Sniff, sniff.
Hope—irrational, though it was—flared to life. “The scent seems distinctive.”
Wrexford looked down his long nose at her. “Have you any idea how many variations of snuff mixtures there are in London?”
“I’m not a mathematician—large numbers befuddle my brain,” she shot back. Her shoulders slumped. “I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. I was simply grasping at straws.”
“If you’ll allow me to take the evidence with me, I’ll have Tyler examine it under the microscope and see if he spots anything useful. But I wouldn’t have high hopes about it.”
“The poor man will be cursing me from here to Hades for adding yet more work to his list of duties,” said Charlotte.
“He’s not paid to curse, but to perform whatever sartorial or scientific tasks need to be done,” replied Wrexford dryly, pocketing the items. “And be assured, it’s a princely amount. He has no cause for complaint.”
Given the earl’s mercurial moods, she thought, the valet likely earned every farthing.
His sardonic smile had already disappeared, replaced by a tight-lipped grimness. Rising, he began to pace the perimeter of the room. “You had better change into your urchin’s garb if you intend to come along to Newgate. We need to be leaving shortly.”
As Charlotte moved to the door, she heard a faint scuff.
Wrexford must have caught it, too, because he spun around, his eyes narrowing to a slitted stare.
Silence.But neither of them was fooled. The boys possessed the light-footed quickness of their namesake weasels to go along with their batlike hearing.
“As you are so fond of saying, Mrs. Sloane,” he muttered softly, “no matter how much discretion one uses to keep them well-guarded, no secret is ever safe.”
* **
The stench, the screams, the ooze of utter despair bleeding from flesh and stone—a second visit only seemed to amplify Newgate’s horrors. Wrexford followed the gaoler through the endless turns of the grimy corridor, their thudding steps lost in the cacophony of curses and howls.
Head down, Charlotte kept pace. Whatever she was feeling, she kept it well hidden.
Thank God.He didn’t dare contemplate the consequences if she were to lose her nerve.
Nicholas’s cell was marginally less revolting. There was a small table and several straight-back chairs . . . decent bedding . . . a hamper of food and drink . . . extra clothing brought from his lodging. All of which had not come cheap.
The earl hoped the fellow was worth it.
A look at him sitting on his bed, shoulders slouched against the wall, didn’t inspire much confidence. His hair was matted, his jaw unshaved, his gaze dulled with apathy.
Or was it guilt?
“Nicky.”
Charlotte’s sharp voice roused naught but a momentary flicker of awareness.
“Go away,” he mumbled. “Don’t waste your time with me.”
During the carriage ride to the prison, Wrexford had counseled her that a show of sympathy might salve her own spirits, but it wouldn’t save Locke’s neck. To have any chance of proving him innocent, they had to rattle the truth out of him.
“Feeling sorry for yourself, are you?” Charlotte crossed the small cell in several swift strides. “Fine. You have two choices—curl up like a muckworm and wait for the hangman to put you out of your misery.” A kick to the bedstead punctuated her words.
Nicholas was suddenly sitting up straighter.
“Or pull your bloody wits together and help us figure out who murdered Cedric!”
“And then there’s a third option,” murmured the earl into the momentary silence. “You can confess your guilt here and now, and save us all a great deal of aggravation.”
A flash of fire lit in Nicholas’s eyes. An angry flush rushed to his cheeks. “I didn’t kill my brother!”
