The Runner wiped a bit of custard from his chin. “Doing business with you is always a pleasure, milord.”
Wrexford made his way out to the narrow street, and wound his way down through the byways to the Strand, where he managed to flag down a passing hackney. Even though the rain had turned to a fine mizzle, he was chilled to the bone when he arrived home. Tossing his damp overcoat and hat aside, he moved to the sideboard of his workroom and, ignoring the rumbled protests of his empty stomach, poured himself a whisky instead of ringing for a late supper.
After stirring the coals to life in the hearth, he took a seat by the fire and sipped at the dark amber malt, feeling its heat slowly seep through his body. Still, much as he tried to relax, the muscles in his shoulders refused to unknot.
Secrets tangling with conundrums.Whatever the ties that bound Charlotte to the two brothers, the murder had shaken her to the core.
“Bloody hell.” An exasperated sigh fogged the glass as he held it up to the flames. Damn her for not having enough faith in their friendship to confide in him as to why. They had tested each other’s mettle in ways that should have forged a stronger bond of trust. And there had been that brief interlude when both of them had lowered their defenses enough to say . . .
But perhaps the words and the brief, ethereal kiss had been sparked by the impulsive elation of having dodged death.
Lapsing into a dark mood, he swallowed the rest of the whisky in one quick gulp and then rose to pour himself another.
As he set the decanter back on its silver tray, the door flung open and Tyler hurried in. From the look of his dripping garments, it appeared the rain had come back with a vengeance.
“I trust you’ll offer me a dram as well.” After stripping off his coat and hat, his valet moved to warm his hands by the fire. “In fact, you ought to hand over the key to the wine cellar for the coming week,” he added a little smugly. “I richly deserve it.”
Wrexford wordlessly poured a healthy measure of whisky and handed it over.
Tyler took an appreciative gulp and held it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Ah, lovely. The nuanced flavors of a Speyside malt always warm the cockles.”
“When you’ve finished your theatrics,” muttered the earl impatiently, “might you consent to share with me what you’ve discovered?”
With a martyred sigh, the valet carefully pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket. “I think I’ve found the answers you’re looking for.”
Wrexford stared at the notes, watching the red-gold firelight flit across the creases and curling corners.
“It seems that Mrs. Sloane—” Seeing the earl’s brusque wave, Tyler fell silent.
“Just hand them over, if you please,” he muttered.
Sensing the earl’s unsettled mood, the valet refrained from further comment and did as he was asked.
The notes gave a whispery crackle, the night-chilled smoothness of the paper setting off sparks against his palms. Strangely enough, with Charlotte’s secrets now at his mercy, Wrexford found himself hesitating.
Tyler tactfully turned away and began to fuss with hanging up their wet overcoats.
Tit for tat,he told himself. Charlotte would have no right to complain of his methods, given how she made her living. Uncovering the intimate foibles of others was fair game . . .
Turning abruptly, the papers still unfolded, Wrexford crossed to the hearth and dropped them atop the burning coals.
Flames shot up.
Perhaps I’m a bloody fool,he thought, watching the papers blacken and then dissolve to ghostly white ash. But friendship, however exasperating, was friendship. It seemed elementally wrong to steal Charlotte’s personal secrets through subterfuge. When she was ready to tell him, she would.
And if she decided he couldn’t be trusted, then bloody hell, they weren’t really worth knowing.
* * *
Charlotte awoke from a fitful sleep and lay still as the grey, watery dawn light seeped in through her bedchamber window and spread over her coverlet. Her body ached from tossing and turning all night. If only the previous day had been just a bad dream.
“Yes, and if wishes were unicorns, then I could fly to the moon in a spun-sugar carriage,” she whispered.
The thought was absurdly appealing.
Throwing off such longings, along with the bedcovers, sherose and padded down to the kitchen to riddle the stove and put on the kettle. Perhaps tea—pip, pip, the English panacea for any ailment—would help settle the queasy churning in her stomach.
The boys had learned nothing from their inquiries. None of their usual sources reported seeing any suspicious activity around the Palace on the night of the murder.
