“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.”
“As is mine. There is something very corrupt about The Ancients. A darkness that swirls beneath the polished manners, the self-proclaimed appreciation of art. I think they are responsible for . . . for evil acts, and I would like to see them destroyed.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
Her features pinched. “I can’t give you specific facts, sir, if that is what you mean. I am basing the statement on . . . feelings. Or rather, suspicions.” Her chin rose a notch, a wordless challenge. “I am aware that men think those of my sex are flighty creatures, incapable of rational thought and objective observation. But they are wrong.”
“Mrs. Sloane, you strike me as the least hysterical person I know. Whatever the reasons are that have made you suspicious of The Ancients, I should very much like to hear them.”
She let out a shuddering sigh. “I first met Lord Percival Stoughton a little over two years ago. My husband and I were living in Rome, where Anthony was pursuing his painting and studying classical art. To earn additional money, he served as a guide to wealthy Englishmen doing the traditional Grand Tour, showing them the antiquities and serving as a purchasing agent with the local art dealers.”
The Grand Tour was an English rite of passage that developed during the early eighteenth century. Young men of good breeding and wealth embarked on a journey through Paris, the south of France, and on to Rome, usually accompanied by a private tutor. It was expected that they returned home as polished, educated gentlemen of the world—bringing with them a collection of classical art for their country homes, with which to impress their neighbors.
Stoughton. Wrexford thought hard to place the man. “Viscount Stoughton, heir to the Earl of Northfield?”
She nodded. “You know him?”
“Merely by name,” he answered.
Her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.
“Do go on,” he added gently, sensing her great reluctance to divulge any details of her personal life.
“Stoughton seemed eager to strike up a friendship with my husband,” continued Charlotte. “Anthony was flattered by the attention. Like most struggling artists, he craved recognition of his talents, and Stoughton was effusive in his praise. I . . . I was happy for him at first, but something soon began to make me feel uncomfortable about it.”
“In what way?” asked the earl when her pause for breath stretched out for several long moments.
“The flatteries felt overdone.” Charlotte swallowed hard. Wrexford had never seen her appear so unsure of herself. “Please don’t misunderstand me,” she said haltingly. “My husband had great talent. He was a gifted painter. But he came from a modest background, and Stoughton from the highest circle of Society. It seemed odd to me that such a man would bestow such enthusiastic support on . . . on a nobody.”
The earl nodded in understanding. It was important for one’s own prestige to play patron to rising star, someone who would become an influential member of the art world. An unknown with no family connections was not a good choice to champion, no matter how skilled he was.
“Still,” he mused, “while Stoughton may have displayed poor judgment, his behavior does not appear to merit the word corrupt. That is, unless there is more.”
“There is,” she replied, her voice growing firmer. “Along with the flatteries—and the purchase of two small canvases, which eased our financial worries—Stoughton began to encourage Anthony to return to London. He promised to put in a good word with friends and help secure admission to the Royal Academy. Anthony was, to put it bluntly, seduced. It had always been his greatest dream to gain admission to the Academy, to show his work there, to be acknowledged as an equal. . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she took a moment to pour a cup of water from the jug on the table and take a sip.
“So, with his head filled with dreams of making a name for himself in London, and enough money to purchase our passage, he insisted we return to England, despite warnings from his physician that the climate was not good for his health.” Another sip. “My husband had a very delicate constitution. One of the reasons we chose to live in southern Italy was because of its sun and mild weather.”
“As soon as we found lodgings in Town, Anthony contacted Stoughton. To his delight, he was immediately invited to join a gentleman’s club.”
“The Ancients.” Wrexford said it as a statement, not a question.
“Yes. And a few small commissions came in from several of the members, enough for us to scrape by. But the promised introduction to the Royal Academy and its members seemed to stall. There were always explanations for the delay. After a while, Anthony grew dispirited.”
Charlotte reached for the fringed shawl draped over the back of her work chair and wound it around her shoulders, not before he saw a spasm shiver down her spine.
“More than that, he grew disturbed, prone to odd mood swings. He took to spending more time at the club, often not coming home until late at night. I pressed him to tell me what the allure was, for it seemed . . . unlikely that the wealthy wellborn aristocrats had accepted him as an equal.”
She had phrased her reservation carefully, bu
t she was savvy and sensible enough to know the stark truth. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that the gentlemen who belonged to The Ancients were hobnobbing with a nobody out of the goodness of their hearts.
“You’re right. It seems very unlikely,” he agreed. “What was your husband’s answer?”
Her expression remained stoic, but the shadows seemed to deepen beneath her eyes. “Evasive mutterings,” she answered tightly. “And unhappy ramblings about how his talents were misunderstood, misplaced. I thought for a time that he meant the satirical cartoons, which he had begun shortly after our arrival in London. He had a knack for caricature, and keeping company with The Ancients allowed him to hear Society gossip. I arranged all the logistics for delivering them, and getting the payments.”
Wrexford suspected she managed all the details of keeping the family afloat. Her husband struck him as rather weak, an ethereal, self-absorbed man-child lost in his own dreams.
“Thank God, Anthony was wise enough never to tell Stoughton about that artistic endeavor,” murmured Charlotte, brushing away a lock of hair that had escaped its pins and curled over her cheek. “But as I said, though I first thought that was the reason for his mental agitation, I came to suspect it was something worse.” A fraction of a pause. “Much worse.”
The earl repressed the urge to ask what. It was, he saw, a struggle to confide the painful story to a near-stranger.
She met his eyes for a moment. “I can’t tell you what it was. Anthony’s health went into a rapid decline. At times he seemed drugged, disoriented. His ramblings became incoherent—at times, all he would mutter was the word alchemy over and over again.”
“Alchemy?” Wrexford looked up sharply. “Your husband mentioned alchemy?”
“Y-Yes.” Charlotte looked unsettled by the sudden question. “Why do you ask?”
“There was a fragment of half-burned paper in the laboratory that bore a strange reference to alchemy.” He thought for a moment. “But then, much of the early experiments in chemistry had their roots in medieval alchemy, so I suppose it wouldn’t be unusual for Drummond to have books on the subject.” He decided to leave it at that. Given her agitated emotional state, he didn’t wish to stir unwarranted alarm before he had a chance to study the evidence. “I expect it won’t mean anything.”
Her expression remained tense. “I don’t see how it could. Anthony cared nothing about science. His passion lay in art.”
Wrexford refrained from saying that in London it had become quite fashionable for artists and men of science to think of themselves as kindred souls, creative spirits exploring the mysteries and wonders of Life.
“I know this is hard for you, Mrs. Sloane,” he said quietly. “But please do go on.”
Charlotte composed herself with a deeply drawn breath. “My husband’s lungs then began to give out and he couldn’t rise from his bed. I’m not quite sure how, but Stoughton learned of our address, and he and a friend came to visit several times. They claimed a grave concern for Anthony’s well-being, and offered to pay for a physician. But I have learned to read people, milord. There was a far darker reason.
“They were angry over Anthony’s illness—they needed him for something. I never learned what. Henning was kind enough to pay a visit when he heard of our troubles, but there was nothing he could do to halt the ravages of whatever was ailing him. All that was left was to make Anthony’s last hours more comfortable, and for that he gave me a bottle of laudanum. Anthony passed away the day following Stoughton’s visit.”
Her gaze turned shuttered, and in that instant he was sure she suspected her husband of ending his own life.
It was, mused Wrexford, no secret that opium brought blessed oblivion from earthly suffering.
Charlotte stiffened her spine, as if steeling herself for his skepticism. “I did not tell you all this to elicit your pity, sir. And perhaps you think I am seeing demons when the real culprit was my husband’s hopeless naïveté. Nonetheless, I wanted you to know that I believe The Ancients are the nest of vipers for whom you are searching. And I want you to cut off their heads before they sink their fangs into other people and poison more lives.”
“Be assured, I take your beliefs very seriously, Mrs. Sloane.”
The tightly wound tension in her body loosened a notch, and a ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Thank you. For not considering me a delusional peagoose.”
“I wouldn’t dare. Your pen is too sharp.” His eyes strayed to the counter by the sink. “As is your chopping knife.”
“If I’m tempted to cut anyone’s throat, it won’t be yours.”
He let out a gruff laugh. “The hangman will be relieved to hear that. He has first claim on it.”
Amusement momentarily chased the look of troubled uncertainty from her eyes.
“Be that as it may, I’m as anxious as you are to uncover what evil may be lurking within The Ancients,” he went on. “Think hard, Mrs. Sloane. Can you recall any other details that could help indicate what your husband was involved in?”
“Trust me, sir, I have wracked my brain trying to think of what it might have been.” In a fleeting gesture that was nearly lost in the flutter of shadows, Charlotte pressed her palms to her brow, a here-and-gone moment that left her looking very vulnerable.
It was the first real slip of her mask. And Wrexford guessed she would not thank him for seeing it. Quickly dropping his gaze, he carefully smoothed a crease from his shirt cuff. She deserved privacy for her pain.
“You mentioned your suspicions before. Were there any specific things that sparked them?” he pressed.
Charlotte slumped back in her chair. “Yes, there were two small things that struck me as odd,” she said slowly. “Though you may think me mad, or merely a victim of an overfebrile imagination.”
“We should not dismiss any evidence, no matter how odd it may seem. You are a very astute observer, Mrs. Sloane. I doubt you are prone to fits of melodramatic fantasy.”
“I am beginning to wonder.... Recent events feel like they have stepped off the pages of a horrid novel.”
“No dungeons, clanking chains, or moaning ghosts have made an appearance,” he quipped. “Yet.”
Charlotte made a face. “If you are trying to be reassuring, you are making a hash of it.” However, the moment of humor seemed to dispel some of the tautness in her features.
“I’m simply stating the facts.” Wrexford let the words sink in. “As should you.”
“Very well, since you insist,” she said, after stilling the twitch of her lips. “The first thing was, Anthony often came home with paint smudges on his hands. He was very fastidious about his appearance when going to the club—he wished to fit in with the gentlemen—and I am quite sure he never left our lodgings in a less than pristine state.”
“Odd, but not inexplicable,” he mused. “Your description of your spouse has painted the picture of a man passionate about his art. I’ve known artists who carried a small box of pigments and a sketchbook in their pockets for when inspiration struck.”
“Lord Wrexford, I know the difference between watercolors and oil paints,” answered Charlotte.
He nodded. “Point taken.”
She tugged again at her shawl, knotting the fringes round and round her fingers. “At the end, there was something even more disturbing about his hands. I . . . I had thought it was another symptom of his nervous disorder, as his physical condition was fast deteriorating.” The deepening shadows beneath her eyes were now dark as bruises. “But now that you’ve pressed me to look at things through the lens of Reverend Holworthy’s murder, I think it may have a more menacing explanation.”
A shrill whistle from outside pierced the stillness of the room. Someone shouted a curse as a heavily laden cart clattered over the rutted lane.
The muscles of her throat contracted as she swallowed hard. “When he returned from his last visit to The Ancients, there were small burn-like discolorations on his fingers. And the pattern resembled s
plashes of liquid.”
CHAPTER 11
The ensuing silence seemed to amplify all the tiny sounds in the room. The scrabbling of mouse feet behind the walls, the faint creaking of the rafters, the ragged hitch of her breathing . . .
He thinks me mad, thought Charlotte. And perhaps he’s right. Her usual dispassionate sense of detachment had been knocked to flinders on hearing Jeremy mention The Ancients.
Such a tastefully civilized name, and yet the very whisper of it had sent a chill coursing through her veins.
“I make no pretense of being objective, milord,” she announced, her voice sounding brittle as broken glass to her ears. “My reaction is very personal—some might call it primitive, based as it is on visceral emotion. I don’t like or trust them, and so I am primed to see evil lurking behind their actions.”
Wrexford crossed his legs. His boots, she noted, had a heavy spattering of straw-flecked mud marring the highly polished leather—strange how the mind seized on insignificant details as a distraction from difficult situations.
The seconds continued to slide by as if mired in molasses. His expression was a conundrum—a smile appeared to be waging a tug of war with a frown. Charlotte didn’t trust herself to decipher its meaning.
At last, his gaze turned from some distant point in the gloom. “Death,” he said, “is not a cerebral subject that one contemplates from afar.” Though his voice held an edge of mockery, there was an undertone of raw emotion she hadn’t heard in him before. “One’s reaction to it does tend to be personal.”
“Which does not make it right or rational.”
“True,” agreed the earl. “But I have great respect for your powers of perception, Mrs. Sloane. If you think something is dreadfully wrong, then it likely is.”
Charlotte was surprised at how relieved she felt by the fact that he didn’t find her crazy. “So, how do we go about proving it?” she said in a low voice.
Wrexford considered her question for a long moment. “Let us order the facts we have now. Your husband was lured back to London and invited to join The Ancients by Stoughton—for what reasons we don’t yet know. He began to earn a little money, but you began to notice unsettling things about him, including unexplained paint on his hands, and an alarming change in his behavior. And then signs of acid burns and death.”
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