CHAPTER 25
“This way, milady.” The butler escorted Charlotte past a closed set of double doors—from the muted sound of masculine voices echoing against the oak, she guessed it was the drawing room—and down a corridor leading to the back of the house.
Shadows flickered over the dark wainscoting.
Only one of the wall sconces was lit, but the weak light was enough to see the patterned runner underfoot had seen better days.
Up ahead was a half-open door. As they approached, she heard the murmur of voices and then a light laugh.
Damnation. It appeared that Cordelia was not alone. Somehow, she would have to improvise . . .
“Lady Charlotte—what a pleasant surprise.” Cordelia rose from the sofa. “I was just telling Mr. Sheffield how much I enjoyed making your acquaintance.”
Talk about surprises.
Sheffield rose as well. A deck of playing cards and a pile of facedown discards were set on the low table in front of them, along with a notebook and pencil. “Lady Charlotte,” he said, his eyes not quite meeting hers.
“Apparently, the two of you know each other,” continued Cordelia, after indicating that Charlotte should take a seat in the facing armchair.
“Yes,” she replied. Her gaze lingered on the arrangement of cards.
An amused chuckle slipped from Cordelia’s lips.
“Are you interested in games of chance, Lady Charlotte? Mr. Sheffield has asked me to explain the mathematics of probability to him and how to calculate the odds of risk and reward. We’re making headway .
. .” She paused as they resumed their seats.
“You are welcome to join in the lesson, if you wish.”
“Many things in life require that we gamble on the outcome.” Charlotte looked up. “Those choices are challenging enough. So, no, I don’t find card games particularly alluring.”
Cordelia eyed her thoughtfully. “A very interesting answer.”
“And a wise one.” Sheffield shifted uncomfortably. “I ought to give up playing, as I clearly have no head for understanding the nuances of how to make good decisions.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Cordelia, turning her gimlet gaze on him. “You have a very sharp mind, and you grasp concepts quite easily.”
Sheffield blinked.
“Is there a reason why you wish to portray yourself as a buffle-brained widgeon to others?”
Charlotte bit back a smile at the odd look that spread across her friend’s face. It mingled shock and . . . something she couldn’t quite define.
“I—I . . .”
Ignoring his stammer, Cordelia turned over a fresh card from the deck. “For example, you now hold an eight. So recall the cards that have already been dealt and tell me whether you would take another card in this game of vingt-et-un.”
He thought for a moment. “No.”
“Why?”
To Charlotte’s surprise, he answered with a crisp mathematical analysis.
“You see!” said Cordelia with a note of triumph. For an instant, her features seemed to soften. “You’re not an idiot.”
“Er . . .” Sheffield cleared his throat with an embarrassed cough. “Only because you explain things very well.”
An awkward silence stretched on for several long moments as Cordelia reshuffled the cards. “Forgive me, Lady Charlotte—I’ve neglected to offer you some refreshments.” She made a rueful face. “I’m not often called upon to exercise my ladylike graces.”
“That suits me perfectly well, as I’ve no desire to drink and engage in superficial conversation,” replied Charlotte. “In fact, I’d rather stay on the subject of mathematics.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, the reason I’ve come is to ask your help in solving a puzzle involving numbers.”
A flare of interest lit in Cordelia’s hazel eyes, and for an instant, her dark lashes seemed aglitter with a spark of gold.
“Lady Julianna presented me with a conundrum the other night—a challenge, if you will,” continued Charlotte. “However, my mathematical skills are no match for its complexity.”
“She enjoys weaving intricate games within games. So, yes, her puzzles tend to be arcane,” responded Cordelia. “Why do you care about solving it?”
“Because my cousin was recently murdered—quite luridly, as you’ve no doubt read in all the newspapers,” she answered, deciding not to mince words.
“Lady Julianna seemed to hint that the answer to the puzzle might shed some light on the crime. So, however unlikely, I feel I can’t ignore the possibility. ”
“As I said, Lady Julianna likes to play games,” murmured Cordelia. She took a moment to turn over several cards.
The queen of hearts. The ace of spades. The three of clubs.
And do you like playing games, too, Lady Cordelia? wondered Charlotte as she smoothed out a crease in her skirts. If the cards were meant as some esoteric warning to frighten her off, it was a wasted effort.
Cordelia leaned back against the pillows. “I had thought the evidence against your other cousin was considered irrefutably damning. But I saw that gadfly A. J. Quill’s latest drawing raised some questions as to his guilt. I take it you agree?”
“There are enough questions that I’m not yet ready to believe him capable of the crime.”
“I agree,” interjected Sheffield. “The evidence is all circumstantial. And no witness has come forward to place Locke at the scene of the murder.”
“Well, it would certainly be a miscarriage of justice to send the wrong man to the gallows.” Cordelia hesitated, a frown flitting over her face. And then she abruptly held out her hand. “Let me have a look at the puzzle.”
Charlotte handed over the package containing all the material.
The papers unfolded with a whispery crackle.
Drawing in a deep breath, Sheffield stood up and went to stand by the bank of windows overlooking the walled garden.
With a quick flick of her hand, Cordelia brushed the playing cards to one side of the table and laid out a selection of the fanciful numerical cards.
“Hmmph.” After subjecting them to a careful scrutiny, she opened the book and turned her attention to a back-and-forth study of the handwritten numbers and the printed pages.
Charlotte rose, too, and went to have a look at the series of watercolor sketches hung by the bookcases. They were seascapes, rendered with a deft hand and a keen eye for the nuanced colors of the ocean at dawn.
But it wasn’t the artistic merit that had her heartbeat kicking up a notch. She had suddenly recalled Wrexford’s recounting of his meeting with Cordelia and her brother—a side parlor . . . a bookcase by a doorway . . . a hat and coat tucked on the top shelf . . .
She moved slowly down the line of paintings, trying to keep her breathing steady. Sheffield, she noted, had shifted slightly and was watching her out of the corner of his eye.
Thump-thump. Giving the last watercolor a cursory glance, Charlotte then edged around the jut of the bookcase and cast her gaze on shelves of leather-bound volumes.
From the sofa came the rustle of silk and the flutter of turning pages.
Higher, higher—she raised her eyes upward. And there it was—the top shelf, shrouded in shadows.
Still, it was clear there was no folded coat.
And no hat.
She moved back a step for a better angle, just to be sure—
“Ye gods, surely you aren’t thinking . . .” Sheffield’s voice was barely a whisper, but it felt like a daggerpoint pricking between her shoulder blades.
Charlotte spun around with a start.
“The hat—why are you and Wrex so bloody interested in a hat? I recall now that he asked Lady Cordelia about what type of hat she wore when disguised as a man. And last night, he thought Thornton guilty because of what he had perched on his head.”
“Because,” answered Charlotte, “Raven and Hawk have learned that someone wearing a Wellington hat was seen at both the Bloody Butcher murders and in the gardens of Kensington Palace at the time of Cedric’s death.”
“That may be, but you’re wrong to think Lady Cordelia can be guilty.” Sheffield gave a wry smile. “You’ve often told Wrex that one must trust intuition, as well as logic.”
Charlotte saw Cordelia look up from the book and papers.
“And so I feel compelled to speak out,” he went on, raising his voice. “I’m certain—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that the villain we seek is elsewhere.”
Cordelia arched her brows, looking more amused than rattled. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s not here,” said Charlotte, ignoring the question.
Sheffield didn’t flinch. “Nonetheless, I stand by the feeling in my gut.”
She felt the air leach from her lungs. Sheffield had proven he possessed excellent instincts. But Nicholas’s life was hanging in the balance. If an error in judgment was to wrap a noose around his neck, she would rather it be hers . . .
The sudden scuff of steps crossing the carpet interrupted her thoughts.
A hinge creaked as a cabinet door came open. “Are you perchance looking for this?” Cordelia held up a gentleman’s hat.
It was, saw Charlotte, a Wellington.
“I’m usually more careful than to leave my disguise lying out in plain sight, but I was distracted on the night I returned from the gaming hell, as Jamie and I were arguing over whether he had done the right thing in letting Westmorly slither away without making his perfidy known to his peers.
” Cordelia shrugged. “And so Lord Wrexford noticed my hat and coat on the shelf.”
“You would have chosen to denounce Westmorly?” asked Charlotte.
“Granted, I consider many of Society’s rules absurd and unfair, especially for those of our sex,” came the answer.
“But adhering to a code of honor is not one of them.” Cordelia assessed Sheffield with a challenging stare.
“By the by, you are a very odd fellow. Not many gentlemen would choose to support a stranger over a friend.”
“I, too, believe in a code of honor. I don’t think you’re guilty.”
Her brows quirked. “Guilty of what?”
The air seemed to thrum with an unseen current. Strangely enough, Charlotte felt the vibrations loosened the tightness in her chest.
Alea iacta est. The die is cast. Or rather, the cards had been dealt. She must gather her wits and play what Fate had tossed her way.