“And so I believed at the time,” he replied.
She sat down opposite him, her expression unreadable. “Go on.”
Tit for tat.He’d debated with himself on whether to draw her into this conundrum. But given her profession and her network of informants throughout the city, there was little chance that the suspicious circumstances wouldn’t come to her attention.
That didn’t mean negotiations would be easy, he thought wryly. As in chemical experiments, putting two explosive elements together was always a risk. She’d never settle for vaguegeneralities, which would force him to balance on a razor’s edge of truth and diversion.
“If I had my druthers, I would prefer that the scandalmongers not stir up a tempest of lurid speculation,” he began.
“Cut wind, milord,” she interrupted. “Who was it?”
There was no point in prolonging the inevitable. “Elihu Ashton.”
A ripple of awareness darkened her gaze. “The inventor?”
He nodded. “And owner of the most productive textile weaving factory in the country.”
“Ye god,” she murmured. “You must be mad to think this won’t stir the press into a frenzy.” A pause. “So why come to me with the secret when you know my bread and butter is scandal?”
“Because you’ll find out soon enough. The news will very shortly become public,” admitted Wrexford. “However, there are facts to which only I am privy. And I’m hoping that if I reveal them to you, I may count on your sense of justice to temper your pen until the authorities have a chance to uncover the truth.”
“The truth?” Her tone mingled mockery and regret. “We both know what an elusive concept that is.”
Her view of the world was nearly as cynical as his. The difference between them was that her principled idealism had remained uncorrupted by harsh reality.
“Be that as it may, I would rather not drag a man’s name through the mud until more facts are known. I think you can help with that.”
“You drive a hard bargain, sir,” muttered Charlotte.
“We expect no less from each other.”
The warring of emotions was writ plain on her face as Charlotte took a moment to consider what he had said. “Look, I can’t very well ignore the murder. It’s exactly the sort of thing A. J. Quill would comment on, especially given my latest series onMan versus Machine.”
“I understand that,” he replied. “But perhaps the thrust of your next print could simply be the shock of a notable figure meeting an untimely death, rather than your usual insightful commentary that digs deeper into the heart of a crime.”
Seeing her scowl, Wrexford quickly added, “We both know you have the power to fan the flames of public opinion. And that, in turn, influences how the authorities handle an investigation. Any hope of a fair assessment can easily go up in smoke if the prints are too incendiary.”
“That’s a low blow, sir.” They had first met because the earl was the main suspect in a heinous murder—and her satirical drawings had whipped up speculation that his neck would soon be in a noose.
This time his smile was more pronounced. “Yes, well, I’m an unscrupulous fellow. I’ll stoop to any means to get what I want.”
Her eyes narrowed, but not quite enough to hide the flicker of humor. Unlike most people, she understood his sarcasm. “Before I agree to your terms, I need to know how you learned that the victim was Ashton. More importantly, I need to know why you care.”
Wrexford blew out his breath. It was for good reason that A. J. Quill was recognized as the sharpest, savviest commentator on human nature in all of London.
“His wife—or rather, his widow—came to visit me earlier this afternoon,” he answered. “And knowing your next question will be why, Ashton and I were acquainted through the Royal Institution. We didn’t meet in person, but corresponded regarding a question on the chemical composition of iron. I was able to help him solve a technical problem he was having.”
After reaching for a pencil and paper, Charlotte started to make some notes.
“Mrs. Ashton was aware of my connection with her husband,” he continued. “She had also heard from Humphry Davythat I’d been involved in solving another diabolically difficult murder.”
Charlotte looked up. “I take it you’re implying she thinks this is not the work of random footpads.”
“Correct.”
“For what reason?” she pressed.
“Ah.” Wrexford stretched out his legs and stared down at the tips of his well-polished boots. “Now we have come to the metaphorical Rubicon, Mrs. Sloane.”
