Plucking a quill from its holder, Charlotte opened her inkwell and placed a blank sheet of sketching paper on her blotter. Numbers might be a mystery to her, but words and images were kindred souls. She began to sketch, letting her thoughts flow freely, without censure. Imagination could be edited.
The details of Ashton’s death and the dark suspicions concerning the radical workers couldn’t be revealed to the public. But there was always another angle to take in flushing evil from the shadows. She just had to see it.
The nib looped and looped through a series of elaborate curlicues. And then suddenly Charlotte smiled as finally an idea took shape.
Hell’s bells, it was so obvious—how had she not thought of it before?
Money was always a subject that titillated the public’s interest. Which would make patents a provocative topic for her series. One that might serve to stir a few serpents from their dark hole.
She quickly grabbed a pristine piece of watercolor paper and set to work.
CHAPTER 20
Wrexford shrugged out of his overcoat and let it drop to the floor as he turned for the sideboard, intent on pouring a much-needed glass of brandy. Or perhaps a Scottish malt. He needed a good jolt of—
“Bloody hell.” Two oaths, equally indignant, collided in the darkness.
“I think you might have broken one of my bones,” added Sheffield in a querulous mutter as he rubbed his bruised shin.
The earl winced, having tripped over his friend’s outstretched legs and hit up against the sharp corner of one of the worktables. “Why are you sleeping in my armchair rather than your own bed?”
“Your selection of beverages is better than mine,” quipped Sheffield.
In no mood for banter, Wrexford limped over to the tray holding the crystal decanters. The near-tumble had definitely tipped the odds in favor of the whisky. He poured himself a glass.
“As it happens, I’ve been waiting here since before midnight,a perfectly respectable time,” added his friend. “Which begs the question of what activities you’ve been up to in the witching time of early morn.”
Wrexford took a moment to strike a flint to the wick of the sideboard’s oil lamp and turn up the flame. “There’s been another unexpected twist in the case.”
The yawing yellow-gold light caught the sharpening of Sheffield’s features as he straightened from his slouch, suddenly looking wide awake. “Not another murder?”
“No,” he answered. “Though a rather colorful rooster did meet an untimely demise.”
“A rooster?” Sheffield raised his brows. “If I were you, I’d set aside the whisky. Your wits are befuddled enough without demon drink.”
“Not at all,” said Wrexford after savoring a long sip. “In fact, my night’s foray demanded clear-headed thinking in order to untangle all the threads. Suffice it to say, my efforts have resulted in a momentous discovery.”
“As have mine,” responded Sheffield. “And if you’ll stop being an arse and pour me a wee dram of that lovely malt, I’ll tell you about what I’ve found.”
A more than fair trade, conceded the earl. Having tasked Sheffield with mucking through the smoky, sweaty gaming hells for any rumors about Kirkland, his friend likely deserved a key to the entire wine cellar.
“Slainte mhath,” he murmured, handing Sheffield a generous helping of the whisky. Their two glasses came together in a crystalline clink, setting off a wildly winking pattern of amber light on the side wall.
“I shall cede the honor of going first to you,” Wrexford added. “My explanation will likely be the longer of the two.”
Sheffield dropped all pretense of ennui. Setting aside his drink, he edged forward in his chair. “I decided to try my luck at one of the less-frequented gaming hells in Seven Dials, as Irecalled that Herrington, a fellow who’s said to run in Kirkland’s circle, tends to play faro there. And sure enough, I struck gold.”
To his credit, his friend didn’t overplay his hand.
“It cost two bottles of damn expensive brandy—for which I expect reimbursement—but Herrington’s tongue then began to wag,” recounted Sheffield. “Apparently, the current Mrs. Ashton was, some years ago, Kirkland’s paramour. He paid the rent on a charming little townhouse in the village of Morley, near Leeds, and supported her in style.”
Wrexford nodded. “Well done, Kit. That confirms what I’ve just heard.”
Sheffield’s face fell. “You already knew?”
“Only by a scant hour or two. I’ll explain in a moment, but first finish your account.”
“Herrington wasn’t sure what broke up the previous arrangement. However, he said that Kirkland has recently been telling his cronies that he’s rekindled the relationship and expects to be a very rich man once the mourning period is over and the widow can remarry without scandal.”
