Their escort appeared in the doorway, and led the way back to the entrance foyer, where McClellan, playing the role of a proper lady’s maid, was waiting. Once outside, Charlotte accepted Sheffield’s arm with a silent oath. She could feel the tension radiating beneath the well-tailored wool, and a sidelong glance showed his usual nonchalant smile had thinned to a grim line.
Opening the door to the waiting carriage, he helped her and McClellan up the rungs, then climbed in after them.
She winced as it slammed shut with a tad more force than necessary.
“Damnation—you’re wrong, Lady Charlotte!”
“Please unclench your fists, Mr. Sheffield,” said McClellan as she primly smoothed at her skirts. “Or I may be forced to bloody your nose.”
Looking abashed, he slumped back against the squabs. “Forgive me. I . . . I can’t quite explain it, but I . . .”
“You feel passionately about defending someone whom you consider a friend,” finished Charlotte.
“I do?” The carriage hit a rut, the lamp’s lurching flame illuminating his face as it went through a series of odd little contortions. “I’m too frivolous to have deep feelings . . . but perhaps you’re right.” Sheffield shook his head in confusion. “I like her. More than that, I admire her. Here I am, always whinging and feeling sorry for myself because of my ill luck in being born a younger son. And yet, a female’s lot in life, however highborn, is far more difficult than mine. Like you, Lady Cordelia has the courage and strength to be true to herself. She makes me want . . .” He blew out a harried breath. “She makes me want to be better than I think I can be.”
Charlotte’s heart clenched. She knew all too well the feeling of seeing only the best in someone, rather than the complex reality of how personal strengths could weave together with weaknesses—and create fatal flaws. Her late husband . . .
“You’re a far better man than you think you are, Kit Sheffield,” she said.
His eyes widened in surprise.
“Aye,” murmured McClellan. “A very bonny one.”
“You’re unflinchingly loyal, compassionate, honorable—and strong,” went on Charlotte. “Your friends know that, even if you don’t.”
“Thank you for that.” He looked away for a moment. “Lud knows, you’re a far better judge of people than I am. But in this case, I’m certain you’re mistaken.”
“I like Lady Cordelia, too. Very much so, in fact. But that doesn’t mean she’s innocent. A cunning killer must possess courage and strength. Not to speak of the ability to hide a core of evil beneath a façade of normalcy.”
“Why?”he demanded. “Tell me why you think she is guilty.”
Charlotte drew in a heavy breath. “As I said, Hawk and Raven have been asking around about all the Bloody Butcher murders. And they’ve discovered that someone wearing aWellington hat with a silver ornament was spotted at all three of the murder scenes.”
“Ye gods—that’s not much to go on,” he protested, though his voice had a certain hollow ring to it. “How many Wellington hats, with some sort of decoration on the band, do you think there are in London?”
“Quite a lot,” she answered. “However, I’m quite certain the number worn by a lady in the dead of night is very, very small.”
Sheffield’s face fell. “H-How can you possibly be sure that it was a lady wearing the hat? Was a face seen?” A note of defiance had crept back into his voice. “And if so, why hasn’t Griffin—”
“Please let me finish.” She hated what she had to say next. “You’re right—I can’t be entirely certain. But Alice-the-Eel-Girl saw someone in Kensington Gardens at the time of Cedric’s murder. The person was walking quickly along the footpath close to where she was curled up for the night, and in passing, an overhanging tree branch, dislodged the hat—just enough that the person had to reach up and reset it.”
He frowned in confusion. “But—”
“Allow me to explain, Mr. Sheffield,” she said gently. “You know I’m good at seeing the small details. I dress as a man on occasion, so I’m intimately familiar with how I must put on a gentleman’s hat, in order to hide my coiled hair.” Charlotte pantomimed a motion. “It must go on from back to front, like so.”
“She’s right, sir. Front to back would knock the pins loose,” agreed McClellan. “And besides, it’s a natural reflex for a lady. That’s how a bonnet goes on.”
“You saw how Lady Cordelia put on her Wellington just now,” pressed Charlotte. “It was a natural movement. She did it without thinking.”
Sheffield looked as if he had been punched in the gut. “And you’re saying that . . .”
“That Alice observed exactly the same movement,” shefinished. “And of all our little band of urchins, Alice is the most careful and sharp-eyed.”
“But . . . but someone replaced Thornton’s hat with a Wellington. It had to have been—”
“As we just agreed,” interrupted Charlotte, “there are a great many of them in London. That switch seems to have been an honest mistake.”
For an instant, a look of raw pain flickered through Sheffield’s lashes. But he quickly blinked it away.
