“So, assuming you agree with the assessment that Kirkland and Mrs. Ashton are the most likely suspects, we must decide what to do next.”
Wrexford took a long sip of his wine. “Given your discovery, I agree that it makes the most sense to pursue the pair. So the question is, do we wait for them to rendezvous and then confront them together? Or do we choose one of them and see if we can force a confession?”
“Both have merits,” mused Charlotte. “For the moment we hold a certain advantage in knowing of their illicit past. However, it seems to me Benedict Hillhouse is the unknown factor in all this. We don’t know how close he is to completing a working model of the engine, or how that might factor into the timing of applying for a patent. We may not have much time.”
“I take it you are suggesting bold action.” At her confirming nod, Wrexford tapped his fingertips together. “So, who do we confront—the viscount or the widow?”
“The widow,” responded Sheffield without hesitation.
Charlotte expected no less. Men liked to delude themselves with the notion that women were, by their nature, prone to betrayal. But in her experience, the opposite was true.
“Mrs. Sloane?” murmured Wrexford. “You are unnaturally silent on the subject.”
Sheffield, she noted, put down his plate and went very still. Perhaps he was expecting further fireworks.
“I disagree,” she answered. “Especially as, for pragmatic reasons, I wouldn’t be permitted to take part in the interrogation.”
The earl’s gaze turned hooded. “Would you care to elaborate on your objection?”
“Women are not always the weak vessel you men assume them to be. A strong and clever female knows how to turn such prejudices to her advantage,” replied Charlotte. “In short, I think gentlemanly scruples will prevent you from being too rough on her. While I, on the other hand, would keep my hands around her throat and squeeze harder if I sensed it would draw out a confession.”
Sheffield’s expression altered slightly—whether in admiration or revulsion she couldn’t quite discern.
Wrexford’s face remained a cipher.
She waited, trusting his innate good judgment to conquer any lingering vestiges of ill humor.
“An interesting conjecture,” he finally commented. A hint of a smile touched his lips. “The idea of being at your mercy in any interrogation is terrifying.”
“Nonsense, milord. Nothing terrifies you, least of all me.”
The dark fringe of his lashes stirred ever so slightly. But whatever he was going to reply was cut short by a sudden loudrustling in the ivy vines outside the window, followed by the hurried scrabbling of leather on stone.
Quick as a cat, Wrexford shot up and moved to the rosewood case containing his pistols. Steel flashed in the wildly flickering candlelight as the hammer cocked with a sharpsnick.
Charlotte came to her feet as well, just as a hand grasped the fluted granite ledge.
“Oiy!” Raven hauled himself up to the sill, red-faced and struggling to catch his breath.
In two quick strides, the earl was at the window. Grabbing hold of the boy’s collar, he pulled him into the room.
“Ye got te come fast! Kirkland—” exclaimed Raven, his words tangling in a gusty wheeze.
Wrexford thumped him several times between the shoulder-blades to jar the air back into his lungs. “Steady, lad.”
“Kirkland—” gasped Raven.
“What about him?” urged Charlotte.
“He’s been murdered!”
CHAPTER 23
“At least, it looks that way,” amended Raven quickly. “I can’t be sure, seeing as ye ordered us not te follow him into any building, and we kept our word.”
“Thank God,” rasped Charlotte, falling to her knees and enfolding him in a hard hug.
Much to the boy’s chagrin, noted Wrexford, as he uncocked the pistol’s hammer.
