“Touché,” she conceded. The observation was true, but it didn’t make her mood any less prickly as she began lacing herself into the silk and whalebone.
With her maid’s help, she rushed through the rest of her toilette and headed back down to the street, where the earl’s carriage was waiting.
Charlotte settled into her seat and fisted her hands in her skirts.
Maintaining a tactful silence, McClellan took a place on the facing bench. A rap on the trap signaled for the coachman to get under way.
“Forgive my black humor,” she said over the iron-shod clatter of hooves and wheels.
“Change isn’t easy,” replied her maid. “But one adapts quicker than one might think.”
McClellan’s cool pragmatism helped settle her jumpy nerves. Leaning back, Charlotte drew a deep breath and sought to compose her thoughts for the coming confrontation. Having faced the prospect of violent death from bullets, blades, and fiery explosives over the past year, she knew that a simple conversation shouldn’t have her insides quaking like aspic. And yet . . .
All too soon, the carriage arrived at the entrance of Green Park. Offering up a silent plea for Lady Luck to look favorably on a fellow female, Charlotte steeled her spine and descended to the pavement. McClellan dutifully trailed along behind her, maintaining the correct distance expected of a lady’s maid.
She took a moment to survey the surroundings. The rendezvous with her relative had been set for one of the footpaths that threaded through the copse of trees skirting St. James’s Palace. To her relief, there were few people in the park at this hour, save for a handful of nursemaids and their young chargesplaying in the grass near the dairy stall. After smoothing the strings of her bonnet into place, Charlotte set off down Queen’s Walk and soon found herself within the welcome shelter of the trees.
She came to a halt in a patch of shade and drew a steadying breath.
A breeze ruffled through the leaves overhead and she was suddenly acutely aware of the flickering patterns of sun and shadow on the gravel beneath her feet.Light and dark, so clearly defined.And yet her life seemed to move through a far more subtle play of nebulous greys.
Her musings were suddenly interrupted by a voice from the past.
“My dear Charlotte! Is that really you?”
* * *
“Wrex!” Sheffield shouldered his way into the earl’s workroom. “Wrex!”
“No need to bellow.” The earl looked up from his laboratory ledger. “I’m here, not in Timbuktu.”
“Ah, thank God you’ve risen from your slumber.” Wincing as a shaft of sunlight from the mullioned windows cut across his face, Sheffield ran a hand through his hair. “Why the devil is there no food in the breakfast room?”
“Because certain of my friends are like a plague of locusts. Cook has been ordered to lock up the larders, lest they be stripped bare.”
“Your butler is far more sympathetic. He’s promised to bring me coffee and a crust of bread.”
“Is there something urgent?” demanded the earl. “Aside from your growling stomach.”
“It would serve you right if I didn’t tell you,” said his friend primly. “However, my loyalty to Mrs. Slo—that is, Lady Charlotte—compels me to overlook your less-than-hospitable welcome.”
“Kit,” warned Wrexford as he put down his pen.
“Yes, yes.” Sheffield dropped his posturing. “I made the rounds of the gaming hells in Southwark after last night’s gathering, hoping to learn a little more about Westmorly.” He paused as the earl’s butler carried in a tray with a steaming pot of coffee and a cold collation of meat and cheese. “Bless you, Riche.”
Holding back his impatience, the earl allowed his friend to take a bite of cheddar before prodding,“And?”
“And I uncovered something that may have relevance to our investigation,” answered Sheffield. “Two of the porters at Lucifer’s Lair were gossiping about a private exchange they overheard several nights ago. Apparently, Jameson Mansfield—the new Earl of Woodbridge, as his father recently passed away—confronted Westmorly and accused him of cheating at cards. He said he wouldn’t make it public if Westmorly stopped playing at all the establishments frequented by theton.”
Wrexford frowned. There was no greater sin against the gentlemanly code of honor than to cheat at cards. Those caught at it were usually publicly called out and ostracized from Polite Society. “I wonder why Woodbridge let him off so easily?”
“As do I.” Sheffield wolfed down another big bite of meat and cheese. “He’s currently at home—I checked with the coachman in the mews. The family town house is just off Hanover Square.”
“Well done, Kit. I suggest we pay him a visit.” He eyed the still-full tray. “Now, if you please.”
After taking a long swallow of coffee, his friend let out a wordless grumble. “Very well. But you owe me a decent supper.”
* * *
