“Hawk will be bringing—” She cocked an ear. “Ah, I believe they are here now.”
The earl turned to see the boy’s familiar face—though covered with more than its usual streaks of grime—appear in the doorway. Behind him, still mostly in shadow, was a tall, slender stranger, whose well-tailored garments announced he was a gentleman despite looking as if they had been thrown on in a hurry.
“Charley, are you sure you’re not injured?” exclaimed the fellow to Charlotte. “And Miss Merton . . .” He paused to take in the disarray of the room. “Good Lord.”
“I’m quite fine, Jem,” replied Charlotte. To Wrexford she said, “Allow me to introduce Lord Sterling.”
Her dear friend and benefactor.The reminder did nothing to improve his mood.
“This may be a tea party, but let’s dispense with the bloody formalities, shall we?” growled the earl. “I’m Wrexford,” he said brusquely to Jeremy. “Now, can we cut to the chase? I assume that we’re both anxious to hear why we’ve been summoned here by Mrs. Sloane.”
Jeremy raised his brows at Charlotte, a silent seconding of the earl’s statement.
She wordlessly picked up the sheaf of papers from the tea table and held them up.
Jeremy made a choking sound in the back of his throat. “Are those Ashton’s missing drawings?”
“That,” replied Charlotte, “is something I’m hoping Miss Merton will explain to us.” A pause. “Along with a great many other things. She’s made some serious allegations to me, which she claims can be proven. ”
Plumes of pale vapor wafted up from the teacup Octavia had cradled in her hands, blurring her face. It struck Wrexford as an apt illusion. Everything about the inventor’s murder seemed to dance in and out of focus, taunting every sense of perception.
“Let me begin with an explanation of what happened here earlier, before I let Miss Merton speak for herself,” went on Charlotte. “I awoke to hear an intruder entering my house and went downstairs to investigate.”
“Did it not occur to you how dangerous that was?” said Wrexford.
She ignored the question. “I saw a cloaked figure slip into the drawing room—Miss Merton, as I later discovered—andsteal the majolica rooster which Mrs. Ashton had given to me. Intent on stopping the theft, I confronted her, and with the help of the boys—and the earl’s swords—we managed to subdue her.”
“Good God.” Wrexford shook his head. “You risked your life for a piece of pottery?”
Her chin rose to a pose he had come to think of as Stubbornness Personified. “It was a matter of principle.”
Principle.A word that brought out the best and the worst in her.
“And besides, it turned out to be averyvaluable bird. During the struggle, it fell and shattered—revealing the technical drawings hidden inside.” Charlotte hesitated and took a moment to pour herself some tea. She suddenly looked exhausted, but several swallows seemed to revive her. “Those are all the facts I possess. For further explanations, we must turn to Miss Merton.”
Silence filled the room. Even the boys stopped fidgeting. Octavia looked away. She seemed to shrink into herself with each slow undulation of the candle flame.
“Enough shilly-shallying, Miss Merton,” said Wrexford impatiently, deciding it was time to play the iron fist to Charlotte’s velvet glove. “Would you rather we summon Bow Street?”
“Octavia,” appealed Jeremy. “Please. If we are to have any hope of helping you and Benedict, you must tell us the truth.”
The young woman slumped forward and took her head in her hands. “I confess—Benedict and I did it.”
CHAPTER 18
The tea turned cold on Charlotte’s tongue. Octavia’s passionate avowals of innocence while waiting for the gentlemen had struck a deep-seated chord within her—and so she had trusted her instincts.
A mistake, apparently.
Charlotte set down the cup and closed her eyes, feeling like an utter fool.
“Did what, exactly?” asked the earl dryly, breaking the taut silence. “There are a number of heinous crimes for which you and Mr. Hillhouse are the prime suspects.”
Octavia’s head snapped up. “Good God, I didn’t mean . . . that is . . . Forgive me, I’m not making any sense.” She gave a self-mocking sigh. “Truly, I’m not usually a featherheaded peagoose. I—I had better start from the beginning.”
“Take your time,” encouraged Jeremy, assuming a seat on the sofa and crossing his legs.
Wrexford, noted Charlotte, perched a hip on the arm of the upholstered side chair. In the harsh shadows, the sharp planes of his face looked even more forbidding than usual as his eyes narrowed and he fixed the poor woman with an intimidating scowl.
