CHAPTER 21 #2
Charlotte immediately moved to the dressing table, where a set of silver-backed brushes and an array of crystal cosmetic pots were aligned on either side of a large-looking glass framed in a brass pedestal.
Mrs. Ashton’s iron-willed self-control extended to her toilette.
To the right of the brushes sat a small rosewood chest, its lid inlaid with an intricate rosette made of ivory. Dropping her gaze, she saw a large brass keyhole.
A quick tug confirmed it was locked.
Charlotte pulled a steel hairpin from her topknot and with a few precise jiggles and twists was rewarded with a satisfying snick.
The top velvet-lined tray contained several pairs of earrings and matching bracelets.
Garnets and peridots—nothing flashy. Beneath it was a larger divided compartment, with a double strand of lustrous pearls coiled on one side and a filigree gold necklace on the other.
She lifted the jewelry out of the chest and carefully inspected the velvet lining, poking and prodding with her pin to see if there was any sign of a false bottom.
Nothing. And a quick check with the span of her fingers confirmed that there was no hidden space. After replacing everything exactly as it had been, she closed and relocked the lid.
Charlotte was allowing herself a quarter hour for the search. She gauged that she had maybe eleven minutes left.
The chest of drawers contained nothing but gloves, shawls, and small clothes. Moving around the four-poster bed, she saw the night table held only a glass-globed oil lamp and a book. Within its pages was a bookmark, but no other papers.
Behind her, the clock on the mantel was ticking off the seconds.
Hearing no disturbance in the corridor, she ducked into the dressing room.
A large painted armoire held a number of gowns, while next to it sat two trunks with several smaller traveling cases stacked next to them.
Faced with a choice, Charlotte made her decision quickly and headed for the luggage.
If the letters were hidden within the silks and satins, they would remain safe from her prying eyes.
Unlatching the small brass-banded box that sat atop the others revealed a collection of pens, bottled inks, and sealing wax. No papers, and the thin layer of felt was glued tightly to the interior wood, allowing no hiding place.
The sense of urgency was growing. Drawing a breath to settle her spiking nerves, Charlotte quickly shut it and moved on to the next one.
Damn. It held only ribbon-trimmed ballroom slippers.
The dark, smooth ebony of the bottom case was cold to the touch—or maybe it was just that the blood pulsing through her fumbling fingers was heating to a hellfire pitch.
It took several tries to open it before she realized it was locked.
Once again, she plucked the pin from her hair and worked the catch free.
Charlotte felt a spurt of surprise on seeing the contents were all items belonging to a gentleman.
She picked up the handsome pocketwatch and turned it over.
EJA were the ornate entwined initials engraved in the gold case.
Her husband’s personal effects? That made perfect sense.
Mrs. Ashton would naturally wish to ensure they were kept safe.
Logic said there was nothing to be gained by a further search. But a hunch was prickling at the tips of her fingers so Charlotte delved deeper. Several briarwood pipes . . . a pouch of watch fobs, a battered leather sketchbook . . .
Was that a noise coming from the corridor?
She pulled it free and began thumbing through the pages. Faster, faster.
More sounds—she couldn’t linger any longer.
As the cover snapped shut, a small folded sheet of stationery fluttered free. A rushed look showed it was addressed to Isobel. That was enough to make up her mind. Charlotte jammed it down her bodice and hurriedly put everything back in order.
A quick dash brought her to the doorway, where she halted to cock an ear.
Octavia’s voice rose from the foot of the stairs. “. . . suffering a beastly headache. I fear the smallest sound will be agony to her.”
Charlotte rushed to Octavia’s door and after fluffing her skirt, assumed a slow, shuffling step as she headed for the landing.
“I apologize for upsetting the household,” she said weakly.
Both Mrs. Ashton and Octavia looked up. A man was standing several paces behind the widow. He, too, darted a glance at Charlotte, then quickly averted his eyes. Head bowed, he began toying with the brim of his hat.
“There is no need to apologize, Mrs. Sloane,” said Octavia. “Illness is nothing to trifle with. You must rest for as long as need be.” She turned to Mrs. Ashton. “I’m sure you agree.”
“Of course,” answered the widow slowly. “I simply need a moment to fetch some papers from my desk for Mr. Blodgett before he leaves, then we’ll leave you in peace and quiet until you’re feeling better, Mrs. Sloane.”
“That’s very kind of you, but it’s truly not necessary.
The worst has passed.” Charlotte started down, leaning heavily on the bannister.
“Indeed, I think it best if I return to my residence, where I have powders to help prevent a further attack. My maid is still delayed at the modiste shop . . . but Miss Merton, if I might trouble you to accompany me in a hackney . . .”
“I would be happy to do so.” With a rustling of skirts, Octavia joined her on the stairs. “Please allow me to assist you.”
“Thank you,” murmured Charlotte, accepting her friend’s arm.
Mrs. Ashton stepped aside to let them pass. “I do hope you’ll recover quickly.”
“Thankfully the attacks come infrequently, but alas, they give no warning.” She gave a small wince. “And tend to be severe while they last.”
“Then please don’t let me keep you,” replied Mrs. Ashton.
Blodgett shuffled back deeper into the shadows to make room for them to move through the archway leading to the entrance hall.
He was a handsome man, noted Charlotte in passing.
His gaze kept darting to the widow—the woman seemed to attract men like flies to honey—but as he shifted, his eyes met with Charlotte’s for an instant.
Passion. For all his show of proper subservience, Charlotte caught the hot spark of some fierce emotion before he looked away.
Was Blodgett another of Isobel’s conquests? Or was it infatuation from afar? He was the mill’s supervisor . . . Good God, could he, too, be involved in taking control of Ashton’s business?
She forced herself to push such thoughts away until later. Her nerves were on edge—perhaps she was merely seeing specters.
Playing her role well, Octavia guided Charlotte down the front steps. Neither of them spoke until they were in a hackney and navigating through the crush of carriages on Piccadilly Street.
“Well?” Octavia was whispering despite the noise of the traffic. “Did you find anything?”
“Perhaps.” Charlotte withdrew the paper from her bodice—now slightly crumpled—and smoothed it out in her lap. “You’re familiar with Ashton’s writing.” She held up the top note. “Is this his hand?”
The reply came without hesitation. “No.”
“Take a closer look. I need for you to be absolutely certain.”
“I’ve handled Eli’s correspondence since I was fifteen,” replied Octavia. “The slant and the roundness of the letterforms are all wrong. He did not pen that note.”
Charlotte accepted her word for it. “Then yes, I think we’ve found something interesting. You see, it begins My Dear Isobel, and since you’re sure it wasn’t written by Ashton, it certainly stirs suspicions.” She went on to explain where she had found the note and why she had taken it.
Octavia edged forward on her seat. “What does the rest of it say?”
A slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as Charlotte skimmed the short message.
“My Dear Isobel,” she read, “There’s no need to worry that anyone will learn of our sordid little secret. Just remain calm and do as I tell you, and we’ll both get what we want.”
Charlotte looked up. “It’s simply signed with the letter D.”
“Lord Kirkland’s Christian name is Dermott,” said Octavia.
“I’m aware of that.” Her smile widened. “Granted, it’s still circumstantial. But we may be slowly tightening the noose around the necks of the villains responsible for Elihu Ashton’s death.”
The wheels lurched as the hackney rolled onto the narrower streets and rougher paving stones of her new neighborhood. A reminder that Mayfair, with all its glitter and glamor, was still a world apart from hers.
I must never forget that.
“Mrs. Sloane . . .”
Charlotte was roused from her own musings by the tentative words.
“Might I ask you a question?”
Shadows flitted between them, sharp and jumpy, like the rattling of the vehicle and clattering of hooves. She nodded an assent, careful to make no promise to answer it.
“I can’t help but be curious on how you seem so skilled at clandestine activities.”
“There is an old adage about curiosity killing the cat,” murmured Charlotte.
Octavia didn’t smile. “Which is to say you aren’t going to give me an answer?”
“Correct.”
The sigh was swallowed in the street noise. “My guess is you’re a government spy.” Octavia plucked at a fold in her skirts and gave a wry grimace. “But I don’t suppose you would admit to it if that were true.”
“You have a very creative imagination, Miss Merton. However, allowing it to run wild can lead to trouble. Let’s just say that life’s challenges have taught me certain pragmatic tricks for survival.”
Octavia remained silent, a pensive look shading her face.
Charlotte turned her attention to the note still in her hand.
She read it again, then refolded it and tucked it back into her bodice.
Wrexford must, of course, see it without delay.
Sheffield would likely recognize Kirkland’s handwriting from seeing the viscount’s gaming vowels.
Bow Street couldn’t ignore the web of intrigue woven by the short message . . .
The hackney slowed to a halt.
“What do we do next?” asked Octavia as Charlotte took hold of the door latch. “Benedict—”
“Patience, Miss Merton,” she cut in. “For now, discretion is the better part of valor. You must concentrate on giving nothing away to Mrs. Ashton. Lord Wrexford and I must have a council of war. Our enemy is clever . . .”
From outside came the sounds of the horse snorting and stomping.
“But so are we.”