“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 upnow!” 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 atiny 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 her 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.”
