“I saw the line of the depositors going round the block,” Lincoln said, pushing his spectacles higher on his nose. “Lord Wiltshire sent me there to talk to the manager. He was quite worried about his constituents losing their money, you know. But the man fled before I could speak to him.”
Rhodes gulped the entirety of his glass. “Nasty business, that.” He introduced the new man as Sir Padraig Freeley, a baronet from Scotland, before shaking his head. “I can assure you, something like that could never happen at my bank.”
“I should hope not,” Lincoln straightened. “Lord Wiltshire has an account with you.”
Sir Padraig elbowed him with a smile. “Worried about the security of your wages, eh?” He winked. “But seriously, how do banks protect against theft? I hear a man just walked into East End Bank with a pistol and forced the clerk to hand over the money. There’s not much I wouldn’t give over with a gun in my face.”
“We have guards with bigger guns, and the finest safes on the market.” Rhodes smoothed a hand over his straining waistcoat. “Our deposits are secure.”
Another loud titter ripped through the room. Lady Redgrave was pressed so close to Lord Wiltshire she was nearly on his lap.
Lincoln set his glass on the mantle. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” He hurried over to his employer, tapping Wiltshire on the shoulder and drawing his attention from the lady’s enticements.
Lord Wiltshire frowned when Lincoln whispered something in his ear, but moments later he dutifully shifted away from Lady Redgrave, putting a nearly appropriate amount of space between them.
“Saving his lordship from a bit of scandal. Perhaps when Wiltshire gains a few more years he’ll learn that the short-term pleasures of a woman can lead to long-term pains.” The baronet picked up Lincoln’s abandoned glass and poured the contents into his own. “But that one makes a good assistant.”
“Or a good lapdog,” Rhodes added. The men laughed, though there was no humor behind Charles’s chuckles. When his father’s business had begun growing, he had started rubbing elbows with higher society. Charles knew how to act among this kind. But playing a part was never comfortable. He didn’t fit in with the type of person who would smile at a man one moment and laugh behind his back the next.
And there was nothing Charles liked less than situations, or people, who didn’t fit.
His glance strayed to Miss Moore. Her expression was impenetrable. One that gave no hints to where she should fit. Revealed no secrets.
He tossed the rest of his claret down his throat. Maybe some people didn’t need to be sorted. Perhaps she or Lord Summerset would realize their folly and she would leave, saving him the hassle of figuring out her place.
He didn’t need to know where Miss Moore belonged. She didn’t belong here, with him, and that knowledge would have to suffice.
Chapter Four
The maid leading her to her room was a large, sturdy woman whom Cassie imagined was better suited to working out in the fields rather than in a manor house. The hand gripping the silver candlestick was wrinkled and strong, the fingers long, the nails chipped.
Cassie stared at that hand as they plodded down the hallway. What would such a hand feel like wrapped around her throat? Squeezing. Blocking out the air. She touched her own throat. Had Lydia’s vision faded to black, or had she watched her killer’s face to the last?
The servant went inside the bedroom and lit the candles in the wall sconces. “If that’s all you need, Mrs. Alberto. We start serving breakfast at nine. Ring if you need anything.”
Cassie nodded. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
The maid nodded, made one last sweeping glance around the room, and left, pulling the door shut behind her.
Cassie went to the window. Her room overlooked the large back veranda. Candles sputtered on the now empty tables. Her eyes lost focus, the small points of light becoming blurs. She tightened her fingers around her throat, just a little, just enough to remind herself why she was here.
“Close the drapes.”
Cassie started and spun around. A large figure emerged from the shadows next to the wardrobe. Candlelight illuminated one side of Mr. Strait’s face. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or if he always held his jaw so tightly.
“What are you doing in here?” she whispered.
“Where else did you think we’d meet to discuss the investigation?” He cocked his head, seemingly interested in her answer.
One she didn’t have. Of course, they would meet in the other’s room. And as sister and brother, they could make their excuses if they were caught together.
Cassie inhaled slowly, not wanting him to see her nerves. “My bedroom is fine.” She released the sash by the window and the drape fell closed.
Closing in her and Mr. Strait. She was alone, in her bedroom, with a man she hardly knew. She would have laughed at the impropriety of it all if she could still find amusement in life.
“Did you learn anything today?” Mr. Strait lowered the flap of the small escritoire and pulled out the chair in front of it, indicating she should sit.
Cassie sat. “No, not really.” She didn’t much care about the thefts, but she’d kept her ears open. No one spoke of financial difficulties or spending an unusual amount of money. No one even gossiped about the thefts. What was worse, her attempts to bring the conversations to the events of years past, specifically five seasons ago, had been met with bemused stares.
