CHAPTER 11 #2
Was he thinking of his dead brother, slain on some bloody Peninsular battlefield? She could imagine the sense of loss must seep into the very marrow of one’s bones.
“Do you miss Thomas?” she asked abruptly.
He turned, the play of afternoon light and shadow skittering over the austere angles of his face. Perhaps it was merely a fluttering reflection in the windowpanes, but for an instant the chiseled arrogance seemed to give way to a ghosting of pain.
“Every day,” replied Wrexford. “He was a good man. A far better one than I.”
She had expected his usual sarcasm, not such naked honesty. “I’m so sorry.”
A careless shrug, and the moment was gone. “As Raven so wisely pointed out a while back, the Grim Reaper cares naught as to whether you are a lowly pauper or a highborn toff when he swings his scythe.”
Clang, clang—the ring of swords floated in from the garden, punctuated by peals of boyish laughter.
“They will sleep well in their new house,” he remarked.
A deliberate deflecting of tender sentiment. His cool smile seemed to challenge any further probing on the subject. Speaking of emotion wasn’t something either of them did well.
“If physical exhaustion helps to counter the excitement of having beds and room of their own, I shall be profoundly grateful,” answered Charlotte, following his lead. “Though I fear they . . .”
The clang-clang of steel against steel echoed her own jumpy nerves.
“I fear they won’t be as happy as I wish for them to be,” she finished.
“Trust your instincts, Mrs. Sloane,” murmured the earl. “I do.” Without further ado, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “You’ve much on your mind. If you’ll allow me to explain the real reason for my visit, I shall then leave you in peace.”
“A new clue?” The flutter of paper chased all other thoughts from her head. “Did you find Gannett?”
“Yes, and you were right to suspect that he wasn’t working alone.” Wrexford came to sit down beside her on the sofa. “He pointed us to a man named Hollis, who, judging by all the pamphlets we found in his room, looks to have been a leader of the Workers of Zion.”
The earl’s use of the past tense stirred a prickling at the nape of her neck. “And what did Mr. Hollis have to say for himself,” she asked. “Assuming you found him?”
“Precious little,” replied Wrexford grimly. “His throat had been slashed.”
Charlotte flinched.
“He did manage to say he didn’t kill Ashton . . .” He blew out a harried breath. “But the rest of his words were naught but a cursed riddle.”
“W-What did he say?” she demanded.
“When I asked if he knew the real killer, he said ‘Find Nevins’—and before you ask, I haven’t a clue as to who he is. Then he added the phrase Numbers—numbers will reveal everything.”
She stared at the folded piece of paper in his hands. “Have you any idea what that means?”
He slapped it down on the tea table and smoothed it open. “I was hoping you might see something that I’m missing.”
Black on white—a string of seemingly random numbers jumped off the crinkled page. Charlotte stared at them blankly and then looked up. “Were it art or symbols I might be of some help. But I’ve no expertise in mathematics, sir.”
“I thought perhaps that might work in our favor,” he muttered.
“I take it you were hoping I might spot an unexpected pattern.” She made herself take another long look. “Sorry, it looks like Greek to me.”
“Damnation.” Wrexford grimaced and then muttered, “Would that it were Latin.”
Hic sunt dracones—Here there be dragons, thought Charlotte. Early on, she had betrayed her knowledge of the classical language, and the earl had never ceased using it to probe for information about her background.
Ignoring the comment, she said, “You’re a man of science. Surely there must be some logic to the numbers and how they add up.”
“Not that I’ve seen. However, I’ve sent it to a professor at Cambridge who’s far more skilled in mathematics than I am. With a modicum of luck, he’ll have some ideas.”
Of late, Luck had not been looking on them favorably, thought Charlotte.
“I’ll leave this copy with you,” he added. “Just in case inspiration strikes.”
“Tell me more about Hollis and his connection to Workers of Zion,” she said after taking the paper. “Perhaps there’s some clue we can find there.”
The earl recounted all that had happened the previous evening.
“I’m convinced Gannett is merely an unwitting pawn.
And as for Hollis, I need to meet with Griffin this evening.
I sent word to him about the body and the connection to the radical agitators, so no doubt Bow Street will be frothing at the mouth to track down the rest of the group.
But I want to convince him to delve deeper into this whole sordid mess.
The radicals may be involved, but my sense is Hollis wasn’t lying about not having killed Ashton. ”
“He might have had a falling out with one of the other leaders,” mused Charlotte. “Perhaps he meant Nevins is the killer.”
“I suppose it’s possible, though it didn’t seem as if that was what he meant.” Wrexford made a face. “I’m not convinced we should abandon the idea that someone close to Ashton is involved.”
Charlotte thought for a moment. “I wonder . . .” Looking up, she asked, “What did Hollis look like?”
“A big fellow, dark hair, a mole on his cheek.”
“That’s the man Henning described as having left the pamphlets!” A sharp exhale squeezed from her lungs. “He said he knows nothing about Hollis, and I believe him, but maybe one of his patients knows something about Nevins and can help point to his whereabouts.”
“A good point,” said the earl. “I’ll pay a visit to his surgery. Hollis did seem to be trying to say a word that began with H when he gave up the ghost. It’s possible it was Henning’s name, and that has to mean something.” Wrexford paused. “But first, I’m paying a visit to Ashton’s two assistants.”
Octavia Merton and Benedict Hillhouse. Charlotte felt her insides clench. She must make a decision, and quickly.
“I’ve a talk scheduled with Mr. Hillhouse,” continued the earl. “I’m curious to see if his behavior seems as furtive as that of Miss Merton.”
On one hand, Charlotte wished to pursue her preliminary investigation of the two assistants independently.
Working closely with Wrexford stirred its own complexities.
At times, she feared it clouded her judgment.
Even now she could feel his molten green gaze burning against her flesh as he waited for her reaction.
On the other hand, she needed his help.
“Given your encounter with Miss Merton,” she said, “Mr. Hillhouse may be inclined to see you as the enemy.”
“That can’t be helped,” he replied tersely.
“Perhaps it can, milord.”
His scrutiny sharpened. “How so?”
The recent scathing lectures on pride versus friendship were still ringing in her ears. And yet, that didn’t make swallowing her trepidations any easier.
“Mrs. Sloane?” he urged.
Ah, well. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“It so happens that my friend is acquainted with Mr. Hillhouse.” She went on to recount her recent conversation with Jeremy.
Wrexford listened without interruption, and when she finished, he still said nothing.
Charlotte waited. The silence was a little unnerving. The earl was rarely at a loss for words. However, she had no choice but to go on.
“I’ve arranged to meet all three of them tomorrow,” she explained. “But to do so, I’ll need to impose on your friendship—which, I might remind you, is something I was quite forcefully urged to do.”
That finally roused a response.
“How so?”
“There’s no way for me to mingle among beau monde without adhering to the strictures of Society. It’s one thing for me to dress modestly and move through the streets of Mayfair on my own. People see me as naught but a working class woman clinging to the fringes of respectability.”
She watched his face, trying to gauge his thoughts. Ha—the hieroglyphics carved on the Rosetta Stone would be easier to decipher.
“But if I am to join Lord Sterling and his friends in a social outing, I must appear to adhere to the rules of propriety,” continued Charlotte. “And that means I must be accompanied by a female servant.”
Wrexford crossed his long legs and drew out the moment by smoothing a crease from his trousers. “I trust you’re not suggesting I don skirt and bonnet to masquerade as your maid.”
A scowl pinched at her mouth. “You can’t have it both ways, milord. You can’t take me to task for refusing to trust you, and then turn around and mock me for doing so.”
“An ill-chosen jest,” conceded the earl.
And yet he wasn’t smiling.
“Forgive me,” he added.
It was her turn to freeze him with a silent stare.
If Wrexford noticed, he gave no sign of it. “So, what you’re asking is that someone from my household serve as your companion?”
“I would imagine,” she said through clenched teeth, “that a tweenie or kitchen maid could be spared for a few hours without your mansion falling into rack and ruin.”
“I daresay the roof slates wouldn’t crumble into dust,” he drawled.
“If you insist on being insufferable, I will ask Jeremy,” she shot back. “Though I would prefer not to do so. These people are his friends, and I already feel guilty that I’ve been less than forthright with him about my reasons for wanting to meet them.”
“If they’re innocent, they’ve nothing to fear.”
Charlotte let out an exasperated huff. “We both know it’s not that simple, milord. Everyone has secrets they would prefer to keep buried. Suspicion wields an eager spade. It cares not where it digs, as long as it’s turning up dirt.”
“A very insightful assessment, Mrs. Sloane,” said Wrexford slowly. “Since you so clearly see the complexities—and the dark side—of Truth, I assume you won’t object if I add an observation.”
Mercurial. His mood seemed to be changing with quicksilver spurts, and she had no idea as to why.
The earl didn’t wait for a reply. “Your dear friend—Lord Sterling—is both an investor in Ashton’s new steam engine and a comrade of two of the leading murder suspects. Surely it hasn’t escaped you that he, too, must now be viewed from a different perspective.”
Jeremy guilty of a sordid crime?
A gasp tore free from her throat. “Never,” whispered Charlotte, once she managed to find her voice. “I-I know him. He’s not capable of such evil.”
“You knew your late husband—even more intimately, I presume. And yet you didn’t see the real darkness into which he allowed himself to be dragged.”
At that instant, she wanted to hate him. “How dare you . . .”
“Because,” he replied with infuriating calm, “it’s the truth and you are smart enough to know it.”
She longed to argue—nay, she longed to spit into his glittering emerald-sharp eyes!
But she couldn’t. Her profession had given her a look at too many gut-wrenching deceptions and betrayals. Evil lurked everywhere, even in hearts where one least expected it.
Slumping back against the cushions, Charlotte fought to bring her emotions under control.
Wrexford tactfully averted his gaze. The clash of steel on steel had stopped, leaving the room shrouded in silence. The boys must have grown weary of fighting.
“Very well,” she said, relieved her voice didn’t crack. “As you say, Lord Sterling must be considered a suspect.” A pause. “But not for long. I intend to prove his innocence.”
“I would be happy for you to do so,” he replied. “The fewer specters we are chasing, the better.”
“Then we had both better get to work.” Charlotte rose, too unsettled to remain seated. “Have you made up your mind about allowing me a companion for tomorrow?”
“I’ll send someone, along with a carriage, to fetch you.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Good God, sir—I can’t be seen in one of your carriages! My reputation would be ruined as soon as the wheels rolled into Mayfair.”
“Give me some credit, Mrs. Sloane. I’m quite familiar with what a proper lady can—and cannot—do. On occasion, I wish to travel without drawing notice, so I have several vehicles which are unmarked and unrecognizable.”
For what reason? she wondered, then quickly pushed the thought away.
“Having a carriage drop you at the park entrance only further enhances your image as a widow of strict propriety,” he pointed out.
“That makes some sense,” allowed Charlotte, hoping she didn’t sound too peevish. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“No.” Following her lead, Wrexford got to his feet. “I’ll not impose on you any longer.”
Charlotte watched him move toward the doorway. The curl of his mouth indicated that his usual dry humor had returned. And yet, a black cloud seemed to surround him.
Specters, indeed. She wasn’t thinking straight.
“Lord Wrexford.”
He halted and slowly looked around.
“I—I haven’t thanked you properly for your gift to the lads.”
“You may want to reserve judgment on that.” It was said lightly, but like much of their conversation, his words resonated with multiple meanings.
“Let us not part on a discordant note, sir,” replied Charlotte. “I . . .” She wanted to say more, but couldn’t seem to find the right words, so merely expelled a harried sigh. “My tongue, as you well know, has a sharp edge. There are times when I ought to keep it sheathed.”
“I’ve a thick skin, Mrs. Sloane. You’ve drawn no blood.”
The mention of blood made her shiver.
“I’m relieved to hear that. Too much of it has already been spilled in this gruesome affair.”
“Indeed.” He held her gaze for a moment longer. “All the more reason for us to unravel the mystery surrounding Ashton’s murder and find the real killer—before he strikes again.”