The door shut with a doleful thump, leaving the room quiet as a crypt.
You were right not to trust me, Miss Merton, thought Charlotte as she quickly moved to the desk and skimmed over the papers lying atop the blotter. Seeing nothing of interest, she made a check of the drawers. It was too risky to start poking through the contents now, but if anything looked promising, she could make a clandestine visit during the night.
However, as she suspected from Octavia’s comment about the room having been searched, nothing caught her eye. It had, however, been worth a try.
No matter how clever we think we are, we all make mistakes.
Once again, Wrexford’s unsettling words about secrets within secrets stirred like a serpent, sending a shiver slithering down her spine.
Charlotte shook off the sensation. Looking up, she spotted a large majolica figurine on the far side table, half-hidden between two stacks of books. A specialty of the Tuscan region of Italy, the colorful piece of rustic pottery stirred a sudden sharp pang of nostalgia. It was silly—the gaily-painted rooster had analmost comic naiveté to it. And yet, her breath seemed to stick in her lungs.
How absurd.She should be feeling the urge to laugh, not cry.
Against her better judgment, Charlotte crossed the carpet and with great care picked it up. The weighty heft, the smooth glaze, the pure hues—everything was achingly familiar, right down to the last detail of the beaky smile.
Her late husband had bought a similar figurine on a trip they had made to Florence during the first year of their time in Rome. It had been far too expensive for their paltry purse, but he had insisted on getting it in celebration of her birthday. A talisman to the good times and good fortune ahead, he had said. It had sat on their kitchen table, a spot of brightness as the shadows of poverty had slowly squeezed the optimism from Anthony’s spirit.
Though she had packed it carefully, the rooster had somehow been smashed to flinders on the journey back to England.
A talisman, indeed.
“Miss Merton.” The door clicked open after a perfunctory knock. “Might I have a word with you.”
Jarred from her reveries, Charlotte nearly dropped the piece as she spun around.
“Now,if you please,” added the slender woman who stood framed in the doorway.
“I’m sorry but Miss Merton and Lord Sterling stepped out for a moment.” The woman started as Charlotte moved into the ring of light cast by the table lamp. “I apologize for the shock of finding an utter stranger in your house.” Charlotte went on, having no doubt that she was speaking to Elihu Ashton’s widow. “It was terribly impolite to intrude upon you without a formal introduction. I’m Mrs. Sloane, a friend of Lord Sterling. We met Miss Merton in Green Park, and came back here for . . . tea.”
Mourning did not flatter most women, but somehow theunremitting black only accentuated the woman’s delicate beauty. Silhouetted against the dimly lit corridor, her pale, porcelain-perfect face drew the eye, much like a moth to a flame.
“It is I who should be apologizing, Mrs. Sloane. I had not realized Miss Merton had guests,” replied Isobel. The dark silk rustled, stirring shadows on shadows. “Please, let us not stand on formalities. I am Mrs. Ashton.”
A graceful speech, quickly followed by a smile. And yet, there was no warmth to it.
Realizing the rooster was still in her hands, Charlotte flushed, feeling like a guilty schoolgirl. “I know it’s horribly rag-mannered of me to be poking around in another person’s possessions, but this reminded me of a piece my late husband and I acquired in Italy.” It was manipulative, perhaps, to hint at her own widowhood. But maybe she could turn this initial awkwardness to her advantage.
The chill melted ever so slightly from Isobel’s lips. “It brings back fond memories?”
“Yes. But alas, ours was destroyed during the voyage back to England.” Charlotte set it back on the table. “Again, I apologize for my bad manners.”
A throaty laugh. “I, too, am a guest in this house, so be assured you’ve caused no offense. Most of the possessions you see don’t belong to me either.”
The widow had a unique vitality that most people would find appealing, thought Charlotte, seeing a spark come to life in the other woman’s eyes. Most especially men. Strange that Wrexford hadn’t made mention of it. He was usually perceptive about such things and quick to comment on them.
“But as it so happens, that rooster did travel here with us,” continued Isobel. “It was given to my husband as a jest by some friends. Like an owl, he tended to work in the dark of night, so he was not an early riser.”
Charlotte smiled politely.
“He found it highly amusing, though I’m surprised he brought it along on this trip.” The widow regarded it for a long moment. “I can’t say that I see its charms.”
“It has no intrinsic artistic value,” agreed Charlotte. “One would have to feel a sentimental attachment to see any worth in it.”
“I don’t claim to have an eye for art of any kind. I prefer music to paintings.” As the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the corridor, Isobel shifted and then suddenly moved to the table and took up the figurine. “Please, I’d like for you to have it.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” protested Charlotte, taken aback by the unexpected offer.
“You would actually be doing me a great favor,” responded the widow. “It would save me the trouble of transporting it back to Leeds.”
