“Yes. And apparently he plays as badly as I do at the gaming tables,” answered Sheffield with a wry grimace.
Yet again, the earl wondered what hold the fellow had on Charlotte. Pushing the thought aside, he pursed his lips. “On second thought, it’s still worth having a chat with Westmorly and delving deeper into how the three of them were connected.”
“On a cheerier note,” went on Sheffield. “It seems Locke wasn’t lying about there being bad blood between Chittenden and Sir Kelvin Hollister. They were indeed vying for the attention of the same young lady, and their exchanges were becoming increasingly acrimonious.” A sigh. “‘O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-eyed monster . . .’”
“Ye gods, you’ve actually read Shakespeare.”
“Only the parts that make a mockery of human foibles.”
Wrexford chuffed a humorless laugh. “So it seems Sir Kelvin is still on the list.” Along with the Honorable Nicholas Locke.
“If you like, I can try to learn a little more about Hollister,” offered Sheffield. “As well as keep probing for information about Westmorly.”
“I’d be grateful for that, Kit.” He reluctantly rose. Loath as he was to tell Charlotte what he had learned, he ought not delay. Locke’s life seemed to be dangling by an ever-fraying thread. If they were to have any hope of proving his innocence before it snapped, they couldn’t afford to waste a moment.
“We need to gather all the facts we can.”
Though he was beginning to fear that facts would do them little good. What they really needed was a damn miracle.
CHAPTER 9
The change was subtle, but the air in the parlor suddenly felt charged with the same sort of thrumming current that presaged a summer thunderstorm. Charlotte didn’t need to look up from her notebook when in the next instant a long shadow fell across the sofa.
She knew who it was.
The earl seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room as he crossed the carpet, compressing the space around her and making it hard to breathe.
“Did you learn anything at the brothel?” she asked, after finishing what she was writing and setting down her pencil.
“Yes.” He moved to one of the armchairs, but didn’t sit. The planes of his face, always sharp to begin with, seemed chiseled to a harsher edge. Fatigue dulled the green of his eyes to a slate-dark hue. “However, you’re not going to like it.”
As if anything about this dreadful nightmare doesn’t send a shiver of dread down my spine.
“Be that as it may, I need to hear it.”
Wrexford hesitated for an instant. “How well did you know Chittenden?” he countered.
Fear squeezed at her lungs. What horror had he uncovered? The earl was not in the habit of pulling his punches.
“I should think it’s obvious I knew himverywell,” she replied.
“But not, perhaps, as well as you might think.” He ran a hand through his wind-snarled hair. It needed trimming, she noted.
“Let’s stop playing cat and mouse, sir. Our previous investigations were hardly all sweetness and light. Haven’t I proved myself capable of hearing grim news?”
“Actually, no,” replied the earl softly. “You fell into a dead faint at learning of Chittenden’s death. That begs the question of . . .”
Charlotte shifted uncomfortably under his hooded stare. “Sit down, Wrexford. I’m getting a crick in my neck staring up at you.”
He didn’t smile.
A stab of guilt cut through her conscience. She didn’t blame him. Were she in his boots, she would take the lack of trust as a slap in the face.
“Sit down, Wrexford,” she repeated.
The words were barely more than a breath of air, but the earl must have sensed the change in her tone, for he did so.
Swoosh, swoosh.With a well-tailored whisper of wool, his broad shoulders settled against the upholstered back of the armchair. Muscles rippled beneath the soft charcoal-colored superfine, reminding her of a stalking panther. A coiled tension radiated from every pore.
