CHAPTER 19 #2
Then he looked up and met her searching stare. “Mrs. Ashton is, without question, a beauty who exudes an innate sensuality.”
Charlotte’s expression didn’t change. Like stone—impervious to the elements swirling around it.
“That’s not uncommon among the beau monde. Women have little else but their allure to use as bargaining chips when negotiating with men,” he went on slowly. “However, the widow also possesses a sharp intellect, which is far rarer. Granted, I found that intriguing. So, yes, . . .”
Was it merely a quirk of light, or did Charlotte’s eyes betray a flicker of pain? It was gone so fast he decided he was mistaken.
“So yes, perhaps that was a distraction.”
She released a pent-up breath, softly, so that it barely stirred the surrounding air. “One that might prove deadly.”
“It might,” agreed Wrexford. “Assuming, as you so delicately implied, that my response to her remained primal rather than cerebral.”
Despite the gloom, there was no mistaking the rise of color to her cheekbones.
“There’s a steely secrecy to Mrs. Ashton—”
“And God forbid that women have secrets,” whispered Charlotte. “But at times, they are our only defense. As you so sagely said, we have precious few ways to counter the power that men hold over us in this supposedly civilized society.”
Their eyes met, and on seeing the momentary flicker of naked vulnerability, it was all he could do to keep from drawing her into the protective shelter of his arms. Once again, he wished he knew what lay in her past.
“I don’t disagree with you on that, but kindly allow me to finish,” he said, somehow keeping his voice level.
“There’s a secrecy to the widow, and though there’s a passion burning somewhere in her depths, it’s impossible to discern what it is.
My sense is, it’s very private. And it’s tempered by ice.
She’s not likely to ever really open her heart. ”
“You underestimate your own powers, Wrexford. Most women, I imagine find you . . .”
He raised his brows, waiting for her to go on.
Her flush deepened. “But I need not flatter your vanity. My point is, Mrs. Ashton’s passions are—”
“Personal,” he said flatly. “Unlike yours, which are roused by your compassion and commitment to ideals that are larger than yourself. I can’t imagine her risking her neck, as you do, for abstract concepts like truth and justice.”
A look of astonishment crept over Charlotte’s face. “Y-You find my passions infuriating.”
He allowed a small smile. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t admire them. Indeed, it’s in comparing her to you that I’ve clarified my thinking.”
Charlotte rendered speechless was a rare sight to behold. He took a moment to enjoy it.
“However suspect my judgment is about women, and God knows I’ve been fooled in the past, I’ve come to the same conclusion as you about the widow,” he explained.
“Whether she’s ultimately proven to be guilty or innocent, I suspect idealism isn’t part of her nature.
Whatever attraction I might have felt—and by the by, she was never warming my bed—it is gone. You have my word on it.”
“Then the matter is settled,” said Charlotte, still appearing a little flustered.
“Not quite,” he responded as she turned to the tea table. “Attraction cuts both ways, Mrs. Sloane. Lord Sterling is up to his teeth in this mystery. For you to be blind to that because of the obvious bonds between the two of you could also be dangerous to us all.”
“Jeremy and I are friends, nothing more.”
“Dear friends,” stressed Wrexford, repeating her earlier words. “Perhaps it is you who underestimate yourself. He looks at you—”
“He looks at me like someone he’s known since childhood!” interrupted Charlotte.
She appeared unnaturally upset by the suggestion of a romantic entanglement, though the earl wasn’t sure why. Was she oblivious to her own undeniable allure?
“The bonds you sense are those of two kindred souls who didn’t fit into the conventional strictures of their worlds,” she went on haltingly, clearly fumbling for words. “We’ve helped each other through . . . difficult times in the past. That builds . . . an elemental trust that is hard to explain.”
“And that doesn’t make you apt to give him the benefit of the doubt?”
The pulse point on her throat jumped as Charlotte looked away to consider the question. Her hair had loosened from her night braid, the dark, curling strands obscuring her profile.
She looked achingly beautiful in the softly shifting shadows. He felt a sudden spurt of raw jealousy for Sterling and the closeness he had with her.
“I’m no stranger to facing terrible truths, Wrexford. My bond with Jeremy, however strong, will not override my sense of right and wrong.”
“I can’t help but wonder what deep, dark secrets you share?” Though he said it lightly, he was deadly serious.
“They have nothing to do with this case.” Charlotte’s breathing turned ragged. “I assure you, there’s naught but friendship between us.”
Wrexford didn’t think she was lying, but something wasn’t quite adding up right. “I’m not sure Sterling feels the same,” he pressed.
“He does,” she insisted.
“How can you be so sure?”
The uncertain light couldn’t hide her reaction. All the color suddenly drained from her face, leaving her looking pale as death. “I—I accepted your word without challenge because I feel that we, too, have developed a certain degree of trust. I ask that you do the same for me.”
Perplexed, the earl held himself silent, a furrow forming between his brows. Charlotte was always so plainspoken. Why the devil was she talking in circles? It made no sense.
His frown deepened. Unless . . .
The realization dawned on him as he watched a fearful war of emotions tighten her features. She wasn’t afraid for herself.
“Ah,” he said softly. “I think I finally comprehend what you are saying. Sterling’s feelings for you are . . . platonic.”
“Yes,” she whispered, locking her gaze with his. “I have just made myself vulnerable to you. And him as well. But it’s important that there be no misunderstandings between us, sir. We must be able to trust each other without reservation.”
“Agreed. Trust is a matter of honor—it’s sacrosanct between friends.” He read the silent appeal in her eyes and added, “You have often said that no secret is ever safe, but rest assured that despite my many faults, I’ll never betray your confidence.”
“Thank you.” Relief resonated in the faint stirring of air between them. “I—I hope that you, who have a healthy skepticism for convention, will not judge Jeremy too harshly.”
“Mrs. Sloane, I am far too concerned with the precarious state of my own salvation to give a fig about the so-called sins of others.”
Paper crackled as he took a step back and shifted the roll of drawings from hand to hand, intent on giving her a moment of privacy. Charlotte, too, moved away, the soft clinking of the tea things helping to break the tension.
“Thank you,” she repeated. “For being . . . such a good friend.”
Friend. The word had been barely a whisper, and yet its echo seemed to fill the room with a thrumming that reverberated right down to the marrow of his bones.
Wrexford shifted, trying to shake off the sensation. And yet, after several slow, thudding heartbeats, honesty compelled him to admit that his feelings for Charlotte had somehow become far more than mere friendship.
“Wrexford . . .”
He looked up.
“You . . . don’t seem yourself.”
I’m not—and perhaps I’ll never be quite the same.
She edged around the table, closing the space between them, and to his surprise reached up to place her palm against his cheek. The warmth of her skin sent sparks shooting from his scalp to his toes.
Without thinking, he covered her hand with his. They stood for a long moment, still and silent, before he reluctantly released her and drew back a step.
“I’m simply fatigued, that’s all,” he murmured.
Charlotte nodded and quietly returned to the task of straightening up the table. “So, is there anything else we need to discuss?” she asked after carefully arranging the cups and pot on the tray. “Otherwise, I suggest you return home and get some sleep.”
“I think not,” replied the earl. “Our strategies are in place.” He made a small farewell gesture and started for the door. “We shall see how they play out.”
* * *
Shaken by her confrontation with Wrexford, Charlotte found herself too on edge to sleep. At the top of the stairs, she turned sharply, heading into her workroom instead of her bedchamber. It had certainly been a night of revelations, though how they would all intertwine was impossible to predict.
Truth and lies, with no way to discern one from the other.
As for the personal conundrums . . . Charlotte pressed her palms together, aware of the raspy warmth lingering from Wrexford’s bristled jaw. How could he be so hard and yet so soft?
Questions, questions—her emotions were too tangled to try to sort out right now.
Instead, she took refuge in the murder investigation. There must be a way to put her intellect to work. After pacing back and forth, she took a seat at her work desk. Exhaling a breath, she opened one of the drawers and took out the copy of the numbers Wrexford had found in Hollis’s rooms.
Simple symbols, wrought clearly in black on white. Charlotte squinted. Surely she should be able to see some sort of clue, some sort of pattern. Picking up a pencil, she made a stab at converting the numbers to letters.
Gibberish.
Defeated, she slumped back in her chair.
“M’lady?”
Raven’s cat-footed stealth was always a little unnerving, but his sudden appearance just an arm’s length away nearly caused her to jump out of her skin.
“Sorry,” he apologized, stepping back so quickly that tea sloshed over the rim of the steaming mug cradled in his hands. “I—I just thought ye might want something hot te drink.”
“How thoughtful! Indeed I do.” Charlotte patted the desktop. “Come, put it down, before you burn your fingers.”