Her thoughts, Charlotte knew, ought to be strictly focused on the evidence and convincing the earl that she was right in her reasoning. Still, as she watched him unfold the note, she couldn’t help thinking what graceful hands he had. Strong. Sure. And yet capable of great gentleness, as she’d witnessed when the boys were in trouble. One wouldn’t have guessed it from his outward show of snappish sarcasm.
A man of contradictions and complexities.
Which, she supposed, was rather like the pot calling the kettle black.
“What am I looking at?” he demanded.
“I found it hidden in a locked case in Mrs. Ashton’s dressing room. As you see, it’s written to her and signed with aD. As Kirkland’s Christian name is Dermott, I presume it was written by him.” She looked at the earl’s friend. “I’m hoping Mr. Sheffield can confirm that.”
Wrexford passed it over without comment.
“Yes, I’m quite certain this is Kirkland’s handwriting,” said Sheffield after subjecting it to a careful scrutiny. “Mind you, gambling vowels tend to have mostly numbers but while I don’t remember cards overly well, I’ve a good eye for letters.”
The earl took it back. “Might I be so bold as to inquire how, precisely, you came to be in Mrs. Ashton’s dressing room?”
She expelled a resigned sigh. “I see we are about to have another round of pyrotechnics. But after the sparks die down, might we call a short truce in which to enjoy refreshments?”
He didn’t smile, but she thought she detected a tiny flicker of grudging humor in his eyes. To his credit, the earl was one of those rare men who was able to laugh at himself.
“It wasn’t nearly as risky as you might think.” An overstatement, perhaps, however Charlotte sensed his temper was on edge and a further clash would do neither of them any good. “Miss Merton was instrumental . . .” She gave a quick explanation of the ruse, and how it had gone exactly as planned.
“That was devilishly dangerous, Mrs. Sloane,” said Wrexford after a long moment of silence. “If the widow is involved in her husband’s murder, she wouldn’t have had any qualms about sticking a knife between your ribs.”
“It was no more dangerous than chasing into the stews after the man you thought responsible for the hideous slashing of Ashton’s throat.”
His eyes narrowed. “That’s different.”
“Because I am a woman?”
Sensing that he was being maneuvered into a verbal corner, Wrexford quickly sidestepped the question by countering with one of his own.
“If Mrs. Ashton and the viscount are alerted to our suspicions, it may give them time to cover their tracks. How can you be sure she won’t notice that her rooms have been searched?”
Charlotte fixed him with a level gaze. “Because I’m very good at what I do, Wrexford. I wouldn’t stay in business if I wasn’t.”
“The beef is excellent,” murmured Sheffield. “As is the cheddar. May I fix you a plate, Mrs. Sloane?”
“Thank you. That would be most welcome.”
“Wrex?” asked his friend.
The earl’s answer was to pour himself a glass of claret.
“Come, let us set aside our differences and have a constructive conversation on what to do next,” said Charlotte after savoring a few bites of the food. “By the by, Mr. Sheffield is correct—the beef is delicious.”
The earl finally surrendered his scowl. “It had better be,” he replied, fixing himself a generous helping from the platter. “I pay my chef an obscene amount of money.”
“I imagine he earns it,” she said.
Wrexford surrendered a low laugh. “You know, most people show a modicum of respect for my exalted position.”
“I am not like most people,” pointed out Charlotte. “And besides, an occasional pinprick keeps your vanity from ballooning to exalted heights.”
“No chance of that with you two around,” said Wrexford, once he had swallowed a mouthful of beef and bread.
Sheffield smiled. “You loathe toadeaters.”
The banter—and the refreshments—appeared to have improved the earl’s mood. Setting aside her empty plate, Charlotte decided it was time to get down to business.
