Thankfully, he looked away without further protest.
Charlotte waited until the sound of their steps died away on the stairs before expelling a shuddering exhale. Taking the key to the locked compartment in her desk from its hiding place, she added the sketch to the folded paper packet containing thesnuff. Her mind was too muzzy to think of anything but stumbling to her bedchamber and sinking into the blessed oblivion of sleep.
* * *
A sip of scalding coffee—dark as the devil’s temptations—helped burn away the lingering sour taste of death’s degradations. Wrexford grimaced. How quickly all of man’s grand illusions of his supreme importance in the universe was reduced to a carapace of rotting flesh and putrid ooze.
He took another swallow, ignoring the plate of freshly made toast by his elbow. Thank god Charlotte had not witnessed the gruesome scene. This crime was testing her strength in ways he had never seen before. She was, he feared, perilously close to snapping.
He wished he knew why.
“Ah!” An appreciative sniff punctuated the exclamation. “I see breakfast is still being served.”
“Why is it that all my acquaintances seem to think of nothing but their stomachs?” groused the earl as he poured himself more coffee. The sight of Henning wolfing down broiled kidney and slices of blood-rare beefsteak earlier that morning had left his stomach feeling a little queasy.
“Because your chef is superb,” replied Sheffield as he went to help himself to a plateful of delicacies from the silver chafing dishes.
“He ought to be, considering the obscene amount of money I pay him.”
“Speaking of obscene . . .” Sheffield forked up a bite of shirred eggs and mushrooms. “Did you learn anything of interest at the mortuary?”
Wrexford could think of several sarcastic replies, but held them back as the sunlight caught on the lines of fatigue etched around his friend’s eyes. He, too, had been digging for dirt in the less salubrious parts of London in order to help Charlotte.
“Henning and I were able to examine the corpse, though we only evaded being caught by the skin of our teeth,” he replied quietly. “There were, as Jeannette said, strange bruises and cuts on Chittenden’s body. Henning extracted a small fragment from one of them.”
Sheffield stopped chewing. “A fragment of what?”
“I hope to learn that later today, once Henning has had a chance to examine it in his surgery.”
“Are you going to tell Mrs. Sloane about this discovery?”
A good question. One tangled in complexities and conundrums.
Outside the mullioned windows, the well-tended shrubbery swayed in the gentle breeze, setting off a subtle flickering of sun-kissed greens. Charlotte would know all the names of the hues. The depth of her perceptions never ceased to surprise him. She saw things that most people missed.
He shifted in his chair, forcing his thoughts back to the moment. “She would never forgive me if I didn’t.”
No frivolous quip, just a solemn nod came in answer.
The muted clink of silver against silver sounded as a footman discreetly removed the empty coffeepot and replaced it with a fresh one. A plume of steam wafted up from the spout, filling the room with the smoky spice of dark-roasted beans.
Sheffield set aside his plate and took a moment to refill his cup. “I don’t envy you the task,” he murmured. A pause as he added a small splash of cream. “Alas, I have some other unpleasant news to add. In making the rounds of gaming hells, I met Benjamin Westmorly. We had a discussion concerning his gambling debts to Chittenden.”
Wrexford waited for the penny to drop.
“It turns out the amount wasn’t quite as large as Locke seemed to imply. And it was paid off several days before Chittenden’s murder.”
“You know this for sure?”
“I do,” answered Sheffield. “First of all, I threatened to cut offbothof Westmorly’s bollocks if he didn’t tell me the truth.” A muscle twitched on his jaw, the stubbling of unshaven whiskers sparking in the light. “Having a devil-be-damned reputation puts the fear of God into those who don’t know the truth about what a lazy fribble I am.”
He flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “More importantly, Debenham, whose word I trust, confirmed that he was with the pair when the vowels changed hands. According to him, the two appeared cordial.”
“It seems Westmorly must move off our list of possible suspects.”
“I’m afraid so—but that’s not the worst of it. Very few banknotes actually changed hands, because in lieu of money, Chittenden accepted certain promissory notes from a third party that Westmorly possessed. I imagine you can guess who owed him money.”
“Bloody hell,” muttered Wrexford. “Locke?”
