“Hmmph.” After subjecting them to a careful scrutiny, she opened the book and turned her attention to a back-and-forth study of the handwritten numbers and the printed pages.
Charlotte rose, too, and went to have a look at the series of watercolor sketches hung by the bookcases. They were seascapes, rendered with a deft hand and a keen eye for the nuanced colors of the ocean at dawn.
But it wasn’t the artistic merit that had her heartbeat kicking up a notch. She had suddenly recalled Wrexford’s recounting ofhis meeting with Cordelia and her brother—a side parlor . . . a bookcase by a doorway . . . a hat and coat tucked on the top shelf . . .
She moved slowly down the line of paintings, trying to keep her breathing steady. Sheffield, she noted, had shifted slightly and was watching her out of the corner of his eye.
Thump-thump.Giving the last watercolor a cursory glance, Charlotte then edged around the jut of the bookcase and cast her gaze on shelves of leather-bound volumes.
From the sofa came the rustle of silk and the flutter of turning pages.
Higher, higher—she raised her eyes upward. And there it was—the top shelf, shrouded in shadows.
Still, it was clear there was no folded coat.
And no hat.
She moved back a step for a better angle, just to be sure—
“Ye gods, surely you aren’t thinking . . .” Sheffield’s voice was barely a whisper, but it felt like a daggerpoint pricking between her shoulder blades.
Charlotte spun around with a start.
“The hat—why are you and Wrex so bloody interested in a hat? I recall now that he asked Lady Cordelia about what type of hat she wore when disguised as a man. And last night, he thought Thornton guilty because of what he had perched on his head.”
“Because,” answered Charlotte, “Raven and Hawk have learned that someone wearing a Wellington hat was seen at both the Bloody Butcher murders and in the gardens of Kensington Palace at the time of Cedric’s death.”
“That may be, but you’re wrong to think Lady Cordelia can be guilty.” Sheffield gave a wry smile. “You’ve often told Wrex that one must trust intuition, as well as logic.”
Charlotte saw Cordelia look up from the book and papers.
“And so I feel compelled to speak out,” he went on, raisinghis voice. “I’m certain—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that the villain we seek is elsewhere.”
Cordelia arched her brows, looking more amused than rattled. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s not here,” said Charlotte, ignoring the question.
Sheffield didn’t flinch. “Nonetheless, I stand by the feeling in my gut.”
She felt the air leach from her lungs. Sheffield had proven he possessed excellent instincts. But Nicholas’s life was hanging in the balance. If an error in judgment was to wrap a noose around his neck, she would rather it be hers . . .
The sudden scuff of steps crossing the carpet interrupted her thoughts.
A hinge creaked as a cabinet door came open. “Are you perchance looking for this?” Cordelia held up a gentleman’s hat.
It was, saw Charlotte, a Wellington.
“I’m usually more careful than to leave my disguise lying out in plain sight, but I was distracted on the night I returned from the gaming hell, as Jamie and I were arguing over whether he had done the right thing in letting Westmorly slither away without making his perfidy known to his peers.” Cordelia shrugged. “And so Lord Wrexford noticed my hat and coat on the shelf.”
“You would have chosen to denounce Westmorly?” asked Charlotte.
“Granted, I consider many of Society’s rules absurd and unfair, especially for those of our sex,” came the answer. “But adhering to a code of honor is not one of them.” Cordelia assessed Sheffield with a challenging stare. “By the by, you are averyodd fellow. Not many gentlemen would choose to support a stranger over a friend.”
“I, too, believe in a code of honor. I don’t think you’re guilty.”
Her brows quirked. “Guilty of what?”
The air seemed to thrum with an unseen current. Strangely enough, Charlotte felt the vibrations loosened the tightness in her chest.
