“Wrexford,” repeated Octavia. “So, you were spying for him.”
Charlotte didn’t answer. She was slowly unrolling the sheaf of papers that had been hidden inside the rooster.
“Who are you—his mistress?”
Ignoring the insult, Charlotte took a seat on the sofa and smoothed open the top sheet. And then another and another.
Dear God.Curled in the roll were page after page of technical drawings, rendered in meticulous detail.Ashton’s missing sketches?
“It isIwho should be hurling nasty accusations, Miss Merton.”
The low light caught the flush of color rising to the other woman’s cheeks. “I-I can explain . . . But you won’t believe me.” Her mouth twisted. “Isobel Ashton seduces most everyman who crosses her path. Clearly the earl is under her spell. And you . . .”
“And I had never met the widow before this afternoon,” pointed out Charlotte. “She has, I agree, a certain magnetism. Whether that makes her guilty of any crime is not something I feel ready to judge. Your behavior, however, has been highly suspicious.” She paused. “There is an old adage—if it waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it likely is a duck.”
“You’re hunting the wrong bird,” replied Octavia bitterly. “Look to the swan. A beauty now, but since you wish to throw out adages, keep in mind that a swan is notoriously ugly in her youth. And does one ever really change one’s feathers?”
The young woman’s passion was palpable. Octavia was either a consummate actress. Or she believed what she was saying.
Charlotte looked down at the papers, feeling a twinge of doubt. She was beginning to question her judgment of people. And the realization left her a little shaken. “An elemental question, I agree. But let us wait for the gentlemen to arrive before we pursue it. They’ll have questions, and I doubt you wish to go through an interrogation twice.”
Octavia shifted slightly, setting off a harsh whispering of tightly wound hemp.
“I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable. But I imagine you understand why, Miss Merton.”
“Of course I do.” Octavia drew in a ragged breath. “I’m a woman who’s dared to defy the conventional path for those of our sex. In my experience, prim and proper ladies of the ton are appalled by that—and their reaction is even more vitriolic than that of gentlemen. I threaten all you hold dear, so of course you’re willing to think me guilty of any horrid crime—even murder.”
“I am,” murmured Charlotte, “more open-minded than you might think. If you are innocent, I’m perfectly willing to beconvinced.” The candle flickered, sending skitters of light across the shadowed sketches. “But it will require more than mere histrionics.”
She held up the top drawing, depicting an intricate meshing of gears and levers. “The late Mr. Ashton knew it was imperative to show clearly why something was true. Like him, you’ll need to build a solid argument for why we should believe you.”
“Benedict and I have carefully assembled an explanation for what has happened, and can draw you a perfect diagram,” shot back Octavia. “Our suspicions have been confirmed by several sources. As for proof . . .”
Charlotte waited as a spasm of pain pinched the other woman’s lips to a taut line.
“Oh, what does it matter?” went on Octavia in a bleak whisper. “Without Benedict, all hope is gone.” Her face had gone ashen, accentuating the bruises from the struggle. “Go ahead, throw me in Newgate Prison. But it will mean that Mrs. Ashton will, quite literally, be getting away with murder.”
“That’s a very serious allegation, Miss Merton.”
“Yes, it is,” came the unhesitating reply. “Which is why I wouldn’t say it unless I was certain it was true.”
* * *
Wrexford looked up sharply from the book he was reading. The sound came again—theping, pingof pebbles hitting up against the diamond-shaped panes of glass.
He rose and twitched back the half-closed draperies of the workroom’s windows. The back garden was a netherworld of dark, leafy shapes rising up from a quicksilver sea of mist. The low ornamental trees swayed in the fitful breeze, their black-fingers branches twining with the tendrils of fog.
Squinting into the night, the earl tried to spot any furtive movement within the plantings. The stones hadn’t launched themselves. He waited another moment, then unlatched the casement and cracked it open.
“Hell’s teeth,” he muttered as a gust of night-damp air slapped against his cheeks.
“Yer not supposed to swear in front of children.” A hand appeared from the gloom below and grabbed hold of the ledge. Wrexford heard the rustling of ivy an instant before Raven swung a leg up and hauled himself to a perch on the narrow jut of stone.
“You’re not a child. You’re anafreetwho’s been released from some devil-cursed bottle in order to plague mankind.”
“What’s anafreet?”
“A demon.” He offered a hand. “Come inside. It looks like a squall is blowing in.”
