CHAPTER 25 #2
“Since truth and honor go hand in hand,” she said, breaking the electric silence between the other two, “let us not waste our breath in cat-and-mouse conversations. Did you kill Lord Chittenden, Lady Cordelia?”
If Cordelia was shocked by the question, she hid it well and answered calmly, “I did not.”
“What about Benjamin Westmorly?”
A hesitation, and then a curt laugh. “Had the thought occurred to me, I might have been tempted. But, no, again I must assert my innocence.” Cordelia frowned.
“Wait—I thought the newspapers reported it as self-murder, triggered by despair over the fact that his cheating at cards was about to be made public.”
“It was made to look like that,” replied Charlotte. “The authorities are keeping the truth a secret so as not to alert the killer that the ruse didn’t work.”
“And how, may I ask, do you know that?” asked Cordelia.
“I have my sources.”
“Which include me,” interjected Sheffield. “Wrexford and I discovered the body . . .” A quick glance at Charlotte. “Along with another friend, whose identity I’m not at liberty to reveal.”
“Hmmph.” Looking pensive, Cordelia returned to her seat on the sofa. “My own eccentricities appear to have drawn me into a circle of equally unorthodox individuals.” Her lips twitched. “Tell me, is Lady Peake also a sleuth?”
“She would be extremely good at it,” murmured Charlotte.
“A frightening thought.”
Their eyes met and they both smiled.
Sheffield cleared his throat with a cough. Or perhaps it was a chuckle. “Indeed. You ladies have no idea how terrifying it is for us gentlemen to encounter a female who uses her head for anything other than a perch for her bonnet.”
“But my Wellington looks so very fetching,” murmured Cordelia. She was still holding the hat, and with a flourish, she put it on and pulled the brim down to a jaunty angle.
Charlotte was suddenly aware that the tiny hairs at the back of her neck were standing on end.
No, no, no . . .
“Very fetching,” she agreed, taking great care to mask her reaction.
Sheffield, however, must have noted something in her face, for his eyes flickered in question.
Charlotte pretended not to see it. “It’s an excellent choice for a lady. It’s tall enough to hide the upswept knot of feminine tresses, but not so towering as to draw attention to the more delicate contours of a female face.”
“Precisely,” said Cordelia. “I see you do have an artist’s perception for detail. It must prove very useful in sleuthing.”
A casual shrug. “The devil is in the details,” she said, catching the glint of a silver ornament. “Indeed, I see yours has a nice decorative touch on the grosgrain band.”
“All of the hats made by Tobias and Company have such a button.” Cordelia took off her Wellington and set it aside. “Speaking of details . . .” She looked down at the exotic Indian cards. “You think I may be able to help you learn where Lucifer is lurking by solving this puzzle?”
“Yes.” Charlotte let a moment of silence slide by. It now seemed a pointless exercise, but she didn’t wish to reveal her thoughts. “That is, if you’re willing.”
“You’ve probably guessed that I like challenges.
” Cordelia gathered up the cards. “If it were merely mathematics, I would feel confident of success. But the arcane instructions on how to interpret the numbers make it a far more complex problem. Nonetheless, I will set to work on it and see what I can do.”
“Thank you.” Anxious to take her leave, Charlotte inclined a nod. “As time is of the essence, we should leave you in peace.”
Sheffield looked about to protest, then appeared to change his mind. He inclined a graceful bow, and echoed Charlotte’s sentiments. “Yes, we’re very grateful for your help, Lady Cordelia. Given time is of the essence, I shall forgo the rest of my lesson and leave you to work on it.”
“Save your thanks until I actually accomplish something,” she said dryly as she rang a bell to summon the butler. “I can’t make any promises.”
“Whether or not the conundrum is solved, it’s exceedingly open-minded of you to trust in virtual strangers,” he replied.
Charlotte didn’t miss the undertone of reproach directed at her.
Their escort appeared in the doorway, and led the way back to the entrance foyer, where McClellan, playing the role of a proper lady’s maid, was waiting.
Once outside, Charlotte accepted Sheffield’s arm with a silent oath.
She could feel the tension radiating beneath the well-tailored wool, and a sidelong glance showed his usual nonchalant smile had thinned to a grim line.
Opening the door to the waiting carriage, he helped her and McClellan up the rungs, then climbed in after them.
She winced as it slammed shut with a tad more force than necessary.
“Damnation—you’re wrong, Lady Charlotte!”
“Please unclench your fists, Mr. Sheffield,” said McClellan as she primly smoothed at her skirts. “Or I may be forced to bloody your nose.”
Looking abashed, he slumped back against the squabs. “Forgive me. I . . . I can’t quite explain it, but I . . .”
“You feel passionately about defending someone whom you consider a friend,” finished Charlotte.
“I do?” The carriage hit a rut, the lamp’s lurching flame illuminating his face as it went through a series of odd little contortions.
“I’m too frivolous to have deep feelings .
. . but perhaps you’re right.” Sheffield shook his head in confusion.
“I like her. More than that, I admire her. Here I am, always whinging and feeling sorry for myself because of my ill luck in being born a younger son. And yet, a female’s lot in life, however highborn, is far more difficult than mine.
Like you, Lady Cordelia has the courage and strength to be true to herself.
She makes me want . . .” He blew out a harried breath.
“She makes me want to be better than I think I can be.”
Charlotte’s heart clenched. She knew all too well the feeling of seeing only the best in someone, rather than the complex reality of how personal strengths could weave together with weaknesses—and create fatal flaws. Her late husband . . .
“You’re a far better man than you think you are, Kit Sheffield,” she said.
His eyes widened in surprise.
“Aye,” murmured McClellan. “A very bonny one.”
“You’re unflinchingly loyal, compassionate, honorable—and strong,” went on Charlotte. “Your friends know that, even if you don’t.”
“Thank you for that.” He looked away for a moment. “Lud knows, you’re a far better judge of people than I am. But in this case, I’m certain you’re mistaken.”
“I like Lady Cordelia, too. Very much so, in fact. But that doesn’t mean she’s innocent. A cunning killer must possess courage and strength. Not to speak of the ability to hide a core of evil beneath a facade of normalcy.”
“Why?” he demanded. “Tell me why you think she is guilty.”
Charlotte drew in a heavy breath. “As I said, Hawk and Raven have been asking around about all the Bloody Butcher murders. And they’ve discovered that someone wearing a Wellington hat with a silver ornament was spotted at all three of the murder scenes.”
“Ye gods—that’s not much to go on,” he protested, though his voice had a certain hollow ring to it. “How many Wellington hats, with some sort of decoration on the band, do you think there are in London?”
“Quite a lot,” she answered. “However, I’m quite certain the number worn by a lady in the dead of night is very, very small.”
Sheffield’s face fell. “H-How can you possibly be sure that it was a lady wearing the hat? Was a face seen?” A note of defiance had crept back into his voice. “And if so, why hasn’t Griffin—”
“Please let me finish.” She hated what she had to say next.
“You’re right—I can’t be entirely certain.
But Alice-the-Eel-Girl saw someone in Kensington Gardens at the time of Cedric’s murder.
The person was walking quickly along the footpath close to where she was curled up for the night, and in passing, an overhanging tree branch, dislodged the hat—just enough that the person had to reach up and reset it. ”
He frowned in confusion. “But—”
“Allow me to explain, Mr. Sheffield,” she said gently.
“You know I’m good at seeing the small details.
I dress as a man on occasion, so I’m intimately familiar with how I must put on a gentleman’s hat, in order to hide my coiled hair.
” Charlotte pantomimed a motion. “It must go on from back to front, like so.”
“She’s right, sir. Front to back would knock the pins loose,” agreed McClellan. “And besides, it’s a natural reflex for a lady. That’s how a bonnet goes on.”
“You saw how Lady Cordelia put on her Wellington just now,” pressed Charlotte. “It was a natural movement. She did it without thinking.”
Sheffield looked as if he had been punched in the gut. “And you’re saying that . . .”
“That Alice observed exactly the same movement,” she finished. “And of all our little band of urchins, Alice is the most careful and sharp-eyed.”
“But . . . but someone replaced Thornton’s hat with a Wellington. It had to have been—”
“As we just agreed,” interrupted Charlotte, “there are a great many of them in London. That switch seems to have been an honest mistake.”
For an instant, a look of raw pain flickered through Sheffield’s lashes. But he quickly blinked it away.
“I’m so sorry,” whispered Charlotte. “I’ll need to find proof. But I fear it will be there.”
He looked away for a moment, casting his face in shadows, before he responded with a shrug. “Perhaps Wrex is right—perhaps it best to think the worst of people, so that way you are never disappointed.”
* * *
Wrexford slipped into the reception room and quickly took up a position behind an arrangement of potted palms. The crowd from the lecture hall was fast filing into the space, the clink of champagne glasses punctuating the rising hum of animated voices.
The visiting Italian scholar’s presentation on his latest experiments with electricity was sparking a great deal of comment.
Peering through the leafy fronds, the earl began a close scrutiny of the faces. Hollister hadn’t been in his rooms at the Albany Hotel, but the earl had managed to learn that he was slated to be part of the evening’s activities as a member of Sir Joseph Banks’s party.
It seemed unlikely that a toadeater like Hollister would risk offending such an illustrious personage as Banks . . .
Sure enough, Wrexford spotted his quarry entering from one of the side salons in the company of Sir Joseph.
Moving out from the knife-edged shadows, he began to work his way through the crowd. Hollister paused by the refreshment table, then was blocked from view by the swaying plumage of the Duchess of Wright’s massive turban as she swept in to take a glass of punch.
“Damnation,” he muttered, trying to squeeze around a group of gentlemen engaged in a heated debate about the lecture. The duchess had moved on, but where the devil was Hollister?
“Language, Wrexford,” came a whispered warning, punctuated by the rap of an ebony cane against his shin. “Have a care, sir, or you might make some elderly crone swoon from shock.”
“But not you, Lady Peake,” he replied, darting another quick look around the room. “You are made of sterner stuff.”
Alison chuckled. “Yes, fire, brimstone, and reptile scales—I know what you young people call me.”
“It’s meant as a compliment. Unlike so many of your pasteboard peers, you have spark and color.”
“Hmmph. It seems the gossipmongers are wrong,” she replied dryly. “You can be quite charming when you choose to be.”
Wrexford caught a glimpse of Hollister at the far end of the room. Their eyes met for an instant through the swirl of colored silks and dark evening coats, and then Hollister spun around on his heel and hurried through the archway leading out to the side set of stairs.
The earl bit back a second oath. Pursuit was useless. Even without the dowager blocking his path, he had no hope of catching up with his quarry.
“Take my arm, Wrexford, and escort me over there.” Alison waved her cane at a spot behind one of the large marble plinths. “I wish to have a private word with you.”
Quelling his frustration, he did as he was asked.
“That’s better. Now”—Alison studied his face for a moment—“is something amiss?”
His gaze darted once again to the archway. “Nothing that need concern you.”
“Don’t patronize me, young man,” she retorted. “I’m quite aware that Charlotte is up to something havey-cavey. And I fear she may be putting herself in danger.” A sniff. “She’s always been too brave and too principled for her own good.”
“I’m more than aware of that,” he said tersely. “Leave Lady Charlotte to me.”
“Is that so?” Alison fixed him with an owlish squint. “And what, may I ask, are your intentions regarding my grandniece?”
“My intentions, Lady Peake, are to see that your stubborn, maddening, willful grandniece doesn’t come to grief,” he muttered. The dowager’s mention of danger had his innards coiling in a knot. “To which end, I really must take my leave. Forgive me for not explaining why.”
Her frail fingers clutched his sleeve. “What can I do to help?” she demanded.
“Leave this battle to me, Lady Peake.” Wrexford covered her hand with his. “Let us each fight to our strengths. There will be other wars to wage in the coming weeks . . .”
Assuming I can keep Charlotte from charging in where angels should fear to tread. So far, she had refrained from taking terrible risks. But worry and frustration were making her desperate.
“Balls, soirees, morning calls—she will need a clever general to help her maneuver through the world of Polite Society,” he continued.
“There will be enemies lurking behind the glittering smiles and polished manners, looking to attack, simply because they will scent blood and take pleasure in trying to cause hurt.”
Alison squared her shoulders. “Ha—let them try! The battlefield of the beau monde is one with which I’m intimately familiar. Anyone who seeks to hurt her will have to cross verbal swords with me. And they’ll quickly find my blade slicing off their tongues.”
“Heaven help the fool who dares throw down the gauntlet.” A smile ghosted over his lips. “However, for now—”
“Yes, yes—for now, you must go,” she urged, releasing her hold.
He gave a gruff nod and turned for the entranceway.
A tap-tap of the ebony cane touched his boot. “I shall count on you to keep her out of trouble.”