CHAPTER 2
“Allow me to congratulate you, Mrs. Sloane,” drawled the earl as Charlotte’s eyes fluttered open. “For the first time in our acquaintance, you’ve finally reacted like a normal, flighty female who swoons into a dead faint at the mention of an indelicate subject.”
She tried to sit up, only to choke back a retch and sink back down against the sofa pillows. Her ghostly pale face was now shaded with a faint tinge of bilious green.
Wrexford realized with a start that he had never seen her look so shaken. Refraining from any further jesting, he rose and fetched the bottle of brandy that he knew was kept in one of the cabinets.
“Drink,” he commanded, splashing a measure into the empty teacup and bringing it to her lips.
Charlotte gagged at the first sip, but managed to down a weak swallow.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, so softly that he barely could make out the words. “This changes everything.”
A cryptic announcement, which could mean any number of things. Given the secrets within secrets in which she had swathed her true self, it wasn’t surprising.
She had recently revealed her real identity to him.
It had come as a bit of a shock to learn the fiercely independent young widow, who through hard work and unshakable strength had created a profitable business for herself, was, in fact, an aristocrat.
The daughter of an earl, who had tossed away a life of privilege and comfort to elope with her drawing master . . .
Shaking off his momentary musing, Wrexford asked, “Would you care to elucidate on that statement?”
But before Charlotte could reply, McClellan hurried in with the reviving compress he had called for.
“Permit me to be of assistance, Mrs. Sloane.” With her usual show of brisk efficiency, McClellan took a seat on the edge of the sofa and applied a wet cloth to Charlotte’s brow.
“A whiff of vinaigrette might also be advisable,” murmured the earl. Charlotte was still looking as pale as death.
Both women reacted with a very unladylike reply.
“Nor do we need to burn a feather under my nose,” added Charlotte. “Or any other of the damnably stupid remedies you men deem essential for the weaker sex.”
Wrexford was somewhat reassured by her show of sarcasm. “Yes, I can see that you’re well on the way to recovery.”
She chuffed a snort.
“M-M’lady’s not . . . going to die, is she?”
He turned to see the two boys hovering in the shadows of the doorway, their faces clouded with uncertainty. Growing up in the stews of London, they had no illusions about how swiftly the Grim Reaper’s scythe could strike.
“No, lads,” he answered quietly. “It was just a passing megrim. These things happen.”
“Not to m’lady.” Fists clenched, Raven edged into the room, belligerence not quite covering the flicker of fear in his eyes. The boy had assumed the role of protector to his younger brother and Charlotte—a heavy weight for such young shoulders. “Ye must have done something to upset her.”
“Not intentionally. But if you feel compelled to bloody my beak, we can step out to the garden and settle the matter like gentlemen.”
“Good God, let’s not add any further violence to the morning,” rasped Charlotte. To Raven, she added, “Be assured, His Lordship was no more annoying than usual.”
A grudging grin tugged at the boy’s mouth. “Oiy, well, in that case, I won’t have to thrash him to a pulp.”
“If you wish to be truly useful with your fives,” interjected McClellan, “you and your brother could fly to the greengrocer and fetch me more gingerroot for an herbal tisane.”
As their steps peltered down in the corridor, Charlotte pushed herself into a sitting position. Her gaze, noted Wrexford, avoided meeting his.
“I fear I must have eaten something that disagreed with me,” she muttered. “I’m still feeling rather nauseous.”
She looked ill, but the earl was sure it was not on account of any tainted food.
“Milord, if you would excuse us, I think it best for Mrs. Sloane to retire to her bedchamber,” suggested McClellan.
Charlotte’s eyes remained averted. No question she was hiding something.
“Of course.” He rose without argument. “I’ll see myself out.”
On reaching the street, he climbed into his carriage and leaned back against the squabs as the coachman cracked the whip.
Questions, questions.
Closing his eyes, Wrexford pondered the strange scene that had just taken place.
No one—no one!—of his acquaintance possessed the same core of unshakable strength as Charlotte Sophia Anna Mallory Sloane.
Not only had she calmly faced terrible revelations about her late husband, which would have crushed a lesser woman, she had also endured death threats to her beloved urchins .
. . and charged into danger, time and time again, with no thought to her own safety.
Not to speak of her profession, where she had not let the harsh realities of life corrupt her idealism or her commitment to justice and social reform.
Her courage, both moral and physical, was frightening—which made her reaction to the Kensington Palace murder all the more disturbing.
There seemed to be only one logical answer. Lord Chittenden was not a stranger.
A past lover, perhaps?
The idea was more unsettling than he cared to admit. Granted, as a widow, she was allowed more freedom in her personal life than other women. Or ladies, he corrected himself. Charlotte was a highborn lady, which allowed her even more leeway . . .
Pushing such thoughts aside, Wrexford concentrated on the practical question—what was her connection to the murdered baron? For the rest of the ride home, he pondered the possibilities.
“Tyler!” he barked, striding into his workroom without pausing to hand over his topcoat and high-crown beaver hat to the trailing footman.
“Milord?” His valet looked up from the various cauldrons suspended over several flaming spirit lamps. Steam had plastered his red-gold hair to his angular brow. In the glow of the fires, his eyes had a demon-like glow, giving him the look of Vulcan’s apprentice.
“Might I finish adjusting the temperatures before you go on?” added Tyler with an aggrieved sniff. “The process, as you well know, requires precise concentration.”
Wrexford perched a hip on his desk and folded his arms.
After several minutes, Tyler straightened, and wiped his hands on his shirtfront, leaving a gunpowder grey streak on the white linen. “I shall need to cool the liquids in a quarter hour. In the meantime, is there some other task you wish done?”
“I’ll take charge of the chemicals.” The earl quickly scribbled out a few lines on a piece of paper. “I want you to gather all the information you can on this gentleman. I’ve suggested a few lines of inquiry to pursue.” Likely, he would think of more.
As his valet read over the note, a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I thought you said the Bloody Butcher murders had had nothing to do with you.”
Wrexford set aside the pen. “I’ve changed my mind.”
* * *
The sweet-sharp scent of ginger tickled at her nostrils as a gossamer plume of steam floated up from the mug. “Thank you,” murmured Charlotte, accepting the fresh-brewed tisane.
McClellan smoothed a crease from the coverlet. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No. A bit of sleep is all I need to put me right.” She forced a smile. “My apologies. My digestion is not usually so delicate.”
McClellan fixed her with an unblinking stare. “No, I don’t imagine it is.” A flick of her fingers banished another wrinkle. “Do you wish to talk about it?”
“About what I ate?” asked Charlotte. “In all honesty, I’ve no idea what it could have been.”
The reply earned a tiny frown and a stony silence as McClellan reordered her tray and prepared to leave.
It deserved worse, thought Charlotte guiltily. She disliked being less than forthright with her friends, but she needed to think.
Think.
If only my thoughts would stop spinning and screaming like wild whirling dervishes inside my skull.
“The lads went out to get you flowers from Covent Garden. I’ll make sure they wait until you’ve woken before presenting them.”
“Thank you,” repeated Charlotte, hating the prim hollowness of her words. She despised the everyday deceptions and manipulations that passed for politeness in the beau monde. The self-serving little lies, the puffed-up conceit.
She took pride in being unflinchingly honest, and yet, like Achilles, she had one elemental vulnerability. Whether it would prove mortal to her present existence remained to be seen.
Aside from Wrexford, she hadn’t revealed her true identity to anyone else yet. She had told him she needed time to consider all the ramifications of such a momentous decision.
One that would irrevocably change her life.
Throwing off the covers, Charlotte rose and moved to the mullioned window overlooking the tiny back garden.
A chill prickled against her skin as she pressed her forehead against one of the panes.
Her breath fogged the glass, and in the blink of an eye, the familiar tree was blurred beyond recognition.
Vita et praebebit spem fallacem—life is but an illusion.
She had always known, deep down inside, that this day would come. Even before Wrexford had known the truth, he had been challenging, cajoling . . .
Daring her to confront the life she had so painstakingly constructed out of smoke and sleight of hand.
Charlotte stepped back and pressed her palms to her eyes, feeling the hot sting of tears.
“Cedric,” she whispered, finally allowing her grief to well up in a shuddering sob.
Cedric was dead. Never again would she see the golden glint of his hair dancing in the wind as they rode neck and leather through the rolling fields.
Never again would they help each other translate a particularly difficult passage of Ovid from Latin into English.
Never again would they steal apple tarts and gorge themselves out by the lake.