Another bad sign, thought Wrexford. She never shied away from crossing verbal swords with him. It was one of the things he respected about her.
This strange hesitation put his nerves on edge.
“It seems to me that your usual dispassionate detachment has been missing from the very beginning of this case,” she began. “Is there a reason?”
“If you’re implying that I ought to be able to solve any crime, no matter how complex or—”
“That’s not at all what I mean,” she interrupted brusquely. “Ithink you’ve let your emotions become involved—and as you once warned me, that’s asking for trouble.”
Wrexford couldn’t summon any clever quip. He wouldn’t insult her by pretending he didn’t know to what she was referring. Charlotte, with her unholy gift of intuition, appeared to have sensed the truth even before he had.
Not that he thanked her for it.
Charlotte took his silence as confirmation of her surmise. “I’ve met Mrs. Ashton. The widow has . . .” A tic of hesitation as she chose her words carefully. “. . . a powerful presence. She’s attractive. Alluring. And—”
“And you think her womanly wiles have seduced me?”
“I think they have clouded your judgment,” replied Charlotte flatly. The candle guttered and with a dying hiss went out. Uttering a low oath, she fetched an oil lamp from the side table. It took her several strikes of the steel and flint to light the wick.
“Whether she’s warming your bed is none of my business,” continued Charlotte. “What does concern me is your emotional state. If you can’t view the investigation with a dispassionate eye, it puts us all in an untenable position. Not only will it make it nigh on impossible to uncover the truth, but it may also place people who are dear to me in peril.”
In other words, thought the earl, she worried that he was being ruled not by his brain, but some other portion of his anatomy.
“Imustbe able to trust you, Wrexford.”
For a moment, he kept his gaze on the carpet, watching the flitting of dark, nighttime shapes dart through the weak aureole of lamplight.
Then he looked up and met her searching stare. “Mrs. Ashton is, without question, a beauty who exudes an innate sensuality.”
Charlotte’s expression didn’t change. Like stone—impervious to the elements swirling around it.
“That’s not uncommon among the beau monde. Women have little else but their allure to use as bargaining chips when negotiating with men,” he went on slowly. “However, the widow also possesses a sharp intellect, which is far rarer. Granted, I found that intriguing. So, yes, . . .”
Was it merely a quirk of light, or did Charlotte’s eyes betray a flicker of pain? It was gone so fast he decided he was mistaken.
“So yes, perhaps that was a distraction.”
She released a pent-up breath, softly, so that it barely stirred the surrounding air. “One that might prove deadly.”
“It might,” agreed Wrexford. “Assuming, as you so delicately implied, that my response to her remained primal rather than cerebral.”
Despite the gloom, there was no mistaking the rise of color to her cheekbones.
“There’s a steely secrecy to Mrs. Ashton—”
“And God forbid that women have secrets,” whispered Charlotte. “But at times, they are our only defense. As you so sagely said, we have precious few ways to counter the power that men hold over us in this supposedly civilized society.”
Their eyes met, and on seeing the momentary flicker of naked vulnerability, it was all he could do to keep from drawing her into the protective shelter of his arms. Once again, he wished he knew what lay in her past.
“I don’t disagree with you on that, but kindly allow me to finish,” he said, somehow keeping his voice level. “There’s a secrecy to the widow, and though there’s a passion burning somewhere in her depths, it’s impossible to discern what it is. My sense is, it’s very private. And it’s tempered by ice. She’s not likely to ever really open her heart.”
“You underestimate your own powers, Wrexford. Most women, I imagine find you . . .”
He raised his brows, waiting for her to go on.
Her flush deepened. “But I need not flatter your vanity. My point is, Mrs. Ashton’s passions are—”
“Personal,” he said flatly. “Unlike yours, which are roused by your compassion and commitment to ideals that are larger than yourself. I can’t imagine her risking her neck, as you do, for abstract concepts like truth and justice.”
