“Thank you, but I’m here for business, not pleasure.” He held up a fist and slowly opened it to reveal half a dozen gold guineas nestled in his palm.
Her gaze became wary. “About what?”
“Nicholas Locke.”
She sighed and then shivered. “Oiy, te think I might o’ had the hands of a murderer still tainted with blood tickling my cockles that night.”
“Locke was with you the night of the murder?”
“Aye,” confirmed Jeannette as she reached for the coins and quickly tucked them beneath the sheets.
“At what time,” demanded Wrexford. “And please be as precise as possible.”
She gestured at the gilt clock on the dressing table. “Time is money, milord. So I can tell ye exactly when Nick was here. He arrived at one in the morning, and didn’t leave until sunrise—that is, around half past six.”
That confirmed what Locke had told him. But it was no help in proving his innocence. The argument between the brothers had occurred a little before midnight.
Leaving plenty of time for the gruesome deed to have been done before the accused showed up at Boudicca’s Bosom.
“How did Locke appear? Agitated? Upset?” he asked. “Any signs of a physical struggle?”
Jeannette thought for a long moment. “He seemed unhappy, but that wasn’t unusual. He’d told me he was worried about Cedric—”
“In what way?” interrupted the earl.
“He didn’t say exactly. But . . .” She slowly curled a strand of her golden hair around her forefinger. “In my line o’ work, ye learn te sense a man’s primal nature. Nick’s a very sweet and generous gent. I can’t believe he wudda hurt his brother.”
“You’re not alone in holding that sentiment,” he replied. Women apparently found Locke charming, though he had yet to see the allure. “Which is why I’m here. If you know anything else that might help prove his innocence, I’d like to hear it.”
“I wish I could help ye, but all I can say is, Nick never said an unkind word about his brother.” Her expression turned sad. “I hope ye find the bloke what killed Cedric.”
Something about the way she said the murdered man’s name stirred a prickling at the back of his neck. “Were you acquainted with Lord Chittenden, too?”
A sad smile tugged at her rosebud lips as she nodded. “But please don’t tell Nick.”
Wrexford glanced at Sheffield, who merely raised hiseyebrows. “Are you saying you were intimate with the baron, as well as his brother?” he asked.
“Aye, two peas in a pod, they were.”
That was one way of putting it, thought the earl.
“Cedric was a sweetheart, just like Nick. Very kind and generous—a perfect gentleman in every way.” Jeannette smoothed at the ruffles on her boudoir wrapper.
“Which made,” she mused softly, “those strange marks on his body even odder.”
CHAPTER 7
Wrexford leaned forward in his chair. “Whatmarks?”
Jeannette bit at her lip and looked away. “I dunno—mebbe it’s best te leave the dead te rest in peace.”
Wrexford bit back a sardonic comment. His views on the Hereafter were admittedly heretical.
It was Sheffield who quickly responded, “It may help us find his killer and bring him to justice.”
“Well, seeing as ye put it that way . . .” She blew out her breath. “There were some strange sores and a series of small cuts—made by a knife is my guess—on his breast and around his rib cage.” Her mouth puckered in puzzlement. “Along with a few small spots of blackened flesh. They looked like burns, though God only knows how a gentry mort would get ’em.”
God—or the devil.That was the trouble with murder, thought Wrexford. All too often, the moment of Death wasn’t the end of Evil, it was merely the beginning. Like a stone hitting water, its impact could ripple out, bringing secrets to the surface that were best left submerged. And suddenly there were more victims.
