Or so Charlotte rationalized.
But even as she assured herself that she had made the right choice of subjects, a tiny voice in the back of her head disagreed.
HerMan versus Machineprints didn’t provoke the same gleeful laughter as her satirical skewering of the Royals. Most people wished to chortle at the misery of others. They didn’t wish to confront serious questions—especially when there were no easy answers.
Panem et circenses. Bread and circuses.Juvenal, the Roman satirical poet, had possessed a keen understanding of human nature.
Taking up her paintbrush, Charlotte began to add in the vivid highlights that would bring the black and white drawing to life.
“Tomorrow,” she promised to quiet her conscience. “Tomorrow I shall refocus my attention on the plight of the workers displaced by the new steam-powered machinery.”
As for Elihu Ashton’s murder . . .
Her hand stilled, the pigment-filled brush hovering in midair. Gruesome as the act had been, she feared the motives behind the crime were going to prove even uglier.Hatred, greed, jealousy, betrayal . . .
A knock on the front door drew her from such dark speculations.
Charlotte reluctantly set aside her work and rose. The visitor was not likely to brighten her mood. She had a feeling she knew who it was.
“You seem to have a sixth sense for crime, Mrs. Sloane,” said Wrexford, as he stepped into the entrance foyer and shook a spattering of raindrops from his hat. Pulling the pamphlet from his pocket, he added, “By what unholy magic did you manage to discover this?”
“I’m not a witch or alchemist, as you well know. I simply use my ears and my eyes,” she answered.
“And yet you see and hear things that escape mere mortals.”
“That’s how I make my living.” Charlotte gestured for him to enter the main room. “Forgive me, but things are even more cramped than usual,” she muttered after pulling a face.
He shifted a wooden paintbox off one of the stools and took a seat. “When do you move to your new residence?”
“The day after the morrow.”
His lidded gaze seemed to be searching her face for something. Charlotte turned away.
“You don’t sound happy,” observed the earl.
“I . . .” How to explain the churning of conflicting emotions? “It’s not that simple, milord.”
“Few things in life are.” He, too, seemed unsettled.
Charlotte cleared off one of the other stools. “Including Elihu Ashton’s murder?”
“Indeed.” Wrexford drummed his fingertips on the scarred wood tabletop. For a moment, he looked disinclined to leave off his probing into her personal life.
But as she had hoped, his innate sense of pragmatism prevailed.
“Like, you, I’ve discovered a few more facts since yesterday,” he said. “But first, tell me more about the pamphlet, and where you got it. It’s given us an exceedingly important clue.”
“In studying the sketch you left, I realized that the cuts formed a symbol—one that looked familiar.” Charlotte quickly explained about having seen the pamphlet at Henning’s clinic, and her visit that morning to question the surgeon about it.
“Radical reformers bent on stopping progress at any cost?” he murmured after she had finished recounting what she had learned about the Workers of Zion. “Well done, Mrs. Sloane. Your discerning eye and instincts have once again proved invaluable.”
Charlotte didn’t feel quite so heroic.
“Henning wasn’t happy about crying rope on the group, and I understand his conflicted feelings. My sympathies lie with the workers as well.” She and her late husband had struggled through some very lean times, so she understood the gnawing terror of trying to stay one step ahead of starvation.
“And yet . . .” he added.
Their eyes locked for an instant, and then she quickly looked away. She was still feeling strangely vulnerable and wasn’t sureshe wanted the earl to see it. He had very sharp eyes to go along with his razor-edged tongue.
