When Christian asked, Swithin revealed that in recent years—the last two, at least—he and Trowbridge hadn’t met. Randall had taken to seeing them separately, but, Swithin remarked, there had been nothing in that beyond Randall’s obsession with secrecy.
In addressing the present state of the company, and its proposed sale, Swithin’s account differed in only one respect from Trowbridge’s.
When Christian questioned the point, Swithin shook his head. “No, indeed. Randall approached me about the sale several weeks before his death, and for much the same reasons as no doubt drove him and Trowbridge, I agreed. After that, I heard nothing more from Randall—he sent no message to set up a meeting—although I’m sure he would have once he had anything further to report.”
Christian pressed. “So Randall didn’t ask you for a written statement that you would sell your share at the same time he did?”
His expression bland, Swithin met Christian’s gaze directly. “No. I didn’t hear back from him at all.”
Christian fell silent.
After a moment Swithin added, a faint frown forming, “As I didn’t hear back from Randall, I have no idea who his prospective buyer was—it’s a pity Trowbridge didn’t think to ask, but that’s typical of him. It seems that Randall was killed before he could see me and ask for the written statement.”
Swithin switched his gaze to Letitia. “If I may ask, Lady Randall, what are your feelings regarding the sale of the company? As I’m sure Trowbridge mentioned, it was our policy to stick together, so if you wish to retain the company, we will, of course, not pursue the sale.”
Letitia waved airily. “I fear I’m not ready to even consider such matters. Lord Dearne is collecting the relevant information and I’m sure will eventually advise me of how the company stands vis-à-vis Randall’s estate, and how I stand in relation to both.” She added a vague smile for good measure; Swithin, she suspected, was the sort of man who expected women to be vague and flighty, especially about money and business. “I suspect it will be some little time before I can form any opinion on a sale.”
Swithin held his hands wide, paternalistically soothing. “There’s absolutely no reason for any rush.”
Politely inquiring, he looked at Christian. “Is there anything else?”
There wasn’t. Christian rose, assisted Letitia to her feet, and they took their leave.
They walked back to Randall’s house, summoned Letitia’s carriage, and directed the driver to the Bastion Club.
Leaning back against the squabs, oddly comforted by the large, warm body beside her, Letitia considered her impressions of Trowbridge and Swithin, contrasted that with her memories of Randall. “You know, while in retrospect there were some very telling oddities in Randall’s makeup, I would never have suspected him of being a farmer’s son. He’d…I suppose you might say ‘lost the roughness,’ long ago—he was certainly polished enough to pass muster. As for Trowbridge, he’s so flamboyantly at ease in the ton, no one would suspect him of being a tradesman’s brat. But Swithin…he’s so quiet, so retiring, so patently avoiding notice, that that would, I think, if I didn’t know his background, make me wonder.”
She thought, then grimaced. “I might have wondered why he was so retiring, but I seriously doubt I would have questioned his antecedents.” After a moment she said, “I would have thought him—do think him—a trifle out of his social depth.”
“It’s the way he watches people,” Christian said.
She nodded. “Yes—as if he fears getting caught out. As if he knows he’ll need to think before he reacts, and so has to watch carefully so he doesn’t make a mistake. Neither Randall nor Trowbridge were like that. If one were assessing how well each had performed in their Grand Plan, while all three succeeded in being accepted by the ton, Randall and Trowbridge were completely at ease, entirely confident of their place, but Swithin still doesn’t feel secure in his.” She glanced at Christian. “Is that how he struck you?”
He nodded. “Not entirely comfortable, not assured, but no one would ever guess why.”
“True. Most would simply think him a quieter, more nervous sort—which he is.”
The carriage drew to a halt before the club’s gate. Christian alighted and helped Letitia down. Inside, they discovered Justin in the library, along with Dalziel, Tristan, and Tony.
“Jack sends his regrets,” Tony informed them.
But Letitia’s gaze had fixed, fulminating, on her brother. “What are you doing here?”
Her tone suggested there was no answer she would find acceptable.
Justin merely raised his brows. “Better I come here than get eaten by boredom to the extent I slip my leash and go on the town.”
Christian watched as Letitia narrowed her eyes, but an inability to bear boredom was something she understood. In the end she sniffed and turned away—fixing Dalziel with a look dark enough to have him defending himself with, “He’s safe enough.”
Letitia’s expression said he’d better be. She consented to sit; with, Christian suspected, identical inward sighs of relief, all the men sank into armchairs.
“We spoke with Trowbridge, and then later with Swithin.” He seized the stage and outlined what they’d learned, especially the concept of the men’s Grand Plan, which made sense of many things.
“I heard back from Oxford and Cambridge,” Dalziel said. “I can confirm those hells of theirs are still operating, and are known to rake in large sums from the more well-heeled students. Both hells are tolerated because they don’t encourage excessive drinking, actively discourage womanizing, and by and large keep the students off the streets.”
“So both Trowbridge and Swithin told exactly the same story,” Christian concluded, “which suggests that, at least in what they told us, they were telling the truth.”
A knock on the door heralded Gasthorpe. He bore his silver salver, which he presented to Christian. “From Mr. Montague, my lord.”