Leaning a bony shoulder against the molding, McClellan cocked her head. “Still wrestling with your better nature?”
An unseen finger of air seemed to tug at the candle in the maid’s hand. The flame shimmied, setting off jumpy flickers of red-gold light. They were gone in an instant, leaving behind a darkness that looked even more impenetrable than before.
“You’ve make it clear which combatant you think should win,” said Charlotte softly.
“Nay, it would be the ultimate hubris to counsel another on what choices are best. God knows, I’ve made enough mistakes to fill my own lifetime twice over.”
“Sub omni lapide scorpio dormit,” muttered Charlotte.
“Under every stone sleeps a scorpion?” A low laugh rumbled in the maid’s throat. “Ain’t that the truth.” Her mouth twitched. “Though I rather prefer a more pungent saying—semper in excretia sumus solim profundum variat.”
In spite of her tangled emotions, Charlotte couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “We are always in manure, it’s only the depth that varies,” she translated. “I wasn’t aware that you knew Latin, McClellan.”
“Only bawdy jokes or unladylike aphorisms.” A shrug. “Tyler is a bad influence on me.”
“Unladylike aphorisms—along with every other unladylike behavior known to man—are quite at home here.”
Their gazes met and held for a moment.
“Trust your heart, Mrs. Sloane. It’s a good one.” Outside, the wind swirled and shivered against the windowpanes. “Trust the earl as well. I don’t think you’ll regret it.”
McClellan straightened and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Now I’ll go fetch you some tea.”
A warmth was already spreading in Charlotte’s belly, slowly dispelling the lump of ice.
Choices, choices.
She drew in a deep breath, aware that thethump-thumpof her heart had suddenly turned steadier. And then she reached for her pen and began to compose the letter that would more than likely seal her fate.
* * *
“Sir Kelvin.” Wrexford caught up with Hollister as he turned into the arched foyer leading to one of the side salons.
The young man looked around, surprise widening his brown eyes. His face was undeniably attractive, the aquiline nose, well-shaped mouth, and square-cut jaw topped by a profusion of artfully tousled auburn curls. But no match for Chittenden’s gilded beauty.
“Sir?” he said with a tentative smile.
“Might I have a word with you?”
A furrow formed between Hollister’s brows, but he quickly smoothed it away with a polite nod. “Yes. Of course.”
Wrexford indicated the doorway leading to the corridor. “Perhaps somewhere more private,” he murmured. “I have some questions to ask you about Lord Chittenden.”
The light beneath the vaulted ceiling was muddled, grey on grey shadows dimming the glow of wall sconces. Still, it seemed that Hollister’s face paled at the mention of the baron’s name.
“I—I don’t know what I can tell you, other than I’m devastated by the news of his death. I wasn’t at the Duke’s soiree, so know nothing about the night of his demise.”
“I’m more interested in his life than his death.”
Hollister was now white as a ghost.
“Come, I won’t keep you long.” Taking the man’s arm, the earl led him to one of the study rooms at the end of the corridor.
A long mahogany table set with straight-back chairs was on one side of the room. The two large oil lamps on the sideboard were lit and turned down low, the flames glowing gold within the glass globes. A pair of leather armchairs was set by the large hearth. Fresh coal chunks were in the grate, but they lay cold and dark.
Wrexford struck a flint to the brace of candles by the door and carried it to the marble mantel.
“Have a seat,” he said.
