Charlotte felt a lump form in her throat.
He patted her arm. “But I have a feeling you didn’t invite me here to discuss philosophy. Are you perchance involved in solving another murder?”
She surrendered a sigh. “As it so happens, I am. And I’m hoping you might be able to answer some questions about banking and bills of exchange.”
“Finance, eh? Dare I ask . . .”
“It would be best if you didn’t,” she replied.
Having been involved in several of her previous investigations, he accepted the statement without argument. “What is it you want to know?”
Charlotte tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m looking for the names of any banks here in London which have a reputation for being lax in their business practices.”
His brows drew together. “Lax in what way?”
“As in asking no questions when opening an account for a business consortium, such as who owns it and who is legally entitled to order transactions. And as in facilitating the movement of money in and out of the account with a minimum of official paperwork.”
Jeremy took a long moment to ponder her answer. She could see he was both intrigued and uneasy by its ramifications.
“That would,” he said carefully, “rule out the well-established banks, like Coutts, Hoare’s, Barclays, and Gurney’s.” It was half statement, half question.
“Yes. We’re looking for smaller establishments that cater to facilitating more shadowy dealings. I’ve been given a list by our friend Henning. I’m hoping you might help us narrow the choices.”
“Ah.” Jeremy appeared relieved. For all his radical views on certain things, he was a traditionalist when it came to respect for the pillars of Society. “I’m aware of several banks around the Exchange that are rumored to bend the rules if their palms are greased.”
“Have you any names?” asked Charlotte, taking up a small notebook and pencil from the side table.
He gave her three.
She wrote them down. “Thank you.” One was a match with Henning’s names.
“Do be careful, Charley.” Jeremy pinched at the pleat of his finely tailored trousers. “Much as I admire your passion for justice, it sometimes frightens me half to death.”
“Actually, I’m far more cautious than I used to be.” She thought of the Weasels and Wrexford and her ever-widening circle of friends.Perhaps that’s because I have far more to lose than I did in the past.
He let out a skeptical snort, but then softened it with a smile. “Since we’ve brought up the subject of change, I have something on a personal note to tell you, now that we have finished with business.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Jeremy hesitated. “Isobel—that is, Mrs. Ashton—and I are to be married.”
For a moment, Charlotte could do no more than stare in mute shock. But she quickly gathered her wits. “Why, that’s wonderful news. I’m . . .”
“Astonished?” he suggested.
“Very happy for you,” she finished in a rush.
Amusement pooled in his azure eyes. “It’s not like you to fiddle-faddle around a subject.”
She blew out her breath and then couldn’t help but laugh. “Very well, I confess you caught me by surprise, and my first reaction was, indeed, astonishment.” The two of them had forged a close-knit friendship during childhood—a closeness akin to that of brother and sister—and had shared their most intimate secrets and longings with each other. “But now that I think on it, the match is perfect.”
The widow had, for a time, been a suspect in one of their previous murder investigations because of her intelligence and business acumen—and because of a sordid secret in her past.
“Mrs. Ashton is not only smart and steady, but she possesses just the right sort of dry humor to rub along well with yours,” she added.
“Working together on her late husband’s weaving mills has given us a common purpose,” said Jeremy. “And we have come to like each other very much.” His voice didn’t alter, but Charlotte sensed the depth of feeling that those simple words held. “Our partnership may not blaze with passion, but we have a very special friendship.”
“Friendship,” said Charlotte, “is perhaps the very best foundation on which to build a marriage.”
