Justin. “Lord Vaux is here as her surrogate.”

Roscoe’s gaze flicked to Justin. “The one with a warrant sworn against him for Randall’s murder?” His gaze shifted to Dalziel. “But of course, you’d know that.”

“Indeed,” Dalziel replied. “We also know someone else murdered Randall.”

Roscoe’s brows rose. That was news to him.

“We’re currently pursuing the avenue,” Christian smoothly went on, “that Randall was murdered because of the proposed sale.”

Roscoe met his eyes, then dropped all pretense of nonchalance; leaning his forearms on the desk, eyes narrowing, he was suddenly all business. “If that’s the case, obviously the murderer wasn’t me.”

Christian inclined his head. “Just so. But we need to learn all we can about the proposed sale in order to identify those most affected—at present there’s possibilities aplenty as to who might actually have done the deed.”

Roscoe’s gaze turned inward.

They waited.

“First,” he eventually said, his gaze lowering to fix on his hands, clasped on the desk, “I should clarify that, as matters stand, at some point I would, almost certainly, have made an offer for the Orient Trading Company—an offer Randall and his partners wouldn’t have been able to refuse.” Lifting his gaze, Roscoe met Dalziel’s eyes, then looked at Christian. “Randall and the others had worked diligently to establish themselves. They’d come a long way.”

“All the way from Hexham,” Christian said.

Roscoe smiled; that had indeed been the information he’d been probing for. “You discovered that, did you?”

“Indeed. And you?” Christian asked.

“Only recently.” Roscoe met Dalziel’s eyes. “I make it a point of learning all I can about those I propose to do business with.”

“So you approached Randall?” Dalziel continued the interrogation.

Roscoe shook his head. “I would have eventually—there’s many who’ll tell you that. But I didn’t have to make overtures. Randall came to me—or rather, he let it be known in the right quarters that he and his partners were interested in selling the Orient Trading Company, lock, stock, and barrel.”

“There were other potential buyers,” Dalziel remarked.

“True, but none with pockets as deep as mine. And I was prepared to pay well—acquiring the company was always a part of my long-term strategy.”

Christian could well imagine it. And there were few who would or could effectively stand in Roscoe’s way. Although the acquisition and the merging of the company’s gaming hells with his own would make him extremely powerful, as Gallagher had intimated, even the underworld czars would nod and let him be. Roscoe was regarded as a stabilizing influence at the interface between legal and illegal activities. He refused to allow any underhanded practices in his establishments, and by and large, all was kept strictly aboveboard.

He held no truck with crime, and with his views so widely known—and so rigidly enforced—even the czars preferred the devil they knew, even if he marched to a beat not their own.

“Apropos of which”—Roscoe’s dark eyes turned to Christian—“I’m willing to tell you all I know about Randall’s proposed sale in return for an agreement to be presented, at the appropriate time, to the new owner and the other two partners, as Randall’s chosen buyer.”

Christian held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. “We’re prepared to give you an assurance to that effect.”

Roscoe inclined his head. “Very well. On that basis . . . in response to Randall’s fishing for buyers, I contacted him by letter. He came here . . .” Roscoe paused, then went on, “It was two days before his death. We discussed the sale—he’d had offers from others, Edson, Plummer, and Gammon, that I’m sure of, but none of them would take all the properties. They each wanted only certain ones, and there was overlap, so, quite aside from the price, if Randall went with any of them, things were going to get messy. So he and I sat and talked—we worked out an offer that satisfied us both. I agreed to take the entire company for a price he thought reasonable. Once the others heard I wanted the whole company, they would back off. Any further interest from them would only result in Randall making more, and while there’s no love lost between them and me, there was even less goodwill for Randall—essentially because he pretended to be something he wasn’t.”

“We’ve heard you had conditions,” Christian said, “and that you and he hadn’t yet shaken on the deal.”

Roscoe nodded. “I had two conditions Randall had to meet before I was prepared to do more than talk. The first is an obvious one—I wanted to see the books from each of the hells. I’m sure that wouldn’t have been a problem. The other condition was one peculiar to the situation.” Roscoe met Christian’s eyes. “As I’m sure you’ve discovered, Randall was the active partner of the three. Because of that . . .” Roscoe paused as if considering, then continued. “. . . and because of another piece of information which I suspect I was one of the few privy to, I asked Randall to provide a signed written statement from each of his partners to the effect that they were willing to sell their shares at this time.”

Trowbridge’s written statement. “Why insist on that,” Christian asked, “and what was the piece of information?”

Roscoe tapped a finger on his blotter. “I insisted primarily because I don’t have partners. I don’t have time for them—having any sort of partner would slow me down and generally get in my way. Although the Orient Trading Company is structured so it’s supposedly all or none for any sale to proceed, there’s ways around that, namely for the buyer—me—to take on one of their partners as my partner in a new company. That wasn’t going to happen. I made it clear I was only interested in acquiring the Orient Trading Company if I could buy it outright.”

“So it was all the shares in one deal, or no deal?” Dalziel asked.

“Just so.” Roscoe paused, then went on, “Obviously I would have asked Randall for those declarations anyway, but the reason I haven’t bothered to make any appointment with my bankers regarding the deal is because . . . well, frankly, I had serious doubts it would proceed.”

Justin’s eyes had narrowed. “You thought one of the other two wouldn’t sell?”

Roscoe nodded. “I made my offer for the company primarily to ensure it wasn’t sold to anyone else.” He paused, then went on, “That piece of information I mentioned came to me in a roundabout way. I was approached about an investment—it sounded an excellent prospect, but instinct reared its head and at the last I didn’t buy in. Naturally I kept an eye on what happened. The investment was a swindle, a very sophisticated one but a swindle just the same. Everyone who’d invested lost every penny they’d put in.”

“Swithin,” Christian guessed.

Roscoe met his gaze. “He was mentioned as one of the principal investors. The gentlemen behind the scheme specifically targeted the knowledgeable investors—they courted us, pandered to our vanity. That was what made me suspicious, but in Swithin’s case it apparently played into his hubris. His reputation went to his head, and he risked . . . a very great deal.”

“So, he’s what?” Justin asked. “Ruined?”

“No, but my sources suggest he’s very close to it, and he’s taking extreme care to hide the fact. He knows money, how to move it around, how to practice sleight of hand with it to conceal his state. But he’s already liquidated most of his other investments, and even his new wife’s portion is gone. He still owns two houses, one in London and one in Surrey, but when it comes to cash, he’d be lucky to lay his hands on two pennies to rub together.”

“But,” Dalziel said, “if he needs money so desperately, wouldn’t that make him more likely to sell, rather than less?”

Roscoe shook his head. “You’re forgetting what the Orient Trading Company is—it’s a cash-generating machine. Swithin has liquidated all the assets he can that don’t show. He desperately needs more cash, but he can’t sell his houses without people knowing—and if it becomes common knowledge that he—the canny, wily investor—was ruined by some smooth-talking swindlers, his reputation as a man to go to for investment deals will evaporate. His standing in the ton will be gone.”