CHAPTER 24
Wrexford stared at her, feeling a momentary flicker of pity. Her intelligence and humor deserved more than to have been corrupted by lust and greed.
But passion, he knew, rarely followed reason.
“Indeed, they have.” His voice seemed to deepen and darken as it echoed off the walls. “I’m glad to see we share a pragmatism, madam, if nothing else, and may avoid the unseemly spectacle of false tears and protestations.”
Isobel shrugged. “I’ll not insult either of us with such histrionics. You’re a clever man, Lord Wrexford. I assume you’ve uncovered proof.” The candle shifted, throwing her eyes into shadow. “Though I had hoped your scrutiny would stay on Eli’s murder, rather than stray to my peccadilloes.”
“A rather benign term for your betrayal,” he replied. “And how could you have hoped I wouldn’t connect the two when they are, in fact, one and the same sin?”
A look of puzzlement flitted across her face.
“I trust you’ll give me a full confession, and tell us who wielded the blade—especially now that your other conspirator lies dead.”
“Dead?” Isobel stared at him blankly. “Who?”
“Your paramour, Lord Kirkland,” piped up Sheffield. “We found him a scant twenty minutes ago with his throat foully slashed. Just like the others.”
“Murderous bitch!” exclaimed Octavia, her face twisted in fury. “What have you done with Benedict?”
Keeping his eyes on Mrs. Ashton, Wrexford waved them to silence. If he didn’t know better, he would have found her show of shock convincing. Her knees buckled slightly, and her hand flew to her breast as she fought to steady her stance.
“Kirkland is dead?” She shook her head in disbelief. “My only confession is that I can feel no sorrow at the news. He was a thoroughly dirty dish, devoid of all honor.”
“You have the gall to use the word honor?” jeered Octavia. “For shame—”
“Silence, please, Miss Merton,” Wrexford cut in. “Allow me to do the questioning.” To Isobel, he said, “Are you claiming that you and the viscount weren’t responsible for your husband’s murder?”
“I may be guilty of some sins, but not that. Never that.” Her chin rose. “I respected and admired my husband. And while we didn’t flame with love’s passion, we were very fond of each other.”
“You’re lying,” said Octavia.
Isobel ignored the accusation. “You can’t claim to have proof of my involvement in Elihu’s death, Lord Wrexford, because none exists.”
“A note was found in your dressing room,” he countered. “One in which Kirkland warns you not to panic and you’ll both get what you want. How do you explain that?”
“Ah. Miss Merton and Mrs. Sloane . . .” Isobel glanced at Octavia with a grim smile. “I should have suspected something havey-cavey was afoot.”
“Rather the pot calling the kettle black,” murmured Sheffield.
Isobel’s brow furrowed in a pensive frown. “I recognized Mrs. Sloane from the past . . .”
Out of the corner of his eye, Wrexford saw Charlotte start within the shadows.
“But decided it was her own business if she wished to keep her true identity to herself.”
Secrets tangled within secrets. What skeletons, wondered Wrexford, were about to come rattling out of the closet to join the fresh-killed corpses?
“Just who do you think she is?” asked the earl in a carefully measured voice.
“I, of all people, sympathize with the desire to conceal past mistakes, especially when one is a woman,” replied Isobel. “It’s not always for nefarious reasons, so I shall leave it to her to decide what to tell you.”
Wrexford fought to keep his questions about Charlotte from overpowering all the others. Time enough for that confrontation later, he told himself. Murder and mayhem must take precedence.
Whatever secret she was hiding, he didn’t believe it involved a trail of dead bodies.
“Very well,” he responded. “Then let us return to the note. How do you explain it?”
“In very stark and simple terms,” said Isobel coolly, “Lord Kirkland was blackmailing me to keep the fact that I’d been his paramour in my youth from becoming a public scandal.
Elihu knew about it—I had told him, of course, before I accepted his proposal of marriage—but I couldn’t bear to have my past tarnish him and his work, just when he was on the cusp of a revolutionary new invention.
So I acceded to the viscount’s demands.” She made a face.
“A mistake, as once a blackmailer gets his claws into you, he never lets go.”
“I-I don’t believe you,” said Octavia, but there was less force behind her outrage than before.
“Miss Merton, you have always chosen to think the worst of me.” Isobel finally chose to meet her nemesis’s accusing gaze. “Change is upsetting, and often frightening, to people. Your cozy, comfortable world was suddenly not the same with me in it.”
Octavia’s mouth quivered, but she couldn’t seem to muster a retort.
“I don’t suppose you have proof of your claim,” asked Wrexford.
“In fact, I do,” said Isobel, a note of challenge shading her words. “If you’ll come down to my study, I’ll show you some of Kirkland’s other notes, along with a few other documents that may cast me in a different light.”
Yet another dizzying twist, thought the earl. For all their racing around had they merely been spinning in circles?
“By all means,” he replied. “I welcome the opportunity to have empirical evidence resolve the question of your guilt or innocence once and for all.”
“I trust scientific reasoning will triumph over prejudice and preconception,” murmured Isobel. “I simply ask that you keep an open mind.”
The comment brought a flush to Octavia’s cheeks.
“I am as anxious as you are to see that justice is done for Elihu.” Isobel started walking for the stairs, and then stopped abruptly as she noticed the still-as-a-statue shape sheltered within the recessed doorway.
“I take it this is one of your companions, and not some errant intruder, Lord Wrexford?”
“The lad runs a network of urchins,” he replied without hesitation. “They are my eyes and ears on the streets—an invaluable and effective resource in conducting my investigations. It’s he who informed me of Kirkland’s murder.”
“Clever,” commented Isobel. Her gaze lingered on Charlotte for a fraction longer, then she continued on to the landing.
“I’ll join you very shortly,” said Wrexford, nodding a subtle signal at Sheffield to accompany the women downstairs. “I need a private word with Phoenix.”
* * *
“Phoenix,” repeated Charlotte softly, once the others were out of earshot. “I would have thought you might choose Crow.” A pause. “Or perhaps Vulture.”
“Phoenix seems far more appropriate,” replied Wrexford.
Though she deliberately avoided meeting his gaze, she could feel the heat of it on her skin.
“A bird that bursts into fire and burns to a crisp,” he continued, “only to rise from the ashes and reform itself anew.”
“Yes, I’ve changed my plumage. But not as you might think.
” This was hardly the time for personal revelations, but somehow it mattered to her that he not think her favors could be bought so casually.
“I have an inkling of where Mrs. Ashton might have seen me. But be assured it was not serving as some gentleman’s lightskirt. ”
His expression was unreadable. “You’ve made it quite clear that your past is none of my concern.”
“Wrexford . . .” Charlotte hesitated. What to say? “I . . .”
The earl was quick to cut her off. “We’ve no time for personal matters right now. Mrs. Ashton’s confession must take precedence over all else.”
Including mine, thought Charlotte.
“You’re right, of course.” Reaching up, she took a moment to adjust the angle of her hat in order to compose her thoughts.
“So, we need to consider logistics. I ought not come down to the study. The widow may question why an urchin needs to be present. Not to speak of the fact that the lighting will be brighter, and she’s proved herself to be a careful observer. ”
The wall sconce sputtered weakly, sending up a thin plume of smoke. The oil was burning low.
“A damnable shame,” she added. “I’d very much like to hear and see what proof she offers of her innocence.”
“Your assessment is important,” replied Wrexford. “Let me think . . .”
Charlotte watched his face carefully, and was relieved to see only his usual calm concentration.
“I can say that you’ve been involved in the investigation from the beginning, and given your knowledge of London’s underbelly, it’s imperative for you to hear the evidence.”
“That might fadge,” agreed Charlotte.
“When we enter, I’ll order you to stand by the door and listen. It won’t seem amiss if an urchin isn’t invited to join the inner circle.”
She nodded. “That should suffice.”
“Then let’s go.” He turned without waiting for a reply.
Charlotte followed along behind him, the hurried thumping of their boots the only sounds passing between them.
Wrexford entered the study several strides ahead of her.
“Guard the door, Phoenix, and make sure we’re not disturbed,” he barked as she reached the threshold.
“And keep your ears cocked as to what goes on in here. If you’ve any ideas on who the villains might be and where they’ve gone to ground I’ll want to hear them. ”
Charlotte slid into a niche by the bookcase, some distance away from the others.
Sheffield, she noted, had settled the women on the sofa near the hearth, and had taken a seat in one of the facing armchairs.
A lamp was lit on the side table, another on the large pearwood desk.
Her own spot was untouched by the soft circles of light.
Wasting no time, the earl immediately confronted the widow. “Is there a reason we’re waiting for the papers, madam?”
Isobel appeared unintimidated by his scowl. “I assumed you would wish to watch me fetch them, in order to assure yourself that I performed no witchcraft or sleight of hand.”
He gave an impatient wave. “There’s been enough drama as it is, Mrs. Ashton. We need not play any scenes from Shakespeare. Get your proof.”