“My thanks.”
O’Malley smiled in answer, revealing several missing teeth, and sank back down into the straw, clutching the coins to his breast.
Feeling dispirited, Charlotte turned away. Her inquiries had raised more questions than they had answered.
All of them uncomfortable.
Because they seemed to suggest that Nicky, for all his tearful denials, was guilty. She could only pray that Wrexford’s visit to the exclusive fleshpot would uncover more than a shapely derriere.
Once back on the street, she hesitated. The quickest route home was via Tyburn Turnpike, rather than cutting through the Palace gardens. But some impulse drew her to a pathway leading into the leafy greenery. Was it horribly macabre to feel compelled to view the murder site? Griffin and his men were very competent. There would be no lingering clues.
Still, Charlotte found her pulse quickening as her steps crunched over the graveled footpaths. As an artist, she often saw things differently than others. Her eyes—and her intuition—had proved invaluable in previous investigations. However fragile a thread it was, she clung to the thought that something at the scene might spark an idea.
Another turn brought her to a wider walkway lined with stately plane trees. The leaves whispered softly in the gentle breeze, setting off a fluttering of dark and light greens, deep forest shades dancing with pale lime hues. The cacophony of city sounds didn’t intrude upon the sylvan setting. It was aching peaceful.
Up ahead, a dappling of sun caught on the pale stone pediment peeking out from the trees. Charlotte paused as a twist in the path brought Queen Anne’s Alcove into full view.
Its beauty squeezed the air from her lungs. A graceful arched opening was centered beneath the triangular top, flanked on each side by double Corinthian columns and matching wallniches sculpted of creamy marble. The symmetry was sublime. Inside the center arch was a curved bench and high paneling made of dark, carved wood.
It looked inviting. An oasis of tranquility.
Oh, how looks could be deceiving.She, of all people, knew that elemental truth.
Forcing herself forward, Charlotte slowly approached and mounted the shallow steps. The interior was cool, with velvety shadows softening the lines of the carved oak. She took a seat on the center of the bench and looked up at the high-vaulted ceiling. A profound sadness took hold of her as she thought of Cedric’s last moments, sitting here surrounded by such loveliness.
And then by death.
She closed her eyes for an instant, and then made herself focus on why she was here. Emotion must not be allowed to cloud her gaze.
Looking left and then right, Charlotte studied the curve of the bench and the grain of the wood. She rose, and, starting at one end, slowly ran her hands over the smooth surface, looking for . . .
Anything.
However, the oak yielded no hidden secrets.
After finishing her search, she got down on hands and knees and once again began to follow the curve of the bench, looking for any clues beneath it.
Had the sun not broken through the scudding clouds and speared a blade of light within the flitting shadows, she would have missed the flakes of tobacco blown up in a tiny pile against the wooden stanchion. Her heart thumped against her ribs.A clue?However unlikely, Charlotte quickly withdrew her handkerchief for the second time and gently gathered the bits with the tip of her finger. A sweet, spicy scent tickled at her nostrils as she deposited them into a separate fold of the cloth.
Snuff.
Repressing a sneeze, Charlotte tucked away the evidence and continued her search. On finding nothing more, she quickly rose and retraced her steps back to the street.
Reason warned her that her findings likely had nothing to do with Cedric.
And yet, Reason was not always right. There were times when one had to trust Imagination.
CHAPTER 5
After a glance at the mantel clock, Wrexford dipped his pen in the inkwell and returned to the notes he was writing. It was not quite time to leave.
“Your cravat is askew,” said Tyler with a critical squint as he entered the workroom.
“To the devil with my cravat,” muttered the earl. He stared down at the list, trying to put his thoughts in order.
“And I must say, your claret-colored coat would be a more appropriate choice.” The valet made a pained face. “All that unrelenting black makes you look like a walking storm cloud.”
The earl chuffed a sarcastic laugh. “I daresay the denizens of Boudicca’s Bosom don’t give a toss about the color of my clothing. It’s the glitter of my purse that concerns them. Assuming, of course, that I had any interest in paying for anything other than information.”
