CHAPTER 10
“Ah, I see.” Wrexford watched the war of conflicting emotion play across her face. “You don’t wish to reveal the place where you keep your most secret possessions hidden.”
Serving as part of a special military intelligence-gathering mission in Portugal, he had gained some rudimentary training in searching for hidden information.
And a quick look around her quarters made him certain that it would take him less than half an hour to discover all the places where she might be keeping private treasures.
People were predictable. More so than they wished to believe. However, he decided to keep mum about it. Life had left her with precious few illusions. He would allow her to keep this one.
“I shall be happy to step outside while you retrieve it.”
Still she hesitated.
Charlotte did not frighten easily. What sort of secret could elicit such a look of apprehension? A dark one, he decided. Let her keep that as well. He had enough of his own demons to wrestle with.
“You may feel free to lock the door to make sure I do not interrupt you,” he added.
The offer spurred Charlotte to action. Rising, she took down the iron key from the peg by the entrance and led the way to the outer door. “I shall fetch you shortly.”
The lock, noted Wrexford, was not very sturdy. He must look into having a better one installed. Edging back into the shadows of the eaves, he considered how the events of the morning had given a new and alarming twist to things.
He had drawn Charlotte into something more dangerous than he had imagined. The victims of her pen might curse her, but they had not sought to kill her.
That, however, might change.
Which was cause for further concern. Tyler’s tracker was good, but there would be plenty of other men lurking in the underbelly of London who could be hired, and for a pittance, to learn where A.
J. Quill resided. The boys, though quick and clever, were not yet a match for the ruthless cunning of a hardened criminal.
She was not stupid—she knew the life she had chosen entailed risks. But he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt.
A conscience was a cursedly inconvenient encumbrance.
Perhaps Henning, with his razored array of scalpels, could surgically remove it.
“You may return now.” Charlotte’s voice drew him back from such mordant musings.
Wrexford stepped through the half open door and shut it behind him. “I assume you keep it locked at all times?”
“As a lone woman, I’m aware of the need to take precautions,” replied Charlotte.
“Then I shall not shilly-shally around my meaning, Mrs. Sloane,” he said. “This second murder has, shall we say, painted a whole new picture of things. Until I’ve discovered how and why they are tied together, you had best be on guard.”
“We,” she said coolly. “Until we have discovered how and why they are tied together.”
It took him an instant to absorb her meaning. “This isn’t your fight,” he said softly. “My neck may be in peril, but yours is not. Turn your quill on another subject, so you’re not drawn into further danger.”
The weak flicker of the lamplight caught the tightening of her jaw.
“And you need not fret. I will continue to honor our original bargain,” he took care to add. “You will be well compensated for the loss of income suffered by looking at some other scandal.”
Her smile only accentuated the ice in her eyes. “Gentlemanly honor demands that you protect the fairer sex?”
Her sarcasm was like a pinprick—shallow but painful, all the more so for being unexpected.
“You surprise me, Lord Wrexford,” she went on. “I took you for a man ruled by pragmatism, not sentiment.”
“Don’t take it personally,” he replied. “As of yet, I have no blood on my hands. I’d like to keep it that way.” He perched a hip on the edge of the table. “Too messy otherwise, and my valet abhors it when I get troublesome stains on my linen.”
“God forbid we upset your valet.”
“He’s a very useful fellow.”
Charlotte sighed, which seemed to trigger a retraction of her prickly hedgehog spines. “You need not try to shield me from unpleasantness. I know how to take care of myself.”
“I have the utmost respect for your survival skills, so don’t take it amiss when I point out that you’ve never faced a cutthroat killer who may decide you’re sticking your nose in places where it doesn’t belong.”
Her reaction was cleverly evasive. “I thought you were all afire to see the scrap of paper.”
“I am.” Wrexford held out his hand. “Consider me a slave to fusty old notions of manly traditions, but I would also like to ensure that you aren’t burned to a crisp.”
* * *
Charlotte placed the Canaday library marking on his palm. “I may also have another useful bit of information for you,” she said. “I shall explain once you are satisfied with my judgment about this clue.”
“A day of revelations. What has prompted it?” he asked.
“One thing at a time, sir.”
His mouth crooked, the left corner dropping a touch lower than the right. She was beginning to recognize his subtle quirks of expression—he was used to being in command and didn’t like having his questions ignored.
Deal with it, she thought, holding back a smile. Disappointment chiseled away the weak parts of one’s character. Tap-tap. Steel against stone, it shaped resolve.
Ignoring her silence, the earl was studying the symbol and numbers inked on the paper.
His irritation was gone, replaced by a more pensive look.
Charlotte tugged nervously at her skirts, though why she cared whether he believed her or not was a question she didn’t care to contemplate too closely.
Instead she made herself study the planes of his profile, and found her fingers itching to pick up a pencil and sketchbook.
Light and shadow, hard and soft. His face was infinitely intriguing. A contradiction. Which made it a conundrum.
He was right—there were too many puzzles, too many missing pieces. The unknown was dangerous.
The brusque sound of Wrexford clearing his throat drew her back to the problem at hand.
“The letter C could stand for a great many names. I’m not familiar with Canaday’s family crest, so I don’t know—”
“The Canaday family crest shows two wolfhounds rampant serving as supporters of the escutcheon,” she interrupted. “The library symbol is clearly a variation, twining the canines with the C. Consult your copy of Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage and you will see I am right.”
He fixed her with a searching stare. “How is it that you are familiar with Debrett’s?”
“I don’t live in the wilds of Siberia, though it may seem so to you, milord,” replied Charlotte. “Ye god, the book is no havey-cavey secret! It’s the bible of the beau monde, and is mentioned nearly every day in the drawing rooms of Mayfair. Of course I’m familiar with it.”
For an instant he looked a little nonplussed, but quickly seized the offensive. “That may be, but”—his gaze shot to her desk and back—“I see no copy of it among your books, so unless you have magical powers of memory, how is it you know the exact details of Canaday’s crest?”
“I consulted with a friend.” It was not precisely a lie. Though that would depend on to what degree one was permitted to parse the English language.
Wrexford, however, accepted her answer without further fuss.
“Very well, let’s assume you are right about the library marking.
” He lapsed into thought. “Canaday admitted to lending Holworthy three rare books on poetry, which the reverend refused to return. But I can’t see him being murdered over a collection of verses, however valuable. ”
“I agree. There seems no rhyme or reason for it,” she said dryly.
He gave no sign that he had heard her. She watched as his dark brows drew together.
“Unless . . .”
“Unless,” murmured Charlotte, “Canaday was not forthcoming about any other books Holworthy borrowed.”
“True. Though what I was about to add was that it might depend on how valuable the rare books were. You see, I’ve learned that both Canaday and Holworthy belonged to an exclusive club that caters to gentlemen with a love of literature and art.
Collectors can be passionate about possessing certain works. Perhaps enough so to commit murder.”
“Ah, yes. The Ancients,” replied Charlotte.
Light sparked on his lashes as he started at her mention of the name. His eyes narrowed.
“As to that other bit of information I mentioned earlier,” she went on quickly, “it concerns The Ancients.”
* * *
Revelation. It was, thought Wrexford, a rather apt word to have pop to mind, considering the Reverend Holworthy and his grand biblical orations on Good versus Evil.
Charlotte was, by her own admission, loath to share information.
She hoarded each sordid nugget like a precious gemstone, selling them only when the price was right.
They were certainly not given away for free.
So that begged the question, What did she want in return?
Whatever it was, she was on edge about it.
He had been surreptitiously watching her face, her gestures—as she had been doing of him.
Oh yes, he had been aware of her scrutiny.
The low light and shifting shadows obscured much, but he had been aware of her scrutiny.
Her gaze was like the flicker of a candle flame, a soft, yet unmistakable whisper of heat.
The stool scraped over the floor as he shifted to face her head-on.
Charlotte jumped at the sound and seemed to withdraw into herself.
He waited. If she had something momentous to say, she would do it on her own terms.
“I am telling you this because through my own sources, I have learned that Holworthy was involved in The Ancients, which may in turn mean the club is somehow connected to the murder,” Charlotte finally said. “And as you seem intent on discovering who is responsible for the crime—”
“Two crimes,” he corrected. “And yes, I would prefer to protect my own neck. So my intent can be termed purely pragmatic.”