Page 31 of Murder in Moonlight
“He will have your son as his partner now.”
“I suppose so. Though I am not sure banking is quite Randolph’s forte…”
Solomon rose to his feet. “I should leave you to rest… Just before I go—for Mrs. Goldrich’s records, did you happen to see or hear anyone after we all retired? You followed the rest of us upstairs, did you not?”
“I did. Wilson looked after me. Walter came up, but only for a little before he went out again.”
“Was he going to meet someone else?”
“He didn’t say.” Her voice was very small. Because she suspected her husband of going to meet Alice Bolton? Or was she covering for someone? Her son? One of her daughters?
Either way, Solomon could not ask more just now without losing her good will. He smiled, bowed, and left her.
Chapter Seven
In the librarywith Randolph, going through Winsom’s business papers, Thomas Bolton missed his partner. Which was odd, because he had resented Walter for much of his life, even while he admired him. But at least Walter would concentrate on the matter in hand. Randolph showed little interest and less understanding.
“Do you actuallywantthe burden of the bank, Randolph?” Bolton asked, abandoning the pile of papers in front of him.
Randolph refocused on his face. “Of course I do. It’s mine.” He rubbed at his forehead with one hand. “I’m sorry. I find it difficult to concentrate. I keep thinking of my father.”
“So do I,” Bolton said, more gently. “Perhaps we should have given ourselves more time before we begin on this. It is just that I want everything to be in order so that there is no interruption to what you and your mother receive. And to be honest, I thought it would help to be busy. For both of us.”
“I railed against the bank a bit,” Randolph confessed. “I thought it dull and was desperate to pursue my own path.” He grimaced. “But of course I never found one.”
“You are young,” Bolton replied.
Randolph gave a slightly crooked smile, so reminiscent of his father that it caught at Bolton’s breath. “But no longer privileged enough to despise the business that feeds me, my mother, and my sister. I am the head of the family now.”
“And of the bank,” Bolton said lightly. “But to be honest, your father never got to grips with the day-to-day running of it. He trusted me to see to that while he concentrated on our most important clients and investors. That was his forte, and it could well be yours.”
Randolph had the sense to look doubtful. “I hardly have my father’s gravitas! Or his knowledge, let alone yours. How on earth would such wealthy men trustme, let alone rely on me?”
“They wouldn’t, of course, not quite yet. They must grow used to you. It will be hard work to reach the position your father occupied. You have to be sure it is what you want.”
“I want to do the right thing,” Randolph said determinedly. He gave a quick smile. “I just hadn’t envisaged doing it just yet. But needs must.”
“Don’t feel overwhelmed,” Bolton said kindly. “I will help you. Everyone at the bank will.” It was not the time to add that Randolph could simply step aside to pursue his own interests, leaving Bolton to guide the bank in the direction it needed to go. Walter had been far too high-handed, taking them down much-too-risky paths, and Bolton didn’t miss that side of his partner at all.
Randolph regarded the piles of papers and ledgers spread out on the desk and looked overwhelmed.
“Perhaps a glass of brandy would help,” Bolton said. “Your father found it aided his concentration from time to time!”
That wasn’t quite true, but the poor boy had lost his father, and in such a way.
As he poured, Bolton felt excitement surge within him. Being in sole charge of the bank was exhilarating, releasing a thousand new and wonderful opportunities. And yet the grief took him by surprise by rising just as fast. He would have no one to share his successes with. No one who understood. Only those who saw the results in terms of new gowns and servants and houses—likeAlice, whom he could not afford to think about right now. Or Walter’s son, who gazed at him in such bewilderment, who really wanted money and position without working for it.
Bolton handed one glass to Randolph and raised his own. Tears prickled. “To your father,” he said huskily.
*
“How did sheknow?” Constance asked, when Grey had told her about his somewhat surprising encounter with Deborah Winsom, including the interesting fact that Walter had been banished from the marital bed to the dressing room.
They were once more alone in the morning room, both dressed for dinner. Constance wore burgundy silk, since it was the darkest evening gown she had brought with her. While she paced back and forth across the floor, Grey sat in the window seat, apparently fascinated by the rain on the glass. He could not have seen much through it.
It struck Constance that he was avoiding looking at her because he could not bear to be in alliance with such a distasteful person. That would have hurt, if she had let it. Instead, she concentrated on admiring his lean, handsome profile whenever it was within her line of vision. She enjoyed his stillness, even if she wondered intensely what went on behind that closed, private face of his.
But at her last question, a puzzled frown tugged at his brow. He even glanced away from the window. “How did she know what?”
