The gravitas of Latin usually served to steady her emotions. And yet, despite the exhortation, a trickle of cold sweat started to slide down her spine.
Closing her eyes, she sought to banish the strange moment of weakness.
After all, her life had been shaped by tumultuous change—and not always for the better. But somehow she had always managed to draw strength from adversity. It was puzzling that a seemingly simple move from one physical space to another was setting off such a sense of trepidation.
Dipping her pen into the inkwell, Charlotte began sketching a series of random swirls on a blank piece of paper. Drawing always helped focus her thoughts, sharpen her insights.
It was, however, a good deal easier to see the faults in others. Still, she made an effort to look at her own situation with the same detached scrutiny she brought to the subjects of her social commentary.
For the past year, since secretly taking up A. J. Quill’s pen upon the death of her husband, she had worked in quiet solitude, earning accolades as London’s sharpest satirical artist. The peccadilloes of the rich and royal—their scandals over sex and money and politics—provided endless fodder for her drawings. Her popularity with the public had brought a modicum of financial stability . . .
But then had come the murder of the Right Reverend Josiah Holworthy, a rising religious fanatic, whose gruesome killing had captivated all of London. Lord Wrexford had been the prime suspect, and circumstances had brought them together as reluctant allies to uncover the truth about the crime.
Charlotte’s pen momentarily stilled as she recalled the dark secrets that had come to light—both about the reverend and her husband’s death.
Secrets which had forced her to face her own hidden past.
Wrexford was right. The truth was, there was no staying still. One made choices every day, both big and small.
Both right and wrong.
It did no good to fret. Whatever the consequences, she would find a way to deal with them.
“I am strong,” she reminded herself. As A. J. Quill, she had learned to be tough. Sardonic. Dispassionate.
It was, Charlotte supposed, one of the things that drew her and the earl together. Wrexford shared the same view of the world, though his sarcasm was far sharper than hers. He had no illusions that life was ruled by reason or fairness. And so he could laugh at the fickleness of Fate—even when it came perilously close to putting his own neck in a noose.
She would do well to copy his lead.
Looking down, Charlotte was surprised to see the paper bore a rough sketch of Wrexford’s face.
Wrexford. For an instant, an odd little flutter stirred inside her. Just as quickly it was gone. Expelling a sigh, she crumpled the sheet and set it aside.
Enough of maudlin whingings.Nihil boni sine labore—nothing is achieved without hard work.Taking a fresh sheet from the stack of watercolor paper, she set to roughing out a sketch for her next satirical print.
* * *
“Thank you for coming, Octavia,” said Isobel as the door clicked open and a young woman took a tentative step into the drawing room. “This is Lord Wrexford, a friend and colleague of Elihu. He wishes to ask you a few questions pertaining to my husband’s work.”
Wrexford wondered whether he was just imagining Miss Merton’s slight flinch at the wordhusband.
“I hope you will consent to speak with him,” went on Isobel. “It may help unravel the mystery of Elihu’s murder.”
Octavia’s eyes widened for an instant, then she quickly dropped her gaze to the carpet. “Y-Yes. Of course.”
Isobel rose and inclined a small nod his way. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Wrexford, there are some matters I must discuss with the housekeeper.”
It was a tactful way of giving them privacy, but the young woman looked wary as she took a seat on the sofa.
In contrast to the widow’s delicate form and dark coloring, Olivia Merton was tall and slender as a stalk of wheat. In the slanting sunlight, her hair reflected tones of honey and russet mixed in the strands of dull gold. She had none of Isobel’s fluid grace. Her movements were stiff and ungainly, as if some unseen force was holding her in thrall.
But then, he reminded himself, she had just lost a surrogate father to a vicious crime. The shock and grief of it must be profound.
Unless, of course, it was some other emotion.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” murmured Wrexford. A banal platitude, but nothing else came to mind.
“Thank you,” she answered in a toneless whisper.
