CHAPTER 16 #2
“Mr. Sheffield,” said Woodbridge in a tight voice. “Allow me to warn you that my sister isn’t an heiress, so any flirtations you have in mind will be wasted efforts.”
To the earl’s surprise, Sheffield’s face suddenly mottled with anger. “My faults are many, Woodbridge. But chasing after a lady simply to snatch her fortune for my own is not one of them.”
“Can we put aside such distractions for now, Kit?” suggested Wrexford. “I’m sure Lady Cordelia and her brother would prefer not to draw out this conversation any longer than is absolutely necessary.”
“Correct,” muttered Woodbridge. “Come, Cordelia, explain to them what you saw, so we may be done with this unpleasantness.”
“Very well.” His sister shifted her gaze from Sheffield and folded her hands in her lap.
“I sat down at one of the tables to play vingt-et-un—I have ways of dealing with my feminine hands and voice, but they aren’t relevant.
Suffice it to say, I began to win. In short order, I had garnered the amount I needed, and a bit more.
But it’s not considered good form to immediately rise and leave when one has been on a winning streak.
So I remained for a bit, intending to lose a modest amount, before quitting the establishment. ”
“Westmorly then took a seat at the table when one of the other players ran out of blunt,” said Woodbridge.
“He drew my attention because he counts well, too,” explained Cordelia. “However, in watching him when it came his turn to deal the cards, I observed that he was also giving himself an unfair advantage.” A pause. “He’s very clever at palming cards.”
“I assume you are sure of this,” murmured the earl.
Her reply was a withering look.
“So what did you do?” asked Sheffield.
“I lost a few more hands, which suited me fine, and then quit the game. Jamie, who had been standing behind my chair observing the play, followed me to one of the alcoves and I told him what I had seen.”
“Couldn’t very well let Westmorly get away with fleecing my friends,” muttered Woodbridge. “So during a reshuffling of the deck, I told him I needed to speak to him on an urgent matter.”
“As they moved off, I retreated deeper into the shadows, intent on going unnoticed,” said Cordelia. “I dress in black, and keep my hat drawn low—”
“Most gentlemen don’t wear hats in a gaming hell,” pointed out Sheffield.
“Jamie always announces that his young cousin has odd superstitions, including wearing a hat for good luck,” she replied.
“Clever,” conceded the earl. He was about to press Woodbridge on the details of his talk with Westmorly, but Cordelia’s next words caused the questions to die in his throat.
“Given your interest in Lord Chittenden’s murder, perhaps my hat did bring a stroke of unexpected luck.
You see, as I wedged myself into a dark nook, two gamesters stepped into the alcove with their drinks.
” She shook her head. “Really, you gentlemen are as fond of gossiping as the tabbies of the ton.”
The earl didn’t disagree.
“One of them immediately began to gabble on about having overheard a nasty exchange between Chittenden and Westmorly,” continued Cordelia.
“He said Westmorly threatened to expose Chittenden’s secret if the baron didn’t keep quiet about Westmorly’s own peccadillo.
” Her skirts rustled as she shifted. “Then they moved off in search of a fresh bottle of brandy.”
“The fellow didn’t elaborate on what those secrets might have been?”
She shook her head. “No, and it didn’t occur to me as to mention it to Jamie. It could mean nothing—the two gentlemen were quite cup-shot. But given your concerns, I thought you should know.”
“Thank you,” replied the earl.
“As for my conversation with Westmorly,” said Woodbridge, “I told you earlier exactly what I said.”
Wrexford fingered his chin in thought. “Has he been seen gambling since then?”
“I wouldn’t know,” muttered Woodbridge. “I don’t make a habit of frequenting the gaming hells.”
Deciding there was no more to be learned, he rose. “I appreciate your time—and your candor. You may rest assured that what you’ve told us will be held in strict confidence.”
“I shall see you out.” Woodbridge was quick to get to his feet.
Sheffield, noted the earl, was a fraction slower to follow.
As they reached the door, Wrexford noted a carefully folded black overcoat sitting atop one of the bookshelves. Poking out from behind it was a curled brim.
He turned. “By the by, Lady Cordelia, what style of hat do you wear as your lucky talisman?”
She smiled. “From what I hear, milord, you have no need of such superstitious fiddle-faddle.”
“One never knows.”
The lady had a very musical laugh. “If you must know, it’s a Wellington.”
He felt himself stiffen. “A Wellington?”
“Yes,” replied Cordelia. “The crown is low enough not to look absurd on a lady’s head, and the jaunty curl of the brim adds a touch of whimsy.”
The flesh-and-blood Wellington wasn’t noted for his whimsy—for those who faced his armies on the Peninsula, he was known as a harbinger of death. But Wrexford kept such thoughts to himself.
“I see,” he murmured. “Well, let us hope that it continues to be a fortunate choice for you.”
* * *
Abandoning her half-finished drawing with a frustrated huff, Charlotte moved from her desk to the window and pressed her forehead to the mist-chilled glass. The last glimmers of dusk had given way to a black velvet sky threaded with ribbons of smoke-dark clouds.
Somewhere in the distance, a low rumbling warned that rain was imminent.
Her flesh suddenly felt cold as ice. The sound seemed to echo her inner turmoil—an irrational reaction, she knew, given that the meeting with her great-aunt had gone so well.
And yet, the prospect of gaining entrée to the inner sanctums of the beau monde—the elegant drawing rooms, the glittering ballrooms—filled her with dread.
Polished flatteries, pasteboard smiles. A thin veneer of civility masking jealousy, greed, and the lust for power. All the things that had compelled her to flee in the first place.
“I won’t become one of them,” vowed Charlotte, her breath fogging the windowpane. “I won’t.” But the words failed to loosen the knot in her gut.
Turning away from the darkness, she went to warm her fingers over the lone candle burning on the side table. Tomorrow . . . tomorrow she would once again don silks and satin to spin through an intricate dance of lies.
“Lies,” she whispered, setting the flame to shivering. “Perhaps my life has been so entangled in lies that they’ve become woven into the fabric of who I am.”
Drawing a shaky breath, she blew out the light and hurried from the room. Sleep, she knew, would never come. Her own weak voice would never chase the demons from her head. For that, she needed a more sarcastic snap and snarl.
Be damned with ruffles and lace. Darting into her bedchamber, Charlotte quickly dressed in breeches and boots, then tiptoed down the stairs.