CHAPTER 5
After a glance at the mantel clock, Wrexford dipped his pen in the inkwell and returned to the notes he was writing. It was not quite time to leave.
“Your cravat is askew,” said Tyler with a critical squint as he entered the workroom.
“To the devil with my cravat,” muttered the earl. He stared down at the list, trying to put his thoughts in order.
“And I must say, your claret-colored coat would be a more appropriate choice.” The valet made a pained face. “All that unrelenting black makes you look like a walking storm cloud.”
The earl chuffed a sarcastic laugh. “I daresay the denizens of Boudicca’s Bosom don’t give a toss about the color of my clothing. It’s the glitter of my purse that concerns them. Assuming, of course, that I had any interest in paying for anything other than information.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t dress with a little more flair when you visit such an establishment.” A sniff. “As your valet, I have a reputation to maintain.”
“God forbid I blacken your name.” The earl frowned in thought as he read over the page. “Now, kindly stubble the chatter. I’m trying to concentrate.”
“On what?”
Scowling, Wrexford put down his pen. “On why I don’t terminate your employment and send you packing without a reference.”
“That requires precious little mental effort, milord,” quipped Tyler. “Who else would tolerate your ill humor? Not to speak of knowing the secret of shining your boots, no matter what disgusting substances you traipse through.”
“Be grateful my boots are exceedingly comfortable. Unlike you, I would find it a cursed nuisance to have to replace them.”
Ignoring the comment, Tyler moved to the earl’s desk and craned his neck to read what the earl was writing.
“Those appear to be notes on the recent murder.” The valet’s voice had lost its note of needling.
Wrexford grunted in affirmation.
Tyler’s expression turned serious. “I take it you’ve had a talk with Mrs. Sloane.”
He remembered with a start that his valet knew all of Charlotte’s secrets from his recent research.
“Yes. And it goes without saying, of course, that her real identity is a secret we both must respect. As of yet, she isn’t ready to share it with others.”
“Of course, milord,” answered Tyler quietly.
“As to the murder, Mrs. Sloane has not yet confided in me what her connection is to the victim and the accused,” he answered. “But it’s plain as a pikestaff that they are both very dear to her. She’s intent on proving Locke innocent, regardless of the damning evidence.”
His mouth thinned to a grim line. “I’m not quite as convinced as she is about the unbreakable bond between the brothers. Locke struck me as evasive during our brief interview. But as she’s hell-bent to plunge into yet another dangerous undertaking, I can’t very well let her do it alone.”
“Indeed not.” Perching a hip on the edge of the desk, Tyler leaned in for a closer look. “How can I help?”
“I’m not yet sure.” Wrexford shot another look at the clock and swore under his breath. He needed to leave shortly. “Locke mentioned two gentlemen who may have had a grudge against his brother.” He tapped a finger to the names underlined on the top sheet of paper.
“A grudge serious enough to provoke cold-blooded murder?” questioned the valet.
“Love and money have been sparking primal passions throughout the course of human history.”
“What—” began Tyler, only to be interrupted by a discreet knock on the workroom door.
“Excuse me, milord,” intoned the earl’s butler as he opened it a crack. “Mr. Sheffield wishes to see you.”
In no mood for his friend’s usual theatrics, Wrexford expelled an impatient breath, but knew it was pointless to say no. “Show him in, Riche. Otherwise he’ll go raise holy hell in the kitchens by pestering Cook to him serve him a late supper.”
Christopher Sheffield, however, entered without his usual flair for the dramatic. Even more surprising, he took a seat in one of the armchairs by the hearth without helping himself to one of the expensive brandies and whiskies sitting on the sideboard.
“Please tell me you’re working on something interesting.” Sheffield stretched out his legs and stared moodily at his boot tips. “I need something to . . .” On looking up, he seemed to sense the tension in the room. “Dear me, has there been another murder?”
Sheffield, despite his outward show of careless insouciance, had actually been of great help in the previous investigations. Wrexford knew that boredom lay at the heart of his friend’s frequent reckless behavior. He was not nearly the charming but feckless fribble he pretended to be.
“It’s London, Kit—there is always another murder,” replied Wrexford.
“Yes, but very few of them would interest you.” Sheffield’s gaze suddenly widened.
“Sussex . . . the scientific soiree . . . Ye gods, the young lord found stabbed to death in the Palace gardens! What a sordid business. Word is, his younger brother committed the unspeakable act.” His brow furrowed.
“But how the devil does that involve you? Did you know the fellow?”
Wrexford drew a breath. Secrets tangling with secrets. His friend was well acquainted with Charlotte, and he was one of the few people who knew she was the notorious A. J. Quill. Of course he could be trusted with the current conundrum.
“No,” he replied. “But apparently Mrs. Sloane did. Quite well, it would seem.”
A spasm of surprise crossed Sheffield’s face. “How?”
“She’s not yet confided that to me.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tyler’s expression turn unreadable. “But she’s convinced that the brother didn’t do it, and is determined to prove it.”
“Bloody hell!” His friend straightened from his slouch. “We’re going to help her, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are,” muttered Wrexford. “Though for now, the evidence is quite damning.” He went on to give his friend a succinct summary of the murder’s grisly details—they had not appeared in the newspapers—and the interview with Locke.
Sheffield winced at the mention of the mutilation, and remained silent for a long moment after the earl had finished. “We’ve faced daunting challenges before,” he finally said, though there was a hollowness to the bravado. “We’ll prove him innocent and catch the real culprit.”
“If he’s innocent,” murmured Wrexford. He hoped against hope that Locke wasn’t guilty. His gut tightened. Charlotte would be devastated. She had already suffered enough disillusionment about the people she loved—
“Where do we start?” Sheffield rose and began to pace. Tyler, too, fixed the earl with an expectant look.
The earl glanced down at his notes and explained about the two gentlemen mentioned by Locke. “We have a specific reason for there being bad blood between them and the murdered man—assuming Locke isn’t simply whistling into the wind.”
“You don’t like the fellow,” observed Tyler.
“Let’s just say I don’t trust him,” replied Wrexford. And if Locke’s lies hurt Charlotte, he would be tempted to throttle him with his bare hands, rather than leave it to the hangman.
“I can look into the gambling matter and find out more about Westmorly,” volunteered Sheffield.
Wrexford nodded. His friend spent more time in the gaming hells of London than was good for him, but there were times when such habits came in useful.
“Excellent. I will think of how to probe into the romantic conflict—” He broke off with a grimace as the clock began to chime the hour.
“But for now, I must head off to the brothel.”
Sheffield gave a strangled cough. “Given that we don’t have much time to unravel all this, can’t pleasure wait?”
“Stubble the witticisms, Kit,” he muttered, then added a terse explanation.
“I could accompany you, if you like, before I head to the gaming hells.”
Wrexford was about to demur, then reconsidered. Sheffield was clever and sharply observant, though he took pains to seem otherwise. “Very well, come along then. Let us hope that between your charm and my purse, we can coax the truth out of Locke’s Bird of Paradise.”
* * *
Charlotte added a slash of shadowing to her drawing, the bruise-purple hue accentuating the black depths surrounding the caricature of Nicholas hunched in his prison cell, a mangy blanket draped over his head. She hadn’t had the heart to sketch his features.
The caption was carefully composed to stir a hint of doubt as to his guilt.
A. J. Quill had earned a reputation with the public for having an unholy ability to know the truth before the authorities did.
That she could shape popular opinion was a sobering power to possess, and she was very careful not to abuse it.
A clench of guilt squeezed at her heart. Was she doing so now? Much as she yearned to believe Nicholas’s claim of innocence, she wasn’t sure . . .
And there was no question as to Wrexford’s view. Though he had refrained from outright sarcasm, she knew him well enough to read the cynicism in his eyes.
And yet, he was still willing to help her.
Charlotte wasn’t sure whether that made her feel better, or worse. Though he would deny it, the earl had an unbending sense of honor. She hated the thought that he might be compromising it out of . . . friendship.
“All the more reason I must find proof that Nicky is telling the truth,” she whispered.
Truth. Charlotte added a flourish to the bold-lettered caption before setting aside her pen. Like quicksilver, it could be maddening elusive—a gleam here, a flash there, only to slip through one’s fingers when one tried to grasp it.
As she leaned back and waited for the ink to dry, she found herself thinking back on her afternoon journey to the Kensington Palace neighborhood. The tobacco flakes offered its own challenge. She had some ideas on how to confront it, and would discuss them with Wrexford on the morrow . . .