“She’s not yet confided that to me.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tyler’s expression turn unreadable. “But she’s convinced that the brother didn’t do it, and is determined to prove it.”
“Bloody hell!” His friend straightened from his slouch. “We’re going to help her, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are,” muttered Wrexford. “Though for now, the evidence is quite damning.” He went on to give his friend a succinct summary of the murder’s grisly details—they had not appeared in the newspapers—and the interview with Locke.
Sheffield winced at the mention of the mutilation, and remained silent for a long moment after the earl had finished. “We’ve faced daunting challenges before,” he finally said, though there was a hollowness to the bravado. “We’ll prove him innocent and catch the real culprit.”
“Ifhe’s innocent,” murmured Wrexford. He hoped against hope that Locke wasn’t guilty. His gut tightened. Charlotte would be devastated. She had already suffered enough disillusionment about the people she loved—
“Where do we start?” Sheffield rose and began to pace. Tyler, too, fixed the earl with an expectant look.
The earl glanced down at his notes and explained about the two gentlemen mentioned by Locke. “We have a specific reason for there being bad blood between them and the murdered man—assuming Locke isn’t simply whistling into the wind.”
“You don’t like the fellow,” observed Tyler.
“Let’s just say I don’t trust him,” replied Wrexford. And if Locke’s lies hurt Charlotte, he would be tempted to throttle him with his bare hands, rather than leave it to the hangman.
“I can look into the gambling matter and find out more about Westmorly,” volunteered Sheffield.
Wrexford nodded. His friend spent more time in the gaming hells of London than was good for him, but there were times when such habits came in useful. “Excellent. I will think of how to probe into the romantic conflict—” He broke off with a grimace as the clock began to chime the hour. “But for now, I must head off to the brothel.”
Sheffield gave a strangled cough. “Given that we don’t have much time to unravel all this, can’t pleasure wait?”
“Stubble the witticisms, Kit,” he muttered, then added a terse explanation.
“I could accompany you, if you like, before I head to the gaming hells.”
Wrexford was about to demur, then reconsidered. Sheffield was clever and sharply observant, though he took pains to seem otherwise. “Very well, come along then. Let us hope that between your charm and my purse, we can coax the truth out of Locke’s Bird of Paradise.”
* * *
Charlotte added a slash of shadowing to her drawing, the bruise-purple hue accentuating the black depths surrounding the caricature of Nicholas hunched in his prison cell, a mangyblanket draped over his head. She hadn’t had the heart to sketch his features.
The caption was carefully composed to stir a hint of doubt as to his guilt. A. J. Quill had earned a reputation with the public for having an unholy ability to know the truth before the authorities did. That she could shape popular opinion was a sobering power to possess, and she was very careful not to abuse it.
A clench of guilt squeezed at her heart. Was she doing so now? Much as she yearned to believe Nicholas’s claim of innocence, she wasn’t sure . . .
And there was no question as to Wrexford’s view. Though he had refrained from outright sarcasm, she knew him well enough to read the cynicism in his eyes.
And yet, he was still willing to help her.
Charlotte wasn’t sure whether that made her feel better, or worse. Though he would deny it, the earl had an unbending sense of honor. She hated the thought that he might be compromising it out of . . . friendship.
“All the more reason I must find proof that Nicky is telling the truth,” she whispered.
Truth.Charlotte added a flourish to the bold-lettered caption before setting aside her pen. Like quicksilver, it could be maddening elusive—a gleam here, a flash there, only to slip through one’s fingers when one tried to grasp it.
As she leaned back and waited for the ink to dry, she found herself thinking back on her afternoon journey to the Kensington Palace neighborhood. The tobacco flakes offered its own challenge. She had some ideas on how to confront it, and would discuss them with Wrexford on the morrow . . .
But at the moment, something was bothering her about her talks with Billy and O’Malley, though she couldn’t quite identify what it was. She didn’t think they had lied to her, but her intuition told her something was missing from their answers.
Her brows drew together. Perhaps she hadn’t asked the right questions.
Think!What was she overlooking?
After a moment or two, Charlotte pulled a piece of writing paper to the center of her blotter. Wrexford would apply logic, not emotion, to the question. She stared at the blank page, aware of the earl’s recent warning echoing against the back of her skull.
“Mrs. Sloane, you aren’t thinking with your usual clarity.”
