“I couldn’t say.”
Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?
“Then I shall call tomorrow afternoon. Please ask him to be here at half past three.”
She stared at him, unblinking.
Wrexford decided there was no point in continuing the interview. “Thank you for your time, Miss Merton. For the moment I have no further questions.”
Tucking the list into his pocket, he rose and took several steps toward the door, then paused. “If I asked you to describe Mrs. Ashton in one word, what would it be?”
Octavia stared down at the carpet. “I’m not very good with words.”
An evasive answer. Which perhaps told him more than she intended.
Lost in thought, Wrexford left the townhouse and began walking the short distance back to Berkeley Square. Amid the many questions swirling inside his head, one in particular was echoing loudly against his skull.
Why the devil had he allowed himself to be drawn into investigating the murder of a man he barely knew?
He wasn’t normally plagued by self-doubts over decisions, but this one was bothering him in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. Had he been a fool to succumb to Isobel’s plea? The case offered naught but devilishly difficult conundrums to unravel. Even Griffin, a man who made his living apprehending criminals, was doubtful about the chances of apprehending the killer.
Was it hubris that had him believe he alone could succeed?
Or some more incomprehensible force?
By the time he reached his townhouse, Wrexford was in a foul mood from spinning in mental circles.
“Milord,” murmured his butler as he stormed through the front entrance and tossed his hat and gloves on the sidetable.
“Not now, Riche,” he snapped. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”
Undeterred, Riche followed. “Actually, sir, perhaps you had better have a look at the package. The messenger insisted it was of utmost importance.”
Something in his tone brought Wrexford to an abrupt halt. “Did it come from Mrs. Ashton’s residence?”
“No, milord, it was delivered by a . . . Young Person.”
“Describe him.”
Riche’s face went through a series of odd little contortions. “Actually, considering how he was dressed, I would rather not.” He cleared his throat with a cough and held out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. “He did say his name was Master Thomas Ravenwood Sloane and that on no account was I to hand over these”—another cough—“billy-doos to anyone but His Nibs.”
Wrexford felt his mouth twitch. “Thank you, Riche.” He undid the twine and took a long moment to read over Charlotte’s note and the accompanying pamphlet.
Bloody hell. He now felt even more foolish. While he was floundering around, grasping for clues, it appeared that Charlotte had, with her usual incisive intuition, cut to the heart of the mystery.
With a motive, most crimes became far easier to unravel.
There were still hours to go before Sheffield returned. Looking up, he quickly retrieved his hat and gloves.
“Have Bailin bring round my carriage.”
CHAPTER 7
Charlotte leaned back and assessed her finished drawing. Color had yet to be added, but the black pen strokes—the elemental heart of a print—were strong and sure. Artistically, she was satisfied.
But had she taken the coward’s way out?
Yes, the Duke of Cumberland’s mistress looked to be involved in another sordid bribery scandal, which threatened to sling yet more mud on the Royal family’s reputation. And yes, the public deserved to know. They depended on A. J. Quill to keep the aristocracy’s arrogant assumption of privilege in check.
