CHAPTER 16
“Wrexford. Sheffield.” Jameson Mansfield—the new Lord Woodbridge—inclined a polite nod as he entered the side parlor, though a faint crease between his brows betrayed his puzzlement.
“I apologize for receiving you in such an informal room, but the servants are making some repairs in the drawing room.” A cough.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit?”
“A matter of honor,” replied the earl.
Woodbridge maintained a rigid smile, but the color drained from his face. “I—I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“Then allow me to explain,” said Sheffield, who quickly recounted what he had heard the previous evening.
“Is what the porters said true?” asked Wrexford.
Woodbridge moved to the tray of crystal decanters on the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. His hands, noted the earl, were shaking. “May I offer you gentlemen some refreshments?”
“I’d prefer an answer,” he replied.
Lifting the glass to his lips, Woodbridge took a long swallow. “Yes, it’s true.”
“Why?” asked Sheffield. “Why let the cad escape without exposing his misdeeds? That goes against the grain of a gentleman’s code of honor.”
“I—I have my reasons. They are personal, and I don’t wish to discuss them.”
“Forgive me, but I’m not inclined to accept that as an answer.” Wrexford perched a hip on the arm of the sofa. “You see, I’ve learned that Lord Chittenden settled gaming debts with Westmorly just days before his murder. Which, as surely you can see, raises unsettling questions.”
“I know nothing about that!” exclaimed Woodbridge. Despite the coolness of the room, his forehead was now sheened in sweat. “I swear it.”
“Be that as it may, your information may help to solve a very heinous crime.”
“B-But the newspapers say Chittenden was the victim of his younger brother, who killed him in order to inherit the title.”
“Newspapers care about sales more than they care about the truth,” replied Wrexford. “So, again I ask you, why did you allow Westmorly to go unmasked as a cheat?”
Woodbridge tugged at his cravat, as if the elegant folds of snowy white linen were a noose tightening around his throat. His answer, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. “I can’t tell you that.”
“You’re the Earl of Woodbridge,” pointed out Sheffield. “And Westmorly is a mere mister. Your word would carry more weight than his.”
“I . . .”
The drawing room door came open, cutting short his stuttering. Wrexford turned to see a tall, willow-slim lady dressed in indigo silk reclose it and turn the key before moving across the carpet to join a still-gaping Woodbridge.
“Let us drop all prevarication, Jamie. Given the circumstances, I think we owe these gentlemen an honest answer.”
She turned to fix the earl and Sheffield with a cool stare. Like her gown, her eyes were a shimmering shade of grey and dark blue. “Please forgive my brother. He does have a sense of honor—he’s choosing to protect his sister, which is why a venomous snake like Westmorly was able to wriggle free.”
“You have certainly piqued my curiosity, Lady . . .”
“Cordelia,” croaked Woodbridge. “Lady Cordelia Mansfield.”
Lady Cordelia Mansfield. The earl vaguely recognized the name. A spinster and a Bluestocking, Woodbridge’s sister was a member of several intellectual societies, where, much to the horror of Polite Society, she dared to challenge the scholarly papers presented by the gentlemen members.
Which might explain, he reflected, why she was rarely seen at any of the fancy balls and soirees of the beau monde.
By the wary expression on Sheffield’s face, he, too, was aware of her reputation.
“Perhaps we should all be seated,” said Cordelia, after her brother finished stammering through the formal introductions. “There’s no reason to be uncomfortable when one is conducting an interrogation.”
The earl noted the glint of sardonic amusement in the lady’s eyes.
His first impression was that she was a far more formidable opponent than her brother .
. . assuming she meant to cross swords with him.
As he took his place in one of the overstuffed armchairs, he found himself rather hoping she would.
Sheffield sat in the matching chair, while the two siblings moved to the facing sofa.
“Shall I ring for tea?” Again he heard the edge of mockery in her voice.
“Thank you, but as you’ve gathered, this isn’t a social call,” he replied. “No need to go through the charade of polite pleasantries, as I’m sure you and your brother would prefer that we are gone from the premises as quickly as possible.”
A smile—one that struck him as genuine—curled the corners of Cordelia’s lips. “I, too, favor plain speaking, milord. So let us not waste our breath waltzing through spins and evasions. I overheard your questions to Jamie, and the reason why you want a truthful answer.”
“Cordelia,” murmured Woodbridge. “I beg you to consider your own reputation before you go on.”
Her gaze flashed a challenge at Wrexford and Sheffield. “I’m assuming the gentlemen will give their word of honor that what we say here is to be held in strict confidence.”
“Of course,” answered the earl, and the agreement was quickly seconded by Sheffield.
Her brother slumped back against the pillows in surrender.
“So I’ll ask the question again,” said Wrexford. “Why did you allow Westmorly to go unmasked as a cheat?”
Woodbridge exhaled through his nose. “Because to make a public accusation, I would have had to explain to others how I knew Westmorly was cheating, and that would have required . . . putting my sister in a deucedly awkward position.”
Sheffield choked back a grunt of surprise. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, but . . .”
“But a man’s life hangs in the balance,” interjected Wrexford. “So forgive us, but we’ll need to have a more specific answer than that.”
“I expected no less,” said Cordelia. “Jamie, I think it best to let me tell the story, as I can do it without hemming and hawing.” She raised her chin, and Wrexford found himself applauding her sangfroid.
“I’m quite used to men thinking me beyond the pale, so it no longer bothers me that I’m thought odd and eccentric. ”
A pause. “Those are, of course, the most polite of the adjectives.”
“Far be it for either of us to judge anyone,” quipped Sheffield. “Our own reputations are not exactly lily-white.” He gave a wry smile. “But then, I’ve always thought that lily-white is a rather colorless hue. And color is what makes things interesting.”
Cordelia’s mouth pinched for an instant. The earl wasn’t sure whether she was offended or simply trying to hold back a laugh.
“As Sheffield says, we are merely interested in learning the facts, not making any moral judgments,” he murmured. “So, please, go on, Lady Cordelia.”
“Very well.” She smoothed a crease from her skirts. “I accompanied my brother to Lucifer’s Lair several nights ago—dressed as a man, for obvious reasons.”
“That isn’t an easy masquerade,” challenged Wrexford. “It requires more than just masculine clothing. One has to master gestures and movement.”
“I’ve practiced it over the years and have gained some skill in it,” came the cool reply. “Before you ask why, it’s because you gentlemen reserve so many interesting things, like boxing matches, carriage races, and smoking cheroots, for yourselves. It’s most unfair.”
“Smoking is vastly overrated,” murmured Sheffield. “It leaves a vile taste in your mouth.”
Ignoring the comment, Cordelia continued, “And the atmosphere of a gaming hell makes it easier than most venues. The light is dim, the air is hazed with smoke, and the gentlemen’s wits are fuzzed with spirits.”
The earl acknowledged her point with a small nod. “True.”
Sheffield shifted forward in his seat. “Why were you visiting Lucifer’s Lair?”
“To play cards, of course.”
Wrexford, too, sat up a little straighter.
“Not for the mere devil-may-care thrill of courting danger,” added Cordelia.
“Since we are being candid with each other, I will explain . . . up to a point.” She let her words sink in, before continuing.
“My father had made some imprudent investments recently and my brother and I found ourselves hard-pressed to meet certain family financial obligations. So I decided to use my skill at cards to earn the requisite amount.”
Cordelia tugged at her skirts again. A sign, decided Wrexford, that despite her cool demeanor, she wasn’t quite as composed as she wished to appear. He liked her better for it.
“Skill doesn’t always guarantee success, Lady Cordelia.”
“I’m well aware of that, milord. But I’m rather good at mathematics—”
“Actually, she’s rather brilliant at mathematics,” interjected Woodbridge.
Cordelia shrugged off the praise. “I count well, and I seem to have a knack for calculating the odds—”
“How does that work?” demanded Sheffield. He was now on the edge of his seat.
“Ye gods, Kit. I’ve told you about numbers and probability any number of times,” muttered the earl.
“Yes, but you’ve never explained what you meant,” shot back his friend. “I know you think me a brainless fribble, but I would like to make an attempt to understand the concept.”
Cordelia looked about to make a tart reply, but then seemed to change her mind and fixed him with an unblinking stare.
Her expression was impossible to read. “If you’re serious, you’re welcome to pay a call here some afternoon.
We’ll take a deck of cards and I’ll show you exactly what I mean.
” Her chin rose a notch. “That is, if the idea that a lady might actually possess a brain doesn’t curdle your innards. ”
“On the contrary,” replied Sheffield without hesitation. “I would welcome an intelligent conversation with a lady, rather than the endless silly simperings on the weather, or whether I prefer to tie my cravat in an Oriental or a trone d’amour knot.”
Wrexford caught the momentary flicker of surprise in her eyes.