The shadows couldn’t hide the flare of anger that lit Octavia’s eyes. “Privacy—ha! There always seems to be one of Mrs. Ashton’s servants lurking in the corridors, spying on us. And Benedict is quite certain our study has been searched.”
“For what?” asked Jeremy with a tightness Charlotte had never heard before in his voice.
Octavia didn’t answer.
Ye god.Charlotte wondered what Wrexford would make ofthe accusation. Assuming, of course, that Octavia wasn’t lying. The woman was, after all, a suspect . . .
And then, all at once, Wrexford’s ugly suggestion, reared up in her head. So, he had said, was Jeremy.
No. She thrust the idea away. It was unthinkable. She knew her friend too well.
“You think Mrs. Ashton is looking—” began Jeremy, but Charlotte quickly interrupted him.
“Lord Sterling was right to suggest a return to your townhouse, Miss Merton. It’s dangerous to discuss such private matters in public.” Like Jeremy, she glanced around. McClellan, who had dutifully trailed along behind them, seemed to have sensed the tension in the air. She, too, was surveying the surroundings.
“Words have a way of being overheard,” finished Charlotte. Though they seemed safe enough, she knew that dangers were often unseen.
“We’ll find a hackney on Piccadilly Street,” said Jeremy. And yet he seemed loath to make a move.
“No need. My carriage is waiting there,” replied Charlotte. Ignoring his look of surprise, she tugged at his arm. “Come, let us not linger.”
The ride back to the Grosvenor Square passed in uneasy silence. Perhaps regretful of her earlier outburst, Octavia had withdrawn into herself. Her face gave no hint of her inner emotions. And while eyes were said to be the windows to the soul, hers were veiled by the thick fringe of her lashes.
Charlotte considered herself a good judge of people, but Ashton’s secretary was proving devilishly difficult to decipher. Octavia seemed a strange mix of fire and ice. Her earlier agitation had seemed genuine. But as Wrexford had pointed out, the two recent murders appeared to have been planned with meticulous cunning. Whoever possessed such cold-blooded ruthlessness was likely very good at deception.
Lies and distraction. Smoke and sleight of hand.
As they entered the townhouse, the butler appeared in the main hallway and cleared his throat. “Miss Merton, Mrs. Ashton left word that you were to join her in the drawing room as soon as you returned.”
“I shall do so,” replied Octavia. “As soon as I escort my guests to my study and order them some tea.”
The man looked unhappy at the answer, but grudgingly stepped aside to let them pass.
“Might my maid wait for me in the kitchen?” asked Charlotte, knowing it was a perfectly proper request to make. Servants tended to gossip about the goings-on in a house, and McClellan struck her as someone who would keep her eyes and ears open.
“But of course, madam.” He gestured to her maid. “Follow me.”
Octavia checked up and down the corridor before shutting the study door and turning to face them. “Please don’t think me a flighty peagoose. I assure you, I’ve never been accused of having an overactive imagination.” She made a face. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Benedict has nothing but the highest praise for your intellect and steady good sense,” responded Jeremy.
Nonetheless, Charlotte could see something was troubling him. She, too, was finding the sudden turn of events difficult to swallow. Murder, cryptic clues, and now the disappearance of a possible suspect—it was sounding more and more like one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels.
Octavia didn’t miss the shade of doubt in his voice. “Lord Sterling, I don’t blame you for wondering whether I’m spinning a Banbury tale. But I can explain.” She let out a harried sigh. “I know Benedict considers you a man who can be trusted with any secret . . .”
Jeremy paled.
“So I feel I can—nay, Imust—trust you. There’s evil at play here, and I suspect . . .” She hesitated. “Might I ask you to accompany me to the back parlor, where we may talk in private, sir?”
Charlotte watched as Octavia’s gaze shifted to her. “Forgive my rudeness, Mrs.—” A grimace. “I’m sorry. I don’t even recall your name.”
“Sloane,” she said softly. “And it’s entirely understandable that you don’t wish to confide such life-and-death matters to a total stranger.” She allowed a thin smile. “I wouldn’t either.”
“Thank you.” Octavia turned to Jeremy. “Sir?”
Grim-faced, he nodded, but as he moved by her, Charlotte saw it was not just worry that pinched his features.
It was fear.
