Charlotte winced. “So it’s really true.” She waited as McClellan entered and set the tea tray on the side table and discreetly withdrew. “Just, er, one is missing?”
The earl nodded in confirmation.
Taking a small notebook and pencil from the pocket sewn into her work gown, she looked up expectantly. “Did Mr. Griffin describe how the victim was situated when he was found, and what the state of his clothing looked like?”
“I thought you might inquire about that. The poor fellow was seated slumped, but still upright, on the bench in the Queen’s Alcove. Death was caused by a single knife thrust to the heart. The blade then sliced the fastenings on the left side of the trousers . . .” Wrexford gave a short, succinct summary of the corpse’s condition.
For all the ghoulishness of the killer’s mutilation, it sounded as if he had performed the task with a certain civility, removing the trophy with surgical precision. No other damage or disfiguration had occurred.
From what Charlotte had heard about the previous deaths, it was the same modus operandi. Though, she reminded herself as she finished jotting her notes, that didn’t necessarily mean it was the same killer. Over the years, she had learned that criminals could be diabolically cunning. Someone might be mimicking the Bloody Butcher to cover his own personal reasons for wanting the victim dead.
Whatever the motive—assuming a madman could be said tohave rational thoughts—Charlotte had a feeling this was going to be a horribly difficult murder to solve.
That the victim was from the highest circle of Society could soon have the investigators caught up in a vortex of secrets and lies. Beneath their gilded smiles and polished manners, the wealthy hid a multitude of sins.
“What a coil,” muttered Charlotte as she rose and went to pour tea for him before it turned cold.
“Indeed,” agreed Wrexford. “Though you will likely make a fortune, given the rather sensational nature of his injuries.” He pulled a face. “Thank God I can’t be accused of having any connection to the fellow. I hadn’t yet made his acquaintance.”
She began adding sugar to his cup. “Is the identity of the victim known?”
“Yes. He’s a young gentleman from the North by the name of Lord Chittenden.”
The spoon slipped, sloshing hot tea over her fingers.
“A baron from the Lake District,” the earl went on. “Apparently, he had only recently come into the title . . .”
A strange buzzing rose in Charlotte’s ears, drowning out the rest of his words.
And then suddenly the room began to spin.
CHAPTER 2
“Allow me to congratulate you, Mrs. Sloane,” drawled the earl as Charlotte’s eyes fluttered open. “For the first time in our acquaintance, you’ve finally reacted like a normal, flighty female who swoons into a dead faint at the mention of an indelicate subject.”
She tried to sit up, only to choke back a retch and sink back down against the sofa pillows. Her ghostly pale face was now shaded with a faint tinge of bilious green.
Wrexford realized with a start that he had never seen her look so shaken. Refraining from any further jesting, he rose and fetched the bottle of brandy that he knew was kept in one of the cabinets.
“Drink,” he commanded, splashing a measure into the empty teacup and bringing it to her lips.
Charlotte gagged at the first sip, but managed to down a weak swallow.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, so softly that he barely could make out the words. “This changes everything.”
A cryptic announcement, which could mean any number ofthings. Given the secrets within secrets in which she had swathed her true self, it wasn’t surprising.
She had recently revealed her real identity to him. It had come as a bit of a shock to learn the fiercely independent young widow, who through hard work and unshakable strength had created a profitable business for herself, was, in fact, an aristocrat. The daughter of an earl, who had tossed away a life of privilege and comfort to elope with her drawing master . . .
Shaking off his momentary musing, Wrexford asked, “Would you care to elucidate on that statement?”
But before Charlotte could reply, McClellan hurried in with the reviving compress he had called for.
“Permit me to be of assistance, Mrs. Sloane.” With her usual show of brisk efficiency, McClellan took a seat on the edge of the sofa and applied a wet cloth to Charlotte’s brow.
“A whiff of vinaigrette might also be advisable,” murmured the earl. Charlotte was still looking as pale as death.
Both women reacted with a very unladylike reply.
