“Choices, choices,” responded Charlotte in a tight voice. “Why is it that women are, more often than not, the ones caught between a rock and a stone? We seem to be damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”
Sheffield cleared his throat with an uncomfortable cough.
“With the rules of society weighted so heavily against us, it’s no wonder we are forced to rely on cunning and guile,” she added softly.
Wrexford eyed her intently, but said nothing.
“What about him?” ventured Sheffield after the silence stretched out for a moment longer. Kirkland’s gaping wound looked ghoulish in the sickly yellow light cast by the cheap oil lamp.
“Leave it to me,” said the earl curtly. He turned away and snuffed out the rancid-smelling flame. “Let’s be off.”
* * *
Charlotte wiped her palms on her rough wool breeches as she rose, and yet the residue of murder was not like blood or muck. It didn’t come off with a casual scrub. Rather, it seemed to seep beneath the skin.
In absentia luci, tenebrae vincunt. In the absence of light, darkness prevails.
Was violent death an insidious poison, she wondered, which over time would pollute the soul?
Perhaps that was a question whose complexities were best left to philosophers. For now, she simply wished to see justice done. If that was morally suspect, then so be it.
“Weasel,” summoned Wrexford in a low but commanding voice.
Raven darted out from the shadows.
“It’s time for you to return to my townhouse. Wait for Tyler and tell him he’s to send one of the footmen to Bow Street at first light with a note for Griffin—and only Griffin, understand?”
The boy gave a solemn nod.
“He should inform the Runner of Kirkland’s murder and give him the precise location of the body. More importantly, he needs to tell Griffin I have an idea of how this all ties together and ask him to be patient. I shall endeavor to meet with him as soon as possible.” The earl paused. “Can you remember that, lad?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Raven.
“One last thing,” added Wrexford. “Griffin should have the corpse taken to Henning’s surgery. There may be some clue Henning can see.”
A weak scudding of moonlight caught the silent movement of the boy’s lips. Committing the words to memory, realized Charlotte. For all his fierce sense of independence, Raven always held himself a little straighter in the earl’s presence.
“Yes, sir,” repeated the boy.
“Then away with you.”
The shadows skirled, as if caught in a momentary gust of air, and then settled back into stillness.
The earl was already striding to the alleyway.
Charlotte shook off her musings and hurried to catch up with him.
“How do you intend to gain entrance into the widow’s residence?” she asked. “The doors are likely barred, so picking a lock won’t work. And besides, it’s not a wise idea—the footmen may have orders to shoot any intruder.”
He didn’t look around but merely quickened his pace. “There are times when having a high and mighty title proves useful.”
Charlotte fell in step behind him. Whatever force of nature had him in thrall, it wasn’t going to yield to anything she said.
One turn, then another, and suddenly the silvery silhouette of Grosvenor Square’s fancy mansions, all elegant angles and decorative pediments, rose out of the gloom ahead. Moving in single file, the three of them circled around the central garden, hugging close to the leafy shadows overhanging the fence. The residences lining the far side of the square were swathed in silky silence, the pale limestone and stately marble porticos sleeping peacefully in the hide-and-seek shadows cast by the wrought iron street lights.
Lord Blackstone’s townhouse was set near the far corner. Wrexford took the treads of the marble entrance stairs two at a time and grabbed hold of the heavy brass knocker.
Bang, bang! Several staccato raps shattered the quiet tranquility.
“If you are intent on rousing the dead, we could simply summon a regiment of the Royal Hussars to gallop through the streets,” quipped Sheffield.
The earl paid him no heed and pounded out another tattoo.
Charlotte glanced around. No light flared to life in the nearby windows, but as she turned back, she thought she detected the glimmer of candlelight deep within the residence.
Sure enough, a wary voice, muzzy with sleep, sounded on the other side of the paneled oak door.
“Who’s there?”
“The Earl of Wrexford.”
She’d never heard him sound so imperious.
“Open up immediately and wake Mrs. Ashton,” he added. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
“B-B-But the h-hour . . .” stammered whoever had the misfortune to be keeping the midnight watch.
“Open up now!” commanded the earl. “Or I promise you, there will be hell to pay!”
The rasp of wood scraping through an iron bracket announced the man’s surrender. The bolt drew back, the latch lifted, and the massive slab of oak slowly swung open.
Wrexford shouldered his way past the nervous servant and started for the stairs.
“Milord! You can’t—”
“Oh, but I can.”
Keeping her head down, Charlotte hurried after him. The earl had not yet thought to protest her presence, and she didn’t intend to give him a chance to do so. Her disguise was good, but experience had taught her that the best cloak of concealment was the fact that people saw what they expected to see.
An urchin was an urchin. Mrs. Ashton would have no cause to think otherwise.
Wrexford paused on the upper landing. A single wall sconce was lit, its flame turned low, the flickers quickly disappearing in the darkness.
“Which is Miss Merton’s bedchamber?” he asked as Charlotte joined him.
She pointed it out.
“Wake her. Her presence may be useful.”
“I doubt she’s still asleep.” A hurried rustling behind the door confirmed the surmise. Lowering her voice, Charlotte added, “Remember, sir, I’m merely one of your informants. Let it not be you who makes the dangerous slip.”
“Be assured, I don’t intend to make any mistakes.”
There was an edge to his voice she had never heard before. But there was no time now to puzzle it out.
The door latch of Octavia’s room rattled. Charlotte heard Sheffield start up the stairs.
Drawing a deep breath, she edged back into the recessed alcove of the linen storage closet.
Wrexford turned and was ready when Octavia stepped into the corridor, a wrapper thrown haphazardly over her nightrail, her hair sticking out in disarray from a loose braid.
“Lord Wrexford!” Her breath caught for an instant in her throat. “Is it Benedict? Oh, God—is he dead?”
“I’ve no news on Hillhouse,” he replied. “I’m here on another matter. One that I hope will put an end to the bloody trail of lies and deceit.”
Octavia slumped against the molding, whether in relief or a sense of impending doom was impossible to tell. Charlotte felt a stab of sympathy. She feared that things were not going to end well for her friend.
“Go wake Mrs. Ashton,” commanded Wrexford to Octavia.
“There’s no need.” From the far end of the corridor came a tiny explosion of light as a candle suddenly sparked to life. Its dancing glow illuminated the widow’s face. Framed by her midnight-dark hair and the surrounding gloom, it held a spectral beauty, her pale, wraith-like features appearing to float disembodied above the undulating flame.
Fire and ice, thought Charlotte.
“I am here,” said Isobel. Her bloodless lips curled upward. “I take it this is not a social call?”
“No,” replied the earl. “I think you know why I’m here.”
The widow started forward, her slow, steady steps silent save for the soft swoosh of fabric around her legs. As she came closer, Charlotte noted that he
r nightclothes were pure white.
A reminder that the difference between devil and angel was so easily shaded by perception.
“I can hazard a guess,” replied Isobel with chilling calmness. “It seems my past sins have caught up with me.”
CHAPTER 24
Wrexford stared at her, feeling a momentary flicker of pity. Her intelligence and humor deserved more than to have been corrupted by lust and greed.
But passion, he knew, rarely followed reason.
“Indeed, they have.” His voice seemed to deepen and darken as it echoed off the walls. “I’m glad to see we share a pragmatism, madam, if nothing else, and may avoid the unseemly spectacle of false tears and protestations.”
Isobel shrugged. “I’ll not insult either of us with such histrionics. You’re a clever man, Lord Wrexford. I assume you’ve uncovered proof.” The candle shifted, throwing her eyes into shadow. “Though I had hoped your scrutiny would stay on Eli’s murder, rather than stray to my peccadilloes.”
“A rather benign term for your betrayal,” he replied. “And how could you have hoped I wouldn’t connect the two when they are, in fact, one and the same sin?”
A look of puzzlement flitted across her face.
“I trust you’ll give me a full confession, and tell us who wielded the blade—especially now that your other conspirator lies dead.”
“Dead?” Isobel stared at him blankly. “Who?”
“Your paramour, Lord Kirkland,” piped up Sheffield. “We found him a scant twenty minutes ago with his throat foully slashed. Just like the others.”
“Murderous bitch!” exclaimed Octavia, her face twisted in fury. “What have you done with Benedict?”
Keeping his eyes on Mrs. Ashton, Wrexford waved them to silence. If he didn’t know better, he would have found her show of shock convincing. Her knees buckled slightly, and her hand flew to her breast as she fought to steady her stance.
“Kirkland is dead?” She shook her head in disbelief. “My only confession is that I can feel no sorrow at the news. He was a thoroughly dirty dish, devoid of all honor.”
“You have the gall to use the word honor?” jeered Octavia. “For shame—”
“Silence, please, Miss Merton,” Wrexford cut in. “Allow me to do the questioning.” To Isobel, he said, “Are you claiming that you and the viscount weren’t responsible for your husband’s murder?”
“I may be guilty of some sins, but not that. Never that.” Her chin rose. “I respected and admired my husband. And while we didn’t flame with love’s passion, we were very fond of each other.”
“You’re lying,” said Octavia.
Isobel ignored the accusation. “You can’t claim to have proof of my involvement in Elihu’s death, Lord Wrexford, because none exists.”
“A note was found in your dressing room,” he countered. “One in which Kirkland warns you not to panic and you’ll both get what you want. How do you explain that?”
“Ah. Miss Merton and Mrs. Sloane . . .” Isobel glanced at Octavia with a grim smile. “I should have suspected something havey-cavey was afoot.”
“Rather the pot calling the kettle black,” murmured Sheffield.
Isobel’s brow furrowed in a pensive frown. “I recognized Mrs. Sloane from the past . . .”
Out of the corner of his eye, Wrexford saw Charlotte start within the shadows.
“But decided it was her own business if she wished to keep her true identity to herself.”
Secrets tangled within secrets. What skeletons, wondered Wrexford, were about to come rattling out of the closet to join the fresh-killed corpses?
“Just who do you think she is?” asked the earl in a carefully measured voice.
“I, of all people, sympathize with the desire to conceal past mistakes, especially when one is a woman,” replied Isobel. “It’s not always for nefarious reasons, so I shall leave it to her to decide what to tell you.”
Wrexford fought to keep his questions about Charlotte from overpowering all the others. Time enough for that confrontation later, he told himself. Murder and mayhem must take precedence.
Whatever secret she was hiding, he didn’t believe it involved a trail of dead bodies.
“Very well,” he responded. “Then let us return to the note. How do you explain it?”
“In very stark and simple terms,” said Isobel coolly, “Lord Kirkland was blackmailing me to keep the fact that I’d been his paramour in my youth from becoming a public scandal. Elihu knew about it—I had told him, of course, before I accepted his proposal of marriage—but I couldn’t bear to have my past tarnish him and his work, just when he was on the cusp of a revolutionary new invention. So I acceded to the viscount’s demands.” She made a face. “A mistake, as once a blackmailer gets his claws into you, he never lets go.”
“I-I don’t believe you,” said Octavia, but there was less force behind her outrage than before.
“Miss Merton, you have always chosen to think the worst of me.” Isobel finally chose to meet her nemesis’s accusing gaze. “Change is upsetting, and often frightening, to people. Your cozy, comfortable world was suddenly not the same with me in it.”
Octavia’s mouth quivered, but she couldn’t seem to muster a retort.
“I don’t suppose you have proof of your claim,” asked Wrexford.
“In fact, I do,” said Isobel, a note of challenge shading her words. “If you’ll come down to my study, I’ll show you some of Kirkland’s other notes, along with a few other documents that may cast me in a different light.”
Yet another dizzying twist, thought the earl. For all their racing around had they merely been spinning in circles?
“By all means,” he replied. “I welcome the opportunity to have empirical evidence resolve the question of your guilt or innocence once and for all.”
“I trust scientific reasoning will triumph over prejudice and preconception,” murmured Isobel. “I simply ask that you keep an open mind.”
The comment brought a flush to Octavia’s cheeks.
“I am as anxious as you are to see that justice is done for Elihu.” Isobel started walking for the stairs, and then stopped abruptly as she noticed the still-as-a-statue shape sheltered within the recessed doorway. “I take it this is one of your companions, and not some errant intruder, Lord Wrexford?”
“The lad runs a network of urchins,” he replied without hesitation. “They are my eyes and ears on the streets—an invaluable and effective resource in conducting my investigations. It’s he who informed me of Kirkland’s murder.”
“Clever,” commented Isobel. Her gaze lingered on Charlotte for a fraction longer, then she continued on to the landing.
“I’ll join you very shortly,” said Wrexford, nodding a subtle signal at Sheffield to accompany the women downstairs. “I need a private word with Phoenix.”
* * *
“Phoenix,” repeated Charlotte softly, once the others were out of earshot. “I would have thought you might choose Crow.” A pause. “Or perhaps Vulture.”
“Phoenix seems far more appropriate,” replied Wrexford.
Though she deliberately avoided meeting his gaze, she could feel the heat of it on her skin.
“A bird that bursts into fire and burns to a crisp,” he continued, “only to rise from the ashes and reform itself anew.”
“Yes, I’ve changed my plumage. But not as you might think.” This was hardly the time for personal revelations, but somehow it mattered to her that he not think her favors could be bought so casually. “I have an inkling of where Mrs. Ashton might have seen me. But be assured it was not serving as some gentleman’s lightskirt.”
His expression was unreadable. “You’ve made it quite clear that your past is none of my concern.”
“Wrexford . . .” Charlotte hesitated. What to say? “I . . .”
The earl was quick to cut her off. “We’ve no time for personal matters right now. Mrs. Ashton’s confession must take precedence over all else.”
/>
Including mine, thought Charlotte.
“You’re right, of course.” Reaching up, she took a moment to adjust the angle of her hat in order to compose her thoughts. “So, we need to consider logistics. I ought not come down to the study. The widow may question why an urchin needs to be present. Not to speak of the fact that the lighting will be brighter, and she’s proved herself to be a careful observer.”
The wall sconce sputtered weakly, sending up a thin plume of smoke. The oil was burning low.
“A damnable shame,” she added. “I’d very much like to hear and see what proof she offers of her innocence.”
“Your assessment is important,” replied Wrexford. “Let me think . . .”
Charlotte watched his face carefully, and was relieved to see only his usual calm concentration.
“I can say that you’ve been involved in the investigation from the beginning, and given your knowledge of London’s underbelly, it’s imperative for you to hear the evidence.”
“That might fadge,” agreed Charlotte.
“When we enter, I’ll order you to stand by the door and listen. It won’t seem amiss if an urchin isn’t invited to join the inner circle.”
She nodded. “That should suffice.”
“Then let’s go.” He turned without waiting for a reply.
Charlotte followed along behind him, the hurried thumping of their boots the only sounds passing between them.
Wrexford entered the study several strides ahead of her. “Guard the door, Phoenix, and make sure we’re not disturbed,” he barked as she reached the threshold. “And keep your ears cocked as to what goes on in here. If you’ve any ideas on who the villains might be and where they’ve gone to ground I’ll want to hear them.”
Charlotte slid into a niche by the bookcase, some distance away from the others. Sheffield, she noted, had settled the women on the sofa near the hearth, and had taken a seat in one of the facing armchairs. A lamp was lit on the side table, another on the large pearwood desk. Her own spot was untouched by the soft circles of light.
Wasting no time, the earl immediately confronted the widow. “Is there a reason we’re waiting for the papers, madam?”
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