When Mellon entered to announce that Swithin had called to see her, she all but fell on his neck. “Yes—please show him in here, Mellon.”
She walked to one of the sofas and stood before it. When Swithin entered, she smiled. “Mr. Swithin.”
He came forward, politely grave. Taking the hand she offered, he bowed. “Lady Randall. I hope I see you well and that this time is convenient. Albeit belatedly, I wanted to pay my respects and convey my most sincere condolences on poor Randall’s death.”
“Thank you, Mr. Swithin.” With a wave, Letitia invited him to sit on the opposing sofa, and sank onto its mate. “Will you take tea?”
Swithin assented. Letitia rose, tugged the bellpull, then returned to the sofa. Mellon appeared almost instantly; while they waited for him to return with the tea tray, Swithin and she exchanged idle comments on the weather.
Once Mellon had reappeared with the tray and Letitia had poured and handed Swithin his cup, she raised her own, sipped, then said, “If you will, I would appreciate hearing any memories of my late husband you feel able to share. It seems I didn’t know him well.” Quite aside from being a distraction, it was possible Swithin might let fall some clue.
He nodded, set his cup gently on its saucer. “He, Trowbridge, and I were all born in Hexham. We grew up there, but we didn’t know each other until we met at the grammar school. Once we had…”
She listened while he gave her what was plainly a heavily edited account of Randall’s life, with more personal color than he’d imparted before, yet still carefully avoiding any mention of their lowly origins.
Eventually he came to the present. “I quite understand, of course, why Randall wanted to sell. Now that the company has served its purpose for all of us, there’s really no point retaining our interest, especially given the concomitant risk of exposure.”
Letitia nodded. “Indeed.”
Swithin looked slightly conscious. “Not, of course, that I wish to pressure you to sell. I agreed with Randall, and I believe Trowbridge did, too, but perhaps you have reasons to want to hold onto the company.”
It wasn’t quite a question; she didn’t need to answer, yet if he agreed, and Trowbridge did, too…“On the contrary.” Letitia set aside her empty cup. “I’m absolutely determined to dissociate myself from the company with all possible speed.” She glanced at Swithin, realized she couldn’t read his expression at all well. Remembered he was known as a canny investor; presumably a poker face was something he’d cultivated. “As we all three agree that we want to sell, I’m hoping the matter can be arranged without delay.”
“Yes, indeed.” Swithin looked down, then leaned forward to hand her his empty cup. “In pursuit of that aim, I wonder if I might ask if I may take a look in Randall’s desk. In your presence, of course. When he suggested selling, I worked up some summaries of the latest profits. They will be useful to have when we’re deciding on a price—that’s why I gave them to him.”
Letitia frowned. “I can’t recall seeing any such papers.” She’d watched Barton’s search with an eagle eye.
“It might not be instantly obvious what they are.” Swithin stood.
Letitia rose, too. “Of course I wasn’t aware of the company at that time, so it’s possible I overlooked them.”
She led the way from the room, then diagonally down the hall to the study. She went straight to the desk. As her fingers brushed the edge, she heard the click of the door lock. Surprised, she glanced back.
Swithin stood just inside the door, his gaze locked on her. “We don’t want to be disturbed.”
She frowned; his manner had changed. He was now disturbing her.
His hand dipped into his coat pocket; he withdrew it—her eyes widened as she saw the small pistol he’d retrieved.
He leveled it at her. “No histrionics, please, or I’ll be forced to shoot you and flee.”
No histrionics? Eyes locked on the pistol, Letitia swallowed an impulse to ask if he knew who she was. She blinked instead—and felt a most peculiar calm descend on her. “I’ve had people react to my temper before, but never with a weapon.”
Where the words, let alone her even diction, came from, she had no idea, but Swithin didn’t smile, didn’t react at all—which chilled her all the more.
“If you would open the door.” He waved with the pistol toward the secret door. “Please don’t pretend you can’t—it’s obvious you and Dearne found Randall’s room.”
She tried to think what to do—how to seize control—but her brain had stalled. Moving slowly, her attention helplessly locked on the pistol, she went to the window and depressed the catch hidden in the frame.
The bookcase popped ajar.
“Good. Now fetch the keys from Randall’s drawer—I know they’re there.”
She did, still moving with slow deliberation, while inside, panic of a degree she’d never felt before welled and swelled.
When she lifted the keys free, Swithin nodded. “Excellent. Now go down the steps and into the room.”
She hesitated, considering the pistol; its aim hadn’t wavered. If she screamed…given she’d screamed in this very room so often before, would Mellon react? Even if she screamed for help?