Hollis opened his eyes. His lips formed the faint whisper of an ‘H’, but in the next heartbeat it was gone.
“Bloody hell.” The earl leaned back from the corpse and stared at his gore-covered fingers. If only the carriage had rattled over the cobblestones just a little faster, if only the tavernkeeper hadn’t played coy in his haggling . . .
If only he had never walked through the stinking, scum-smeared alleyways of Half Moon Gate.
Sheffield touched his shoulder, bringing him out of his brooding. “I wouldn’t second-guess yourself, Wrex. Guilty men are wont to proclaim their innocence right down to their dying breath.”
“On the contrary.” Wrexford slid his coat free from beneath the dead man’s head, grimacing at the blood saturating the soft melton wool. Tyler would likely faint over the task of trying to clean it.
“During the Peninsular War, I saw far more hardened criminals than Hollis shuffle off their mortal coil,” he went on. “When faced with meeting their Maker, most men want to make a clean breast of it.”
“So you believe him that he didn’t do it?” asked Sheffield.
“Yes.” A gut reaction. But according to Charlotte, he should learn to trust his instincts.
“But if Hollis didn’t kill Ashton . . . who did?”
Wrexford’s mouth thinned to a grim line.
“I haven’t got a clue.” He looked around at the ransacked room and swore again. “And we’d need the Devil’s own luck to find anything useful here.”
He rose, and out of frustration kicked at one of the overturned desk drawers. The savagecrackof it exploding into shards was so satisfying that he swung another kick at the second one.
Crack.The base panel split apart, revealing a small hidden compartment in the false bottom. The guttering candles showed a pale glimmer of paper caught in the splinters.
Crouching down, Sheffield quickly eased it free. “Satan be praised,” he murmured as he took a quick glance. “Have a look.”
Numbers.
Wrexford studied a page full of what looked to be a random jumble of numerals. “Rooms like these are rented furnished,” he pointed out. “We’ve no idea how long this has been in the drawer.”
A list of debts, an inventory of some sort—bloody hell, it could be anything!
“True,” replied Sheffield. “But perhaps we’ve gotten very lucky.”
“It wouldn’t be luck, Kit. It would be a miracle,” retorted the earl. Nevertheless, he carefully folded the paper and put it into his pocket.
CHAPTER 9
“Goodbye,” murmured Charlotte.
Like the rest of the tiny house, the main room was now bare of belongings. Somehow, it looked smaller, not larger. The emptiness seemed to amplify how little of the place was lodged in her heart.
Memories.
Precious few of them were ones she wished to take with her. She thought hard, trying to recall moments of happiness. Most, however, were less easy to define. They were shaded in subtle hues of regret rather than any brilliant bursts of pure sunshine.
Anthony.Her late husband had been unwell here, both physically and mentally. His ghost still shadowed the place. She turned in a slow circle, watching somber shades of grey dip and dart over the dingy walls. All color had long ago been leached from the space. Even the light had a dullness to it.
Now that she was quitting the house, perhaps he, too, could move on to a better place.
As if in response to her musings, a chill draft—a farewell kiss?—blew in through the damnable crack in the molding thathad defied her every effort to fix it. Charlotte gave a wry smile and pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders.
I am leaving an old life to start a new one.
She felt as if she should perform some momentous ritual to mark the occasion. Light a red-tongued bonfire . . . offer a libation to the gods . . . sacrifice a virgin . . .
“M’lady, the carter says the wagon is packed, and he can crack the whip soon as yer ready te be off.” Raven moved to her side, and to her surprise, the boy twined his fingers with hers. He usually held himself aloof from physical contact, far more so than his younger brother.
