Isobel appeared unintimidated by his scowl. “I assumed you would wish to watch me fetch them, in order to assure yourself that I performed no witchcraft or sleight of hand.”
He gave an impatient wave. “There’s been enough drama as it is, Mrs. Ashton. We need not play any scenes from Shakespeare. Get your proof.”
Charlotte was well placed to see everyone’s face. Repressing a quirk of amusement, the widow rose and went to her desk. Reaching inside her nightrail, she found the gold chain looped around her neck and unclasped it. A key hung from its links, and with a quick twist she unlocked one of the drawers.
Octavia bit her lip as Isobel lifted a slender Moroccan leather portfolio from beneath several ledgers and carried it back to the sofa.
She took several folded sheets of stationery from atop the pile and offered them to Wrexford. “I assume you are familiar with Kirkland’s handwriting.”
The earl wordlessly handed them to Sheffield, who after looking them over carefully, nodded in confirmation. “They look genuine.”
“Might I have the courtesy of knowing who sits on my jury?” asked Isobel.
A fair request, thought Charlotte. She was growing surer and surer that the widow was telling the truth.
“The Honorable Christopher Sheffield,” said Wrexford curtly. He took the notes back from his friend and began reading them.
Isobel settled back against the pillows, but Charlotte saw the tension in her body. She was not quite as cool as she wished to appear. Next to her, Octavia couldn’t sit still, her fingers plucking and pulling at the folds of her wrapper.
“Hmm.” Paper crackled as the earl reread the notes a second time. The seconds seemed to stretch out to eternity. He finally looked up, his gaze spearing straight to Isobel.
“I suppose this seems clear enough.” Without further ado, he began to read aloud, “. . . It seems a small pittance to pay for my silence, dear Isobel. After all, you have a great deal of money because of my discretion to this point, and I do not, as my Father has tightened the purse strings. Share your favors—I recall how very good you are at doing so—and there will be no scandal. We’ll all get what we want.”
Isobel’s expression remained stoic.
“The others have similar threats and wheedling,” said Wrexford.
“You’re sure they aren’t forgeries?” asked Octavia in a small voice.
It was Sheffield who answered. “Yes. There’s a faint but distinctive watermark in the paper—a small pitchfork—which is made specially for a gambling club called Lucifer’s Lair. I doubt any woman would have access to blank sheets.”
“Perhaps if I give a few more details of my sordid past, it will help further allay suspicions,” offered Isobel. “My father was a prosperous merchant in Newmarket, but when a friend of his convinced him to invest his savings in a stock offering, he ended up losing everything.”
She paused to draw a tight breath. “Everything. Including his life. He couldn’t bear the shame and shot himself one night. I was eighteen and destitute. My only relative, my father’s cousin, wouldn’t hear of taking in a disgraced family member. So I had to find a way to survive.”
Octavia’s face pinched.
“I’m not proud of it, but when Lord Kirkland, who had been sniffing around my skirts while in town for the racing season, offered to set me up as his mistress, I made the decision to accept.” Isobel kept her voice devoid of emotion. “Until I could figure out another, more acceptable, way to support myself. Thankfully that came maybe six months later when a fortuitous meeting with an elderly acquaintance of my father led to me being offered the position of a lady’s companion.”
Charlotte saw a look of affection flicker over Isobel’s features.
“The dowager Baroness Weston was considered an eccentric bluestocking for her intellectual interests, but that suited me quite well. I’ve always been keen on learning. It was at her weekly evening gathering for like-minded men and women that I met Elihu.”
Isobel took a long moment before going on. “We enjoyed each other’s company.” She looked at Wrexford, a glint of humor in her eyes. “You might say there was a certain chemistry between us. And, well, he asked me to be his wife. I accepted, but only after revealing my history. He said it didn’t matter.”
“I-I assumed . . .” stammered Octavia. “You were so very beautiful . . . b-but so very cool and distant.”
“It wasn’t easy for me. I felt I must present a very prim and proper façade. And of course I sensed your dislike. Unsure of what else to do, I decided to make the best of it, so as not to upset Elihu, who loved you dearly.”
“I . . . I . . .” Octavia blinked, the candlelight catching the pearling of tears on her lashes. “I-I’m sorry if I misjudged you. But—”
Wrexford cleared his throat with a brusque cough. “Perhaps we could leave recriminations and reconciliations for some other time. We’ve a murder to solve, and the mystery has just grown more knotted.”
“F-Forgive me, but I just have one more question concerning that.” Octavia fixed the widow with a searching stare. “Benedict and I are quite certain that our workroom and desks were searched. We assumed you were trying to take the final plans because . . . because Eli had decided that he didn’t want to profit from the patent. He was planning to share the profits from his inventions with his workers. We discussed plans for building housing, and a school, and—”
“And a hospital,” interrupted Isobel. “Yes, I know all about that. Indeed, Elihu and I came up with the idea together.” She drew another document from the case and placed it on Octavia’s lap. “You know his handwriting—and mine. There is his first draft for how to use the money, along with my notes in the margin suggesting some minor changes.” She held up a second sheet. “Here’s the final version.”
Secrets within secrets within secrets. Charlotte gave an inward sigh at the serendipitous twists that Fate could take. A knot here, a knot there, and all of a sudden, the threads have formed a disastrous tangle.
Octavia needed only a moment to check over the paper. “I’m so sorry. It seems I have much for which to apologize,” she whispered. “But as Lord Wrexford said, let us leave that for later. What matters now is to figure out who was riffling through our work.”
Isobel made a wry face. “My study was searched as well. I confess, I thought you and Hillhouse might be the guilty parties. You would have made a pretty penny by taking the invention for your own.”
“We would never have done that.”
“You may be certain of your own intentions, Miss Merton,” interjected Wrexford. “However, the evidence against Hillhouse is rather black.”
“Yes, he made a mistake in the past.” Octavia glanced a little guiltily at Isobel. “But as we have learned, that shouldn’t damn a person for life.”
“He let a desperate need for money overcome his scruples,” pointed out Sheffield. “We can’t overlook that.”
Frowning in thought, Wrexford began pacing back and forth before the unlit hearth. Charlotte clenched her teeth in frustration. Would he think of the right questions . . .
To the devil with it. She had already cast caution to the wind.
“Oiy, m’lord,” she said, pitching her voice low and rough.
His head jerked up.
Charlotte gestured for him to join her.
“The lad is welcome to join us,” said Isobel.
“He’d not be comfortable doing so,” replied the earl quickly. Several swift strides brought him into the shadows, where he took up a position with his back to the others, effectively blocking their view of her.
“Numbers,” she said hurriedly. “Remember Hollis’s last words—he said numbers will reveal everything, so it stands to reason that we should find out who, if anyone, knew of Ashton’s plans not to profit from his patent.”
A flicker of understanding lit in his eyes. “A good point,” he growled.
“And ask Octavia if she knows anything further about what Jeremy is do
ing to find Hillhouse. He didn’t tell me his plans, but he may have confided in her.”
The earl nodded. “Anything else?”
“Not at the moment,” she answered, though something was nibbling at the edge of her consciousness.
A moment passed and yet he made no move to return to the others. “What think you,” he asked slowly, “of the widow’s revelation?”
“I think she’s telling the truth,” replied Charlotte without hesitation.
The answer seemed to settle some of his uncertainties. His shoulders relaxed slightly.
“Furthermore, my sense is she’s a formidable ally. She’s highly intelligent and thinks with incisive logic. Press her on any scientific connections Kirkland might have had. I find it hard to believe his death is not in some way connected to Ashton’s murder.”
Wrexford fingered his chin, which was starting to shade with a faint stubbling of whiskers. “Yes, the same thought occurred to me.” He stood for a moment longer in contemplation before making his way back to the others.
“Miss Merton, have you heard anything from Sterling?” he asked.
“He has gone to Cambridge,” she answered. “On the off chance some of Benedict’s friends at the university may know something of his whereabouts.”
Doubtful, thought Charlotte. Her sense was things were black or white—Hillhouse was either one of the villains, or he’d turn up as yet another victim of their killing spree.
The earl queried Isobel next. “We think there’s a chance Kirkland was involved in a plot to steal your late husband’s invention and sell it to a competitor.”
She frowned.
“We know the viscount owes gambling debts to McKinlock. But is there anyone else in the scientific world with whom he has a connection?”
“Science?” responded the widow with a grim huff of laughter. “Dermott had absolutely no interest in anything intellectual. It was a great bone of contention between him and his father. In fact, his son’s indolence and debauchery made Lord Blackstone so livid that he had recently cut off all funds to his son.” She made a wry face. “Indeed, I’d be tempted to say Blackstone was angry enough to mur—”
Her words cut off abruptly. “Forgive me. What a ghastly thing to say,” she apologized. “Good heavens, I shall have to write to the marquess and inform him of his son’s demise. Though God only knows when he’ll receive it.”
“Anyone else you can think of?” pressed Wrexford after allowing a short interlude of silence.
“No,” said Isobel. “But I’ve had no contact with Kirkland, save for our own sordid personal business.”
“M’lord.” Trusting that her street voice would serve as adequate disguise, Charlotte couldn’t hold back a suggestion. “Be there any udder morts what knows of the invention?”
“A good thought,” agreed the earl, and then translated, “The lad asks who else knew Ashton was close to a technological breakthrough?”
“The investors,” said Isobel. “Lord Blackstone, Lord Sterling. . .” She named three others, and explained they were elderly intellectuals and longtime friends of her late husband. “I can’t imagine any of these men wishing Elihu any harm.”
“What makes evil all the more powerful is the fact that it’s often well-hidden under the most respectable guises,” replied the earl. He resumed his pacing, and then suddenly stopped after several strides. “The fellow who was here the other day—your mill supervisor. Does he know as well?”
“Yes,” said Isobel. “Mr. Blodgett is highly skilled in mechanical workings and often assisted Elihu and Mr. Hillhouse in the laboratory.”
Charlotte suddenly recalled what was niggling at her thoughts and felt compelled to interrupt again. “Oiy, m’lord. Word is there may have been mingle-mingle between the two of ’em.”
Wrexford frowned. “The lad says I need to ask you whether you’ve been having an intimate relationship with Mr. Blodgett.”
“Blodgett?” Isobel’s brows shot up. “Good God, no.”
Given all else she had heard, Charlotte didn’t doubt the denial. She nodded at Wrexford.
The earl cleared his throat. “Then getting back to Blodgett’s motivations, might he have been bribed to disclose the secret?”
Isobel considered the question. “No, I can’t see him doing that. He was paid handsomely, and aside from the question of money, he had worked with Elihu since he was a boy and was quite devoted to him.”
“Geoffrey—that is, Mr. Blodgett—could be very high and mighty with the rest of us,” offered Octavia. “I have to say, I noticed how he looked at you, and I . . . well, I thought it was envy of Eli. It just seemed Geoffrey always thought he deserved more than he had,” She paused. “But in fairness, Benedict and he didn’t rub together very well, so I’m not a neutral observer.”
“What did they quarrel about?” asked Wrexford.
“Nothing in particular,” answered Octavia. “I just had the sense that Geoffrey resented the fact that Benedict had the same modest background, yet had managed to attend university. He was always trying to show that he was smarter.”
“It sounds like a natural competition,” pointed out Sheffield. “Two young men eager to win the approval of their mentor.”
“You’re probably right,” responded Octavia. “As I said, I’m not the best judge.”
So, no real leads as of yet about the numbers, and who stood to gain from Ashton’s death, mused Charlotte. And yet, she felt in her bones that would come down to how the money added up. But in the meantime, there was still another important question to address . . .
“M’lord,” she rasped. “Ye ain’t tried te cobble who searched this house.”
“Hell’s teeth, there is no end of questions,” he muttered. “And damnably few answers.”
“Are you sure the lad would not care to come join us and make himself comfortable?” quipped Isobel. “He seems to be looking at things more clearly than the rest of us.”
“No need,” snapped Wrexford. “He thinks better on his feet.”
Sheffield rubbed at his temples. “And I think better when I’ve had my breakfast. It is morning, isn’t it?”
“I could wake the cook—” began Isobel, but the earl cut her off.
“Not necessary. We’re almost done,” said the earl. “The lad asked if you have any idea who might have searched the house?”
“Kirkland and Blodgett were here, so I suppose they both had the opportunity,” she answered. “Other than that, no.”
“Then it seems to me that there’s nothing more we can accomplish for now. We all ought to get a few hours of sleep—and pray that it sparks some new thoughts on how these murders all tie together.”
“A wise suggestion.” Sheffield rose and took his leave from the ladies. To Wrexford he said, “I’ll call at your townhouse later in the day, in case I may be of use.”
Charlotte thought about slipping away while the others were occupied, but the earl had other ideas. “Come with me, Phoenix. We’ve a few points to discuss before we part ways.”
She held her voice until they had crossed the cobbled street and came to a halt in the shadows of the square’s central garden. “Wrexford, I know I owe you an explanation . . .”
He turned to face her. Charlotte bit her lip, wishing she could read his eyes through the flitting swirls of darkness.
“I assume,” he said softly, “you will share your past with me if and when you decide I can be trusted with your secrets.”
Charlotte had expected one of their usual clashes. His reply seemed to wrap around her heart and cause it to skip a beat. “I do trust you.” More than anyone else in the world. “And I mean to tell you. I—I just need a little time to order my thoughts.”
“That’s probably wise,” he said dryly. “I daresay we’ve had enough shocks for one night.”
Charlotte mustered a ghost of a smile. “Right. Well then, unless there’s anything else to discuss, we . . . we should both think of getting some sleep.”
“Wrexford—”
“She knows how to load and fire a pistol with pinpoint accuracy. Two extremely useful skills that aren’t in your arsenal,” he continued. “She’ll arrive later today.”
“Wrexford—” But Charlotte found herself hissing at thin air. The earl had, with infuriating cat-like quickness, already disappeared into the gloom.
CHAPTER 25
Charlotte slept fitfully, exhaustion too weak to fight off the dark dreams clawing at her peace of mind. She finally gave up any further attempt at repose and threw off the bedcovers, wincing as a blade of afternoon sunlight cut across her face.
An apt metaphor, she decided, for how her life had been turned upside down. She always rose at the crack of dawn. Only indolent aristocrats had the luxury of lingering in the silky cocoon of sleep, blissfully ignorant of the inevitable everyday triumphs and disasters taking shape.
As she splashed cold water on her cheeks, Charlotte found herself yearning for her old life, her old world, where the hours were, for the most part, filled with ordinary tasks. Shopping, washing, cooking, drawing. A hard rhythm, perhaps, but one that had grown comfortable because of its familiarity. This new life was even more complicated than she had expected.
And about to get even more complicated, given her promise to Wrexford.
After dressing, she hurried downstairs, filled with a sudden resolve to fend off her worries, at least for an interlude, with mundane tasks. The larder needed to be restocked, her paints and paper replenished.
The boys had left a note—thank God they had not shirked from heading off to their lessons. She hoped that boded well. Both of them seemed to like their new tutor. Wrexford had chosen well.
Wrexford. Charlotte didn’t want to think about him and all the conundrums and confusion entangled in their relationship. Death and disaster were the forces that had brought them together. And now, she must face giving up her most vulnerable secret . . .
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