“Inquiry takes patience. Answers are reached by taking one small step at a time.”
“Yes, of course.” But her voice held no conviction.
“Good day, madam.” Lost in thought, Wrexford exited the townhouse and began walking back to his own residence.
Yet more threads added to the conundrum. Which was now tangling into a damnable Gordian knot.
It wasn’t until he crossed the cobblestones and turned downGrosvenor Street that he remembered why the name Blackstone had sounded familiar. As the principal investor in Ashton’s company, the marquess was on the widow’s list of people who knew that a revolutionary new invention was in the works.
As Wrexford mulled over the fact, another thought suddenly occurred to him. Surely father would confide in son. Which meant the list was missing a name.
That of Viscount Kirkland . . .
Wrexford slowed to a halt, realizing another one had also been omitted.
That of Isobel Ashton.
CHAPTER 13
Charlotte awoke the next day feeling tired and out of sorts. She had slept fitfully, her peace plagued by dreams of unseen threats, pressing closer and closer, choking off all air and light.
The morning had passed in a blur—a simple breakfast and the boys made presentable for their first lessons with the new tutor. True to his word, the earl had sent the young man around for an interview the previous evening, and she had found him to be a solid, sensible choice. More than that, he had a sense of humor, which she hoped boded well for his taming the Weasels. As he lived nearby, it had been agreed that Raven and Hawk would go to his rooms this morning to begin the experiment.
She prayed that it would work out. The boys were bright and the chance to expand their horizons would open up new worlds to them. But for the moment it was out of her hands.
A good thing, as she had been unaccountably clumsy in preparing the meal, scorching her fingers on the kettle and dropping a plate of fresh-sliced bread.
After making a few desultory sketches at her desk, all of which were consigned to the wastebin, it was time to dress for her rendezvous with Jeremy and his friends.
Staring into the looking glass, Charlotte sighed on seeing the dark shadows under her eyes. Hardly an auspicious sign for her first official foray into Polite Society.
Imposter.Perhaps she should simply letter a sign to pin on her bodice announcing the fact.
“I don’t have to do this,” she muttered. And yet, even as she said it, she knew she did.
The why of it seemed to elude words. When she had first assumed her late husband’s persona of A. J. Quill, it had simply been a matter of survival. But penning the barbs and satire on frivolous scandals had sharpened her awareness of deeper injustices, and Charlotte had found that truth and fairness mattered far more to her than merely a means for putting bread on the table.
That she could help puncture lies and expose evil with her art had somehow taken hold in her heart.
Semper anticus. Always forward.There was no going back.
Charlotte rose and opened the doors of her armoire. At least she had decent armor in which to march into the fray, she thought wryly. The necessity of having to accompany Jeremy to review the final choices for her new residence had required a respectable gown that wasn’t hopelessly outdated. Luckily her network of informants included an Italian modiste who catered to the beau monde. The woman—who was savvy enough about business to pretend she was French—had readily agreed to create a suitable design.
She fingered the whisper-soft merino wool, feeling a little guilty at the pleasure she took in such fripperies. The subtle grey-blue color—the exact shade of twilight in September—was dark enough to convey somber sensibility. And yet there was a hint of mystery. Of elemental feminine allure. As for the cut, by some sort of needle-and-thread magic it seemed to transform her tall and slender shape into something . . . less ordinary.
Her bare bones life had so few enchantments. Perhaps it wasn’twrong to secretly—secretly!—savor the thought of drawing a man’s eye. Jeremy had naturally offered flowery compliments. But she had also caught the admiring glances from other men.
Repressing a shiver—and the sudden, unbidden thought of how Wrexford would react to seeing her dressed as a real lady—Charlotte smoothed a finger over the delicate tucking around the bodice and then shucked off her wrapper.
Contrary to folk wisdom, itwaspossible to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, she thought wryly as she slipped the gown over her head and did up the fastenings.
A twirl in front of the full-length cheval glass confirmed that Madame Franchot—nee Franzenelli—truly possessed bewitching powers.
Trying not to feel like a charlatan, she took a seat at her dressing table, and reached for her brush and pins.
“Let us hope the spell works on Wrexford’s servant,” she whispered, once she had finished arranging her hair. Taking up the pert little chip-straw bonnet that the modiste had made to accompany the dress, Charlotte carefully looped the ribbons into a neat bow.
The silk suddenly felt a little clammy, as if the breath from a ghost had sent a sigh tickling over her fingers. Charlotte steeled her spine.
