Stephanie Laurens - The Edge of Desire

“Nothing else?” Letitia muttered. “I would have thought fourteen gambling hells was quite enough.” She looked around the group. “Did anyone learn anything about this sale Randall was organizing?”

“I heard rumors, whispers, and so did Jack,” Tony reported. “But neither of us could unearth anything definite.”

Tristan nodded. “I found much the same-the prospect of a sale of fourteen highly profitable hells has naturally caused ripples in the murky pond of the underworld, but while my contacts had caught whispers, including some names, none move in the right circles to have heard anything certain.”

The London underworld was Christian’s arena, as all his colleagues knew. He thought, then said, “There are only so many operators who could aspire to buy such a portfolio of properties. I doubt any of the others would band together, so that leaves us with Edson, Plummer, Netherwell, Gammon, Curtin, Croxton, and of course Roscoe.”

Tony’s, Jack’s, and Tristan’s contacts had mentioned all the above except for Gammon and Croxton.

“No hint who the leading bidder might be?” Dalziel asked.

Tristan shook his head. “No one even seemed sure that a sale had as yet been agreed upon.”

Christian glanced at Dalziel. “There’s a wealth of suspects in that list alone. Together with the others-Trowbridge, Swithin, any disgruntled managers, employees, or patrons-we have a plethora of potential murderers.”

“All of which suggests,” Letitia acerbically said, “that selling the holdings of the Orient Trading Company with all possible speed, so I can wash my hands of this entire business, is the most sensible thing to do.”

All the men looked at her.

Leaving it to Christian to, very mildly, say, “Actually, no. All we’ve learned argues for extreme caution, and that you should avoid any mention, however slight, of any intention to sell until we catch Randall’s murderer.”

She looked at him, harassed frustration plain in her face. “Why?” She delivered the single word with a level of dramatic force only a Vaux could command.

“Because,” he replied, clinging to his mild, unchallenging tone, “as things stand, it remains very likely that Randall’s move to sell was what provided the motive for his murder.”

For a long moment she held his gaze, then she pulled a face. “Very well.” Her tension left her. “So what now?”

“Now,” Dalziel said, “we need to learn, definitively and absolutely, if Randall had chosen a buyer. If his negotiations had proceeded to the point where he’d made a decision, and even perhaps taken the first steps toward formalizing the sale.”

“Trowbridge and Swithin both made it clear Randall was the primary active agent when it came to running the company, and Montague confirmed that,” Christian reminded them. “So the fact they don’t know any details about a pending sale doesn’t mean it hadn’t progressed to the point that Randall had shaken hands on a deal.”

“If he had,” Tony said, “then given the hells and their profits, I’d place the bidder who missed out at the top of my suspect list.”

“Possibly,” Christian replied. “But I know who to ask for definite information, at least as to who the interested parties were and how far the sale had progressed.”

Dalziel cocked a brow at him. “Gallagher?”

Christian nodded.

“If you’re going to visit Gallagher,” Tristan said, “you’ll need someone to watch your back. I’ll come, too.”

“And as two is always better than one,” Tony quipped, “so will I.”

Letitia frowned and tried to catch Christian’s eye.

But he was looking at Tony and nodding. “Tonight, then. Let’s meet here at eight.”

Tristan and Tony agreed. “Eight,” Tony said as the men all stood. “Ready for an evening in the stews.”

“What did Torrington mean-an evening in the stews?”

Swiveled on the seat of her carriage, Letitia looked into Christian’s face.

He waved. “Just a figure of speech. A joke of sorts.”

She frowned direfully. “I know you’re not planning an evening of dissipation. What I wish to confirm is that you are, indeed, planning on going into some dangerous, far from salubrious area of the slums, there to meet with some man named Gallagher, who’s the sort of acquaintance with whom both Trentham and Torrington judged you need physical support.” She glared at him. “That’s what I’m asking-as you damned well know!”

Christian’s lips lifted; he tried to straighten them. Reaching out, he closed a hand around one of hers. “Sssh. You’ll scare your coachman.”

“He’s been with me for years. I could scream and he-and his horses-would simply plod on. Don’t change the subject.”

“Which subject was that?”

“The subject of you swanning off on some dangerous enterprise at the first opportunity.” She wasn’t sure why the point so exercised her; it simply did. “Bad enough you were gone for twelve years plunging into God knows what dire situations, but there’s no reason-none whatever-that you need do so now, and certainly not on my account.” Perhaps that was it? Yes, obviously. “I don’t want you on my conscience. All very well to have Torrington and Trentham at your back-who’s going to be protecting your front? You men never think. I want you to promise me you won’t-absolutely will not-take any unnecessary risks. Any undue risks-for that matter I think this whole excursion qualifies as an undue risk. Learning about the likely buyer might be important-especially as I wish to pursue the sale-but I’m sure if we just wait, he’ll contact us, or Trowbridge or Swithin. You don’t have to go and consult some nefarious underworld figure-I assume from the fact that Torrington and Trentham both knew his reputation that he’s some sort of criminal magnate-who knows what he’ll demand in return?”

Her voice was rising, growing suspiciously unsteady. Christian squeezed her hand. “Meeting Gallagher’s price won’t be a problem.”

“He’ll have a price? Great heavens-he should help you for the honor of it, in repayment of his debts. You’re a damned war hero, and I’m quite sure he-whoever he is-has never bestirred himself in the service of his country.” She barely paused for breath. “I’m really not happy about any of this.”

“Yes. I know.” Raising her hand, Christian placed a kiss on her fingers just as the carriage rocked to a halt outside the house. He’d always wondered how she’d viewed his secret service; now he knew-she thought him a hero. He’d always wondered if she’d worried about him while he’d been on the Contintent; apparently she had. To now hear her so agitated over him perversely left a warm glow about his heart.

Releasing her, he opened the door, stepped down, then helped her to alight. Meeting her gaze levelly, he calmly stated, “Regardless, I’ll be meeting with Gallagher tonight.”

She made a frustrated sound like steam escaping. She went to wave her arms, but he’d kept hold of her hand.

Smiling, he raised it and kissed her fingers again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and tell you what I learn.”

She blinked at him. “Tomorrow? What about tonight?”

Releasing her, he stepped back and saluted, battling a grin. “No telling what time I’ll get back. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Turning, he sauntered off up South Audley Street. He could feel her dagger gaze boring into his back, but he didn’t glance back.

He didn’t whistle, but he felt like it.

Seeing Barton’s carroty head peeking over the edge of another set of area steps, he waved and, surprisingly content, continued on his way home.

At ten o’clock that night Christian, with Tristan at his heels and Tony a few paces behind, walked down a narrow alley in the labyrinth of lanes between Cannon Street and the Thames. In Mayfair’s wide streets the moon shone down, but here the tenements and warehouses hemmed the lanes in; it was nearly pitch-dark. This close to the river, fog had already thickened, wisps wreathing about their greatcoated shoulders, clinging as they passed. Their boots fell softly on ancient cobbles.

“I’m glad you know where you’re going.” Tristan’s voice came in a whisper from behind. “I just hope you know the way back.”

Christian’s lips quirked.

Five yards farther on he halted and faced a plain wooden door. Raising a fist, he knocked once, waited a heartbeat, then knocked twice.

A moment passed, then a small screened window in the door slid open. There was no light within. Another silent moment ticked past, then a hoarse voice demanded, “Who is it?”

“Grantham.”

The window slid shut.

Tristan tapped his arm. Christian glanced his way, saw Tristan’s raised brows, whispered, “Previous title.”

“Ah.”

They waited, patiently, for several minutes, then they heard heavy bolts sliding back.

A huge bruiser hauled open the door. He nodded to Christian. “The master’ll see you.”

Christian’s lips twitched. “Good evening to you, too, Cullen.” He stepped over the threshold.

Cullen snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Here-who’s these two with you?”

Christian glanced back at Tristan and Tony. “They’re just that-‘with me.’ Gallagher won’t mind. Incidentally, how’s his mood?”

Cullen scowled at Tristan and Tony, but allowed them inside, then shut the door and bolted it. He turned back to Christian. “He’s prepared to be entertained-which I’m thinking is just as well for you.”

Christian inclined his head. “We’ll see. I know the way.” He strolled down a barely lit corridor, then, ducking his head, stepped through an open doorway into a room that never failed to surprise.

It was Gallagher’s domain, and he’d set it up as a gentleman’s study, glaringly incongruous given what lay beyond the polished oak door, yet although no expense had been spared and the room was indeed luxurious, someone-Christian had always suspected Gallagher himself-had exercised restrained good taste.