CHAPTER 12
The tick-tick of the mantel clock seemed to echo the doleful tones of a funeral dirge.
“Perhaps . . .” Tick-tick. “. . . that’s because my life as I know it is dead,” muttered Charlotte as she pulled at her bodice, then tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Or about to be.”
The midmorning sun had filled the parlor with a cheery light, but she was too preoccupied with her fidgeting to notice. Tick-tick. She folded and unfolded the single sheet of paper in her hands until the crease was sharp as a knife blade. It took the loud rap of the door knocker to jar her out of her brooding.
The sound was followed by the low exchange of pleasantries as McClellan answered the summons, and then steps in the corridor.
Charlotte sucked in a ragged breath. “Thank you for coming, Wrexford,” she intoned, steeling her spine as the earl entered the room. “May I offer you some refreshments?”
He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Thank you, but no.” A look of bemusement tugged at his lips, but she didn’t miss the shadow of concern in his eyes. “From the urgency of your note, I sense this meeting isn’t meant as an impromptu tea party.”
“Correct.” She crossed and then recrossed her ankles.
His brows rose ever so slightly.
Damnation. Shilly-shallying wasn’t going to make things any easier.
“I wish to ask your advice on something. But first, you need to read this.” Charlotte held out the paper without further ado.
Wrexford carefully unfolded it and took his time in perusing the contents.
Her heart began to thump against her ribs.
He slowly raised his gaze and fixed her with a questioning look.
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” she said.
Instead of answering, Wrexford moved to the diamond-paned windows and turned to stare out at the quiet street.
Tick-tick.
Charlotte fisted her hands to keep them from shaking. His back was to her, and all she could see of him was an imposing black silhouette, limned in a halo of fluttery light.
Not an encouraging sight.
She must have released a sigh, for he looked around.
“Go ahead and speak your mind, Wrexford,” she urged. “Whatever you’re thinking, it will be far less upsetting than this . . . this disapproving silence.”
“You are misinterpreting my reticence, Mrs. Sloane. What you’ve asked is impossible to articulate in a simple answer.” The earl shifted. “It matters not a whit what I think. The heart of the question is, what do you think?”
It wasn’t the reply she had expected—or wanted. Wrexford rarely pulled his punches.
“And here I was hoping for you to impose your usual cold logic to a problem, and parse through all the variables to arrive at the correct solution,” responded Charlotte, though her attempt at wry humor sounded a little flat. “Instead, you have chosen a most inopportune moment to refrain from expressing your opinion.”
“You wish for logic?” Wrexford shifted again, but the refraction of light through the windowpanes still made it impossible to read his face. “Fine. Then let us analyze the benefits and drawbacks of doing what you propose.”
He approached and, after pushing the facing armchair a tad closer to hers, took a seat. His knees were nearly touching hers. And yet, the closeness was somehow comforting.
“Before we begin, shall I fetch paper and pencil to make one of our usual lists?” he drawled after placing her letter on the side table.
Charlotte shook her head. “Let’s get on with it.” If her old life was about to give up the ghost, she would rather it be done with a swift thrust of the knife, rather than from myriad tiny cuts.
“Very well.” The earl steepled his fingers. “Let’s start with the benefits. Why do you wish to reveal yourself as Lady Charlotte Sophia Anna Mallory Sloane and reenter the world of the beau monde?”
“Because it’s the only way I have a chance to prove Nicky is innocent.”
“How so?” he pressed. “You’re more skilled than most Bow Street Runners in ferreting out information. Your network of informants has access to most every secret that swirls through London.”
“But not all of them,” replied Charlotte. “Believe me, I’ve made inquiries with every possible source who might prove helpful. I’m convinced the answers I need can only be found within the highest circles of Society, and even then, they must be extracted by careful questioning.”
“You don’t trust that I can do that? And Sheffield as well?”
“To a point, sir. But if critical secrets lie with a lady—and we have good reason to think that may be the case—then only I can get them. You admitted as much yesterday.”
“Very well,” he conceded. “That’s one reason. Any other?”
Charlotte pinched at a crease in her skirts.
“There would, of course, be a number of ancillary benefits,” he went on, when she didn’t answer. “Balls, supper soirees, concerts, drawing rooms, teas . . .” A pause. “Reconciliation with your family, and with it, a likely change in your financial situation. I doubt you would ever have to work again.”
Charlotte stared at him in shock, too stunned to react.
Wrexford stared back with unblinking calm.
It took several long moments for her wits to begin working. “How can you think . . .” she sputtered. “All those things have nothing—nothing—to do with the decision!”
“Nonetheless, they must be listed. Cause and effect is a scientific principle,” he said calmly. “You did ask me to apply cold logic to the question.”
Her body suddenly felt as if it had turned to ice. “Very well.”
“Now, as to drawbacks . . .” He hesitated. “You may make all these changes in your life, and in the end, it will come to naught. You won’t find any proof of your cousin’s innocence and he will go to the gallows.”
Not trusting her voice, Charlotte nodded in confirmation.
Wrexford’s gaze turned searching. Probing, piercing to the very depth of her marrow. She looked down at her lap, despite knowing there was nowhere to hide.
“Can you live with that, Mrs. Sloane?” he asked softly. “For it seems to me, that’s the only question you should be asking.”
“There’s one other, and it’s even more important,” she murmured. “Can I live with myself if I don’t try?”
He let out a resigned huff. “Well, that was a simple problem to solve.”
“I’m sorry, Wrexford. I know you think me—”
“Passionately principled and unflinchingly loyal. To a maddening degree,” he cut in. “Do I wish I could change your mind? Yes, because I would rather have you take your time and make this momentous decision based on your own heart, not be forced into it by the needs of someone else.”
His mouth quirked. “But I know better than to argue with you on this.”
She leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee. “Thank you.”
His fingers twined with hers. The connection, however small and fleeting, helped make her feel less alone in facing the challenges that lay ahead.
But the earl, as was his wont, was quick to shake off any show of sentiment. Of late, he had been acting even more detached. Charlotte supposed she could hardly blame him. Still, she couldn’t help wishing . . .
“Since you are determined to do this, let us look at the practicalities.” Wrexford picked up the letter. “How are you acquainted with the Dowager Countess of Peake?” The elderly lady had a reputation in the highest circles of Society for being a feisty, fire-breathing dragon. “And, more to the point, why ask her for help in being reintroduced to Society?”
“She’s my great-aunt by marriage,” replied Charlotte. “Of all the adults in my high-in-the-instep family, she was the only one who seemed to understand me.” The sudden memories of long-ago laughter brought a tiny smile to her lips. “She possessed a sharp tongue and a sly sense of humor, which, as you can imagine, appealed to someone as unconventional as I was.”
The smile gave way to a grimace. “But perhaps that’s changed.”
“It hasn’t,” said Wrexford. “Lady Peake is known throughout Society as a Holy Terror.”
Charlotte felt a lump form in her throat. If the dowager—
“Which makes her the perfect choice,” added the earl with an amused chuckle. “Heaven help anyone who stands in her way when she decides on a course. She is a Force of Nature unto herself.”
“Assuming she agrees to help me.”
“Faber est suae quisque fortunae,” murmured Wrexford. Every man is the artisan of his own fortune.
“There are times when you have more faith in me than I have in myself,” she replied.
“That’s what friends are for, Mrs. Sloane.” He set the sheet of paper on her lap. “Go ahead and send the letter.”
Charlotte refolded it with great care.
“Shall we move on to our murder investigation?” said the earl. “I met with Sir Kelvin Hollister last night. Westmorly didn’t make an appearance, but I’ll track him down. His relationship with Chittenden appears to be more complicated than mere gaming debts.”
“So Hollister was helpful?”
“More than he meant to be,” came the cryptic reply. Wrexford went on to explain about the encounter, including the fact that DeVere was Lady Julianna Aldrich’s guardian. “He was able to slip away before I finished with him, but I intend to question him again. I have the sense he’s holding something back.”
Repressing a shudder, she thought over what he had just said. “Why would he and Cedric have subjected themselves to such awful dangers?”
“As DeVere said, young men do stupid things. Danger seems to bring out the worst impulses in them. Be it to win a dare, or to prove themselves as devil-may-care as their friends, or simply to spit in the face of Death for the thrill of it, they find it sends fire bubbling through their blood.”
“Surely, you were never so foolish.”
Wrexford quirked a grimace. “I was likely worse. But I was also lucky.”
Would that some of his luck would rub off on her, reflected Charlotte. She had a feeling she was going to need it during the coming weeks.
Forcing her thoughts back to the matter at hand, she said, “You mentioned a dare. Perhaps they were competing in some test of mettle to determine who would win the hand of the lady they both fancied?”
“A modern-day equivalent of knights locked in a trial by combat?”
“Put that way, it does sound rather absurd,” conceded Charlotte. “But no more so than any of the other explanations we’ve considered.”
“Let us see what Hollister has to say next time I see him.” The earl rose. “I’ve received permission for another meeting with Locke at first light tomorrow. The choice is yours on whether to come. But the fact is, I may be able to wrest more out of him if you’re not present.”
As it was the last time, the offer to beg off was tempting. The mere thought of Newgate—the stink, the screams, the air of utter hopelessness—made her skin crawl. And yet it would be cowardly to do so and leave Nicky to rot in such misery.
“I must come,” she said.
He nodded grimly. “I expected no less. But if you really wish to help him, you should come prepared to do more than hold his hand and tell him fairie tales about truth always prevailing in the end. Try to think of some way to poke a stick in his arse. The clock is ticking, and my sense is, Locke is still holding something back.”