CHAPTER 17
“Bloody hell.”
Wrexford balled up the list he had been writing and tossed it into the fire. The paper emitted a sharp hiss and crackled into ash. As he watched the wisps of smoke tease against the brass fender, he muttered another oath.
His gaze moved to the neat rows of chemicals and glassware lining the shelves above the counter of his workroom.
He liked order. Science appealed to him because it was based on reason.
One could, through careful study and observation, make sense of random chaos, while people and their motivations were a damnable puzzle.
Emotions rarely surrendered to common sense.
Frowning, Wrexford slouched back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
Could Lady Cordelia Mansfield be a murderess?
The Wellington hat was a chilling coincidence.
And there was no question that she had the cleverness and the feisty courage for it.
As for motive . . . perhaps Chittenden had threatened to expose her masquerade.
She and her brother had admitted to financial pressures, and money was often at the root of evil.
And then, there was the very personal nature of the crime. A lady scorned and betrayed might be tempted to slice off a man’s . . .
No, he just couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Yes, Cordelia possessed a steely strength, but there was something about her laugh that didn’t resonate with murder.
“Ye gods, Charlotte’s stubborn insistence on trusting intuition must be rubbing off on me,” he muttered.
Mention of Charlotte made his mood turn even darker.
Wrexford rose and began to pace around the room.
It worried him that circumstances were forcing her to make such a momentous decision.
What if she hated the change? He didn’t doubt that she would make good on her threat to disappear.
It was, of course, none of his business how she chose to live her life. And yet, she was a friend.
Friend. He felt another twist in his gut.
Sheffield had lapsed into a moody silence on leaving the siblings.
It was unlike his friend to brood, and as Wrexford paused to stare into the fire, he couldn’t help wondering if his own irascible temper had made him blind to the feelings or needs of those around him.
He was always so bloody quick with his sarcasm. Sheffield deserved more than that.
The chink of glass against glass drew him out of his thoughts. Tyler pushed through the door, a tray of just-washed beakers and slides in his arms.
“I’ve laid out the books on Boyle’s experiments,” announced his valet. “Do you wish to begin—”
“Stubble Boyle,” grumbled the earl. He pursed his lips. “Tell me, am I a self-absorbed prig?”
Tyler set down the tray and wiped his hands on the front of his coat. “Pray tell, what’s prompted this sudden bout of introspection? You don’t usually give a rat’s arse about what anyone thinks of you.”
The reply only exacerbated his misgivings. “Never mind,” he said through his teeth.
Tyler raised his brows. “I take it the investigation isn’t going well.”
A grunt was the only answer. Turning away from the taunting flames, Wrexford returned to his desk, determined to make another stab at using logic to organize the facts into some sort of coherent order.
Clink-clink.
He looked up to find his valet had poured a glass of spirits and placed it beside the inkwell.
“Slàinte,” murmured Tyler, lifting his own drink in salute.
“That,” said the earl, “was a very expensive bottle of brandy.”
Tyler took an appreciative sip. “But of course, milord. Only the best for you.”
“Arse,” muttered Wrexford through a grudging laugh. The heat of the brandy helped dispel the chill in his belly. But before he could say more, a scuffing on the window ledge drew his attention.
The latch jiggled and released. A gust of damp air snaked into the room, followed by a wet boot.
“Kindly pour me a brandy, too, Mr. Tyler—assuming His Lordship can afford it.” Charlotte landed on the floor with a thump, sending up a spray of mud. “It’s raining, and colder than a witch’s tit out there.”
“An interesting metaphor,” observed Wrexford. “But one that’s best not repeated inside a Mayfair mansion.”
She accepted the brandy from Tyler and took a grateful swallow. “You need not remind me that I’ll need to keep my tongue under tight rein—as well as the rest of me.” Her mouth tightened. “I’ll have McClellan tie an extra knot in my corset strings to make sure I don’t come undone.”
It was said lightly, but Wrexford heard the edge in Charlotte’s voice.
“You can still change your mind.”
She looked away. The fall of her cap shadowed her eyes as she took another swallow. “Alea iacta est.”
“The die is cast,” translated the earl. “Nonsense—Fate is always in flux. As an experienced gamester, I assure you that one can always pick up the ivories and throw them again.”
Charlotte didn’t smile.
Tyler cleared his throat, and after gathering up the empty tray, he quietly left the room.
“Did the meeting with Lady Peake not go well?” inquired Wrexford, once the door clicked shut.
“On the contrary, it turns out she’s quite happy to help me. We are meeting tomorrow to begin planning a strategy.”
“Then why are you looking so Friday-faced? You’ve conquered far greater challenges than a crowd of overbred, overfed aristocrats.”
Her lips twitched. “I know. But . . .”
“But . . .”
Charlotte chafed the glass between her palms, setting the amber spirits to swirling. In the light of the burning coals, it looked like liquid fire. “But now I’m one of them.”
“Is that what you’re afraid of?” he jeered. “Hell’s bells, you’re not at all like them.”
“That’s what I tell myself, but . . .” She took a seat on the edge of his desk and hugged her arms to her chest. “But what if I’m seduced by all the sumptuous splendors?”
“Somehow I have trouble imagining that a lust for lobster patties will be your undoing.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “Thank you, Wrexford. I knew I could count on your mockery to chase away my self-pity.”
“I’m always happy to play the motley fool.”
Her brows notched together. “It seems I’m not the only one feeling unsettled this evening.”
Damnation. She could read him too well.
“Have you uncovered something new?”
Wrexford nodded and quickly explained about Woodbridge and his sister, and what he and his friend had learned.
“Sheffield is spending the evening trying to learn Westmorly’s whereabouts.
He’s proving a hard man to find.” He grimaced.
“I fear Kit is out of sorts with me. I . . . I haven’t been a good friend to him of late. ”
“I confess, you gentlemen have very peculiar ways of expressing your camaraderie.”
He felt Charlotte studying his face.
“But he knows you see his strengths, though he takes great pains to hide them,” she continued. “So whatever friction there is between you at the moment, it’s not because either of you doubt the elemental bonds of your friendship.”
“Perhaps.” He took a long swallow of brandy and then recounted the exchange with Lady Cordelia on calculating the odds on cards.
“She sounds very intriguing.”
“I haven’t told you the whole of it yet.” The earl hesitated. “Logic warns me to be suspicious of coincidences, but on rare occasions, they do happen.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Wrexford.”
“It concerns the hat she wears when masquerading as a man,” he replied. “It’s a Wellington, and she considers it her lucky talisman.”
“Surely, you’re jesting!”
He shook his head. “I assume you’re in no mood for levity. Nor am I.”
Neither of them spoke for several moments. The silence seemed to amplify the crackling of the coals.
“Do you think her capable of such a crime?” Charlotte finally asked.
The earl took his time in considering the question. “She reminds me of you,” he answered. “She possesses great intelligence, as well as a core of elemental strength, and there’s no question that she’ll wield both to protect her family. How that might tie in to Chittenden is as yet unknown.”
Wrexford let out his breath. “That said, I sensed no guile or malice to her—quite the opposite in fact. But we both know that a thin veneer of civility can mask a soul that is rotten to the core.”
Charlotte looked about to speak when her eyes suddenly widened.
“Good Lord—Cordelia Mansfield. I now remember why the name strikes me as familiar. As we walked back to her carriage from our meeting in Green Park, Aunt Alison told me about a salon of intellectually minded ladies who, she thinks, may offer me a sanctuary of kindred spirits within the ton. Lady Cordelia was one of the members she mentioned.”
“She has a reputation as a Bluestocking,” he said.
“A lady who isn’t afraid to challenge conventional thinking,” mused Charlotte. “It seems I’ve made the right decision to seek entrée into Polite Society. I must now investigate Lady Cordelia, as well as Lady Julianna.”
She set her glass aside and turned to stare at the shimmying flames in the hearth.
Wrexford didn’t interrupt her brooding. His own thoughts were none too steady. He hated seeing the look of vulnerability lurking in the shadows beneath her lashes.
And yet he wasn’t sure how to help. The recent moment of profound connection between them—the fleeting kiss, the murmurs, however oblique, of feelings for each other—now seemed more tenuous.
He had drawn back, not wanting to crowd her as she wrestled with all the difficult decisions to make about the future.
And she, too, had seemed to put some distance between them.
Perhaps all his sharp edges were beginning to chafe against her sensibilities—
The sound of hurried steps in the corridor suddenly intruded on his thoughts. He looked up just as Sheffield flung open the door.