CHAPTER 23 #2
The earl was already striding to the alleyway.
Charlotte shook off her musings and hurried to catch up with him.
“How do you intend to gain entrance into the widow’s residence?” she asked. “The doors are likely barred, so picking a lock won’t work. And besides, it’s not a wise idea—the footmen may have orders to shoot any intruder.”
He didn’t look around but merely quickened his pace. “There are times when having a high and mighty title proves useful.”
Charlotte fell in step behind him. Whatever force of nature had him in thrall, it wasn’t going to yield to anything she said.
One turn, then another, and suddenly the silvery silhouette of Grosvenor Square’s fancy mansions, all elegant angles and decorative pediments, rose out of the gloom ahead.
Moving in single file, the three of them circled around the central garden, hugging close to the leafy shadows overhanging the fence.
The residences lining the far side of the square were swathed in silky silence, the pale limestone and stately marble porticos sleeping peacefully in the hide-and-seek shadows cast by the wrought iron street lights.
Lord Blackstone’s townhouse was set near the far corner. Wrexford took the treads of the marble entrance stairs two at a time and grabbed hold of the heavy brass knocker.
Bang, bang! Several staccato raps shattered the quiet tranquility.
“If you are intent on rousing the dead, we could simply summon a regiment of the Royal Hussars to gallop through the streets,” quipped Sheffield.
The earl paid him no heed and pounded out another tattoo.
Charlotte glanced around. No light flared to life in the nearby windows, but as she turned back, she thought she detected the glimmer of candlelight deep within the residence.
Sure enough, a wary voice, muzzy with sleep, sounded on the other side of the paneled oak door.
“Who’s there?”
“The Earl of Wrexford.”
She’d never heard him sound so imperious.
“Open up immediately and wake Mrs. Ashton,” he added. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
“B-B-But the h-hour . . .” stammered whoever had the misfortune to be keeping the midnight watch.
“Open up now!” commanded the earl. “Or I promise you, there will be hell to pay!”
The rasp of wood scraping through an iron bracket announced the man’s surrender. The bolt drew back, the latch lifted, and the massive slab of oak slowly swung open.
Wrexford shouldered his way past the nervous servant and started for the stairs.
“Milord! You can’t—”
“Oh, but I can.”
Keeping her head down, Charlotte hurried after him.
The earl had not yet thought to protest her presence, and she didn’t intend to give him a chance to do so.
Her disguise was good, but experience had taught her that the best cloak of concealment was the fact that people saw what they expected to see.
An urchin was an urchin. Mrs. Ashton would have no cause to think otherwise.
Wrexford paused on the upper landing. A single wall sconce was lit, its flame turned low, the flickers quickly disappearing in the darkness.
“Which is Miss Merton’s bedchamber?” he asked as Charlotte joined him.
She pointed it out.
“Wake her. Her presence may be useful.”
“I doubt she’s still asleep.” A hurried rustling behind the door confirmed the surmise. Lowering her voice, Charlotte added, “Remember, sir, I’m merely one of your informants. Let it not be you who makes the dangerous slip.”
“Be assured, I don’t intend to make any mistakes.”
There was an edge to his voice she had never heard before. But there was no time now to puzzle it out.
The door latch of Octavia’s room rattled. Charlotte heard Sheffield start up the stairs.
Drawing a deep breath, she edged back into the recessed alcove of the linen storage closet.
Wrexford turned and was ready when Octavia stepped into the corridor, a wrapper thrown haphazardly over her nightrail, her hair sticking out in disarray from a loose braid.
“Lord Wrexford!” Her breath caught for an instant in her throat. “Is it Benedict? Oh, God—is he dead?”
“I’ve no news on Hillhouse,” he replied. “I’m here on another matter. One that I hope will put an end to the bloody trail of lies and deceit.”
Octavia slumped against the molding, whether in relief or a sense of impending doom was impossible to tell. Charlotte felt a stab of sympathy. She feared that things were not going to end well for her friend.
“Go wake Mrs. Ashton,” commanded Wrexford to Octavia.
“There’s no need.” From the far end of the corridor came a tiny explosion of light as a candle suddenly sparked to life.
Its dancing glow illuminated the widow’s face.
Framed by her midnight-dark hair and the surrounding gloom, it held a spectral beauty, her pale, wraith-like features appearing to float disembodied above the undulating flame.
Fire and ice, thought Charlotte.
“I am here,” said Isobel. Her bloodless lips curled upward. “I take it this is not a social call?”
“No,” replied the earl. “I think you know why I’m here.”
The widow started forward, her slow, steady steps silent save for the soft swoosh of fabric around her legs. As she came closer, Charlotte noted that her nightclothes were pure white.
A reminder that the difference between devil and angel was so easily shaded by perception.
“I can hazard a guess,” replied Isobel with chilling calmness. “It seems my past sins have caught up with me.”