Was Blodgett another of Isobel’s conquests? Or was it infatuation from afar? He was the mill’s supervisor . . . Good God, could he, too, be involved in taking control of Ashton’s business?
She forced herself to push such thoughts away until later. Her nerves were on edge—perhaps she was merely seeing specters.
Playing her role well, Octavia guided Charlotte down the front steps. Neither of them spoke until they were in a hackney and navigating through the crush of carriages on Piccadilly Street.
“Well?” Octavia was whispering despite the noise of the traffic. “Did you find anything?”
“Perhaps.” Charlotte withdrew the paper from her bodice—now slightly crumpled—and smoothed it out in her lap. “You’re familiar with Ashton’s writing.” She held up the top note. “Is this his hand?”
The reply came without hesitation. “No.”
“Take a closer look. I need for you to be absolutely certain.”
“I’ve handled Eli’s correspondence since I was fifteen,” replied Octavia. “The slant and the roundness of the letterforms are all wrong. He didnotpen that note.”
Charlotte accepted her word for it. “Then yes, I think we’ve found something interesting. You see, it beginsMy Dear Isobel, and since you’re sure it wasn’t written by Ashton, it certainly stirs suspicions.” She went on to explain where she had found the note and why she had taken it.
Octavia edged forward on her seat. “What does the rest of it say?”
A slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as Charlotte skimmed the short message.
“My Dear Isobel,” she read, “There’s no need to worry that anyone will learn of our sordid little secret. Just remain calm and do as I tell you, and we’ll both get what we want.”
Charlotte looked up. “It’s simply signed with the letterD.”
“Lord Kirkland’s Christian name is Dermott,” said Octavia.
“I’m aware of that.” Her smile widened. “Granted, it’s still circumstantial. But we may be slowly tightening the noose around the necks of the villains responsible for Elihu Ashton’s death.”
The wheels lurched as the hackney rolled onto the narrower streets and rougher paving stones of her new neighborhood. A reminder that Mayfair, with all its glitter and glamor, was still a world apart from hers.
I must never forget that.
“Mrs. Sloane . . .”
Charlotte was roused from her own musings by the tentative words.
“Might I ask you a question?”
Shadows flitted between them, sharp and jumpy, like the rattling of the vehicle and clattering of hooves. She nodded an assent, careful to make no promise to answer it.
“I can’t help but be curious on how you seem so skilled at clandestine activities.”
“There is an old adage about curiosity killing the cat,” murmured Charlotte.
Octavia didn’t smile. “Which is to say you aren’t going to give me an answer?”
“Correct.”
The sigh was swallowed in the street noise. “My guess is you’re a government spy.” Octavia plucked at a fold in herskirts and gave a wry grimace. “But I don’t suppose you would admit to it if that were true.”
“You have a very creative imagination, Miss Merton. However, allowing it to run wild can lead to trouble. Let’s just say that life’s challenges have taught me certain pragmatic tricks for survival.”
Octavia remained silent, a pensive look shading her face.
Charlotte turned her attention to the note still in her hand. She read it again, then refolded it and tucked it back into her bodice. Wrexford must, of course, see it without delay. Sheffield would likely recognize Kirkland’s handwriting from seeing the viscount’s gaming vowels. Bow Street couldn’t ignore the web of intrigue woven by the short message . . .
The hackney slowed to a halt.
