“This way, sir,” she murmured, indicating a turn to the right. “I’ll show you—” Her words cut off abruptly as a gentleman rounded the corner, looking very much at home in the place.
“Ah—forgive me, Mrs. Ashton. Jenkins didn’t mention that you had company,” he drawled. “I should have sent word that I was coming. Given the tragic circumstances, it’s most unfeeling of me to intrude on your grief.”
Light from the wall sconce caught the spark of surprise in her eyes as she fell back a pace. If Wrexford hadn’t moved to avoid her flaring skirts, he might have missed seeing it change to a flicker of fear before quickly dying out.
“Good Heavens, you need not stand on ceremony, sir. This is your home. Had I known you were planning a visit to Town, I would have insisted on finding other lodgings,” replied Isobel tightly. Her lashes fluttered for an instant, and then went still.
A veiled warning?But of what?
Before Wrexford could consider the question, she turnedabruptly to him and said, “Allow me to introduce Viscount Kirkland, eldest son of the Marquess of Blackstone, the friend of my husband who so kindly offered us his townhouse for our visit to London.”
Blackstone.Why was the name ringing a bell?
She shifted again in what might have been a flutter of nerves. “Lord Kirkland, this is Lord Wrexford.”
“We met last night,” replied the earl.
Kirkland regarded him blankly for a moment. “Ah, yes. So we did.” A disinterested smile. “Any luck in finding the fellow you were seeking?”
“Yes,” replied Wrexford. The fellow’s pretentious arrogance would have been laughable, save for the effect his presence was having on the widow. Her face now had an arctic pallor, as if the blood in her veins had turned to ice.
“Unfortunately he wasn’t able to help us,” he added slowly, curious to see the other man’s reaction.
“A pity.” Kirkland’s gaze had already returned to Isobel. “I won’t hear of you moving, Mrs. Ashton, especially now in this time of great sadness.” The viscount lowered his voice to a mock whisper. “Truth be told, I prefer the comforts of my club to staying here. The chef there does a far tastier joint of beef than Cook, but don’t tell her I said so.”
“What of your father?” she asked slowly. “Perhaps he—”
“Oh, Pater left for Wales last week to visit with some family friends, and from there he is going to one of our Irish estates. Something to do with horseflesh, I believe. He’ll be gone for at least a month, so you need not concern yourself.” The viscount gave a negligent shrug. “Indeed, I’m not sure he knows yet of Mr. Ashton’s unfortunate demise. I’ve sent the news to Ireland, but God only knows when he’ll receive it.”
“He may not wish for his house to be involved in such notoriety,” pressed Isobel.
The protests seemed more than polite formalities, thought Wrexford. Yet anotherwhyto ponder.
A low laugh sounded from Kirkland. “Good Heavens, Pater considers himself far above tawdry scandal or gossip. In his world, such things simply don’t exist.”
“If you are sure . . .” said Isobel.
“Quite. So it’s settled.” insisted the viscount. “I simply stopped by to fetch a selection of Pater’s Indian cheroots.” He inclined a polite bow. “I’ll head on to his study and then take my leave.”
Isobel stood frozen in place as the echo of Kirkland’s footsteps receded into the shadows.
“Mrs. Ashton,” said the earl softly.
She looked around with a start.
“I, too, will see myself out.”
“Forgive me,” she apologized. “I’m not thinking straight. I—I fear Mr. Blodgett’s news has unsettled me.”
“Understandably so,” replied Wrexford. Seeing the uncertainty etched on her face, he couldn’t help adding, “Whatever the truth is about your husband’s murder, we will find it.”
Isobel shifted, the heavy rustling of black bombazine stirring a sudden swirl of shadows. For an instant her face was veiled in darkness. “Do you really believe so?”
Truth or lies?
“As a man of science,” he answered, “I hold to the principle that every problem has a solution. One just has to find it.”
A forced smile. “I shall take heart from your optimism.”
