CHAPTER 5
“Actually, I have nothing to say to you, sir,” said Charlotte.
“I beg to differ.” Wrexford spoke softly, but his tone was all too familiar. The aristocratic assumption that his Word was God.
She hated him already.
“You are clearly privy to all sorts of secrets here in Town. I wish to know how you obtain them.”
Charlotte responded with a harsh laugh. “If wishes were unicorns, we could all fly to the moon.”
His dark brows pinched together. She had angered him. Whether that was wise or not remained to be seen.
Auribus teneo lupum. There was an old Latin adage about having a wolf by its ears.
In the shifting shapes cast by the candle flames, the earl had a decidedly lupine look. Dark hair tangled around a long face, sharp chin—
“A whimsical image,” growled Wrexford. “But allow me to remind you this is not a whimsical moment. There’s been a grisly murder, and your artwork is provoking the public to believe that I am the culprit.”
Charlotte inhaled sharply. The earl was accusing her of inflammatory behavior? “I am not to blame for your sordid reputation,” she retorted. “I simply observe and listen to what goes on around me, then depict facts that I have gathered. How people choose to interpret them is not my concern.”
His gaze turned lidded, the black scrim of lashes hiding his eyes.
“An interesting explanation. I’ll not argue that my actions attract a certain notoriety.
” He shifted as a gust of air blew in through the cracks in the window casement, setting the shoulder capes of his dark coat to flapping like the wings of a bat.
She looked away, swallowing a spurt of fear. This man could destroy her with a snap of his well-tended fingers. She must temper her outrage and try to survive.
“What I do care about,” continued the earl, “is how you gather your facts. They are . . . frighteningly accurate.”
Strangely enough, he sounded faintly amused.
Perhaps there was hope.
“And as it would seem that you don’t come by your information through bribery or influence, I can’t help but ask—how the devil do you learn all these things?”
The edge of wry humor was now unmistakable. Charlotte decided there was little harm in giving him a halfway truthful answer.
“It’s not nearly as nefarious as you might think.
The notion that a secret can remain sacred is, for the most part, a delusion.
We may think we hide them away in the deepest, darkest private places, where they will remain safe.
” She curled a rueful grimace. “But secrets have a way of slipping out. I merely pay attention to their whispers.”
His expression remained inscrutable. “How?”
A smile crept to her lips. “I see no reason to divulge that secret so easily to you. If you wish to discover the answer, you are welcome to try.”
He gingerly shifted his stance, and Charlotte suddenly remembered the nasty ripping sound of expensive fabric. That quality of wool would likely cost her a fortnight’s earnings.
“Do you require a bandage for your wound, sir?”
“No. It’s just a scratch. I’ll survive.” He took a moment to examine the gash. “Alas, the same cannot be said for my trousers.”
“My apologies,” she said stiffly. “Raven and Hawk have no nest of their own. I suppose the fact that I allow them to shelter here whenever they wish and feed them when I can makes them feel protective of me.”
Wrexford seemed surprised. “They aren’t yours?”
“No.”
He waited, as if expecting her to add a further explanation. When she didn’t, he shrugged. “Loyalty is an admirable trait, m’lady. But given the lad’s current size and strength, he needs to be more careful. Not everyone will be as tolerant as I am.”
“I have endeavored to explain that to him.”
“Try again.” Lapsing into silence, he moved to her desk and regarded the drawing of the Prince Regent for an uncomfortably long interlude before settling himself on one of the stools. “Why do the lads call you ‘m’lady’?” he asked abruptly.
The question wasn’t entirely unexpected. Charlotte had long ago come up with a facile explanation. “My late husband called me that as . . . as a silly endearment. The boys simply mimicked him.”
His gaze darted back to her desk. She wasn’t sure why.
“Was your loss recent?”
Charlotte hesitated, wondering why he was probing.
“Perhaps eight months ago?” he added.
The room suddenly began to sway. She sat, praying the lightheadedness would quickly pass. It was imperative to keep all her wits about her. The earl struck her as a man who would give no quarter. And she still did not know why he was here.
“W-Why do you ask?” she countered.
Another glance at her desk. She felt a trickle of sweat slide down her spine. Had she left some telltale clue exposed?
“Because,” Wrexford finally said, “now that I think of it, A. J. Quill’s style changed right around then. The drawing became surer, the satire sharper.”
The earl was far more perceptive than she imagined. Which made him exceedingly dangerous.
“My guess is, your late husband was the original artist, and you continued his business when he stuck his spoon in the wall.”
Deciding it was pointless to deny it, Charlotte gave a confirming nod. “It seemed the pragmatic thing to do. It earns more than scrubbing floors for the likes of you and your privileged peers.”
Wrexford steepled his fingers. “Oh, I think it’s more than pragmatism. Art is passion, not a practicality, Missus . . .”
“You know nothing about me,” she replied coldly.
“Not even your name,” he quipped.
Charlotte was tiring of the cat-and-mouse games. “Let us cut to the chase, sir. Why are you here?”
* * *
As the question hung in the unsettled air, Wrexford was acutely aware of a number of sensations. The sting of his lacerated flesh, the hardness of the stool, the chill of the room, the scrutiny of m’lady, whose stare was like a myriad of needles prickling against his eyeballs.
This meeting was not at all what he had expected.
It had seemed a simple undertaking. His rank and influence would intimidate A.
J. Quill into spilling his secrets. But the earl sensed there was nothing simple about m’lady.
Bullying wouldn’t work. She had already shown herself to have a spine of steel, along with a quickness of wit in their thrust-and-parry battle of wills.
And here she was, unblinking.
“As I said,” he answered slowly, “I’m looking for information.”
“Look elsewhere,” she snapped. “Sharing isn’t good for business. I make my living knowing things that others don’t.”
“It’s not entirely out of idle curiosity, though I confess that how you do it intrigues me,” said the earl.
Her eyes seemed to possess an unfathomable depth.
Shadows spiraled beneath the surface, plunging down through shades of cerulean to indigo black.
“My valet is urging me to gather the facts about the murder, as it may prove helpful in avoiding a hangman’s noose.
” He stretched out his legs and crossed his booted feet at the ankles.
“In case it matters to you, I’m innocent. ”
“It doesn’t,” she said. “Matter, that is.” As she turned her head slightly, the lamplight caught the subtle Mars-red highlights in her hair. Cinnabar and auburn shades were woven through the mouse brown. Yet another reminder that nothing about her was as if first seemed.
“As I’ve told you, it’s simply a business, milord,” she went on. “I do what I have to do in order to survive.”
“Don’t we all?” he muttered.
Her face tightened in the uncertain candlelight. Slanted cheekbones, full mouth, both a bit too strong for her to be considered a conventional beauty. No doubt she frightened many men.
“Somehow I doubt that the fight for survival is an experience you confront every day,” she replied.
“As we only die once, the number of threats seems irrelevant.”
Perhaps it was merely a quirk of the flames, but it seemed that a smile flitted across her lips.
“You seem a shrewd woman. Surely we can come to some sort of bargain.”
She looked down, and several long moments passed as she considered his words.
Deciding on what sum she dared to demand? It would be a hefty one. She was no fool.
“Sorry, but I’m not interested in making a deal.”
“Is there a particular reason?”
“Whether you believed me or not, I am pragmatic. And you are worth a great deal to me as a murder suspect. Bow Street hounding you . . . a trial in the House of Lords . . . the gibbet going up at Tyburn. Why, the scandal could go on for months and months.”
Wrexford blew out a mournful sigh. “I had hoped to appeal to your better nature, m’lady—”
“Do stop calling me that,” she interrupted. “It’s a moniker reserved for my friends.”
“You’ve given me no other name,” he pointed out.
“Mrs. Sloane,” she said tersely.
“Very well.” A small bit of information about her.
As were the row of leather-bound books at the back of her desk, whose titles included classic works of history and modern poetry.
Mrs. Sloane was a far more educated woman than her present circumstances indicated.
Whether that would prove useful remained to be seen.
“As I was saying,” he went on, “I would prefer not to resort to threats, but it seems you give me no choice.”
* * *
Charlotte waited, the thump-thump of her heart against her rib cage making it hard for her to breathe.
“Your career as a satirist depends on anonymity. Were I to expose your identity, I doubt Fores would wish to keep you employed. A woman poking fun at the great men in Society?” He shook his head. “It wouldn’t fadge.”
Bile rose in her throat, hot as acid. “You would strip me of my livelihood?” She pitched her voice low, yet it was shaking with rage “Force me—and the lads—to become paupers to fend for ourselves on the streets? All because I am a woman who dares exercise her talents to survive?”