“Wrexford. Sheffield.” Jameson Mansfield—the new Lord Woodbridge—inclined a polite nod as he entered the side parlor, though a faint crease between his brows betrayed his puzzlement. “I apologize for receiving you in such an informal room, but the servants are making some repairs in the drawing room.” A cough. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit?”
“A matter of honor,” replied the earl.
Woodbridge maintained a rigid smile, but the color drained from his face. “I—I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“Then allow me to explain,” said Sheffield, who quickly recounted what he had heard the previous evening.
“Is what the porters said true?” asked Wrexford.
Woodbridge moved to the tray of crystal decanters on the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. His hands, noted the earl, were shaking. “May I offer you gentlemen some refreshments?”
“I’d prefer an answer,” he replied.
Lifting the glass to his lips, Woodbridge took a long swallow. “Yes, it’s true.”
“Why?” asked Sheffield. “Why let the cad escape without exposing his misdeeds? That goes against the grain of a gentleman’s code of honor.”
“I—I have my reasons. They are personal, and I don’t wish to discuss them.”
“Forgive me, but I’m not inclined to accept that as an answer.” Wrexford perched a hip on the arm of the sofa. “You see, I’ve learned that Lord Chittenden settled gaming debts with Westmorly just days before his murder. Which, as surely you can see, raises unsettling questions.”
“I know nothing about that!” exclaimed Woodbridge. Despite the coolness of the room, his forehead was now sheened in sweat. “I swear it.”
“Be that as it may, your information may help to solve a very heinous crime.”
“B-But the newspapers say Chittenden was the victim of his younger brother, who killed him in order to inherit the title.”
“Newspapers care about sales more than they care about the truth,” replied Wrexford. “So, again I ask you, why did you allow Westmorly to go unmasked as a cheat?”
Woodbridge tugged at his cravat, as if the elegant folds of snowy white linen were a noose tightening around his throat. His answer, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. “I can’t tell you that.”
“You’re the Earl of Woodbridge,” pointed out Sheffield. “And Westmorly is a mere mister. Your word would carry more weight than his.”
“I . . .”
The drawing room door came open, cutting short his stuttering. Wrexford turned to see a tall, willow-slim lady dressed in indigo silk reclose it and turn the key before moving across the carpet to join a still-gaping Woodbridge.
“Let us drop all prevarication, Jamie. Given the circumstances, I think we owe these gentlemen an honest answer.”
She turned to fix the earl and Sheffield with a cool stare. Like her gown, her eyes were a shimmering shade of grey and dark blue. “Please forgive my brother. Hedoeshave a sense of honor—he’s choosing to protect his sister, which is why a venomous snake like Westmorly was able to wriggle free.”
“You have certainly piqued my curiosity, Lady . . .”
“Cordelia,” croaked Woodbridge. “Lady Cordelia Mansfield.”
Lady Cordelia Mansfield.The earl vaguely recognized the name. A spinster and a Bluestocking, Woodbridge’s sister was a member of several intellectual societies, where, much to the horror of Polite Society, she dared to challenge the scholarly papers presented by the gentlemen members.
Which might explain, he reflected, why she was rarely seen at any of the fancy balls and soirees of the beau monde.
By the wary expression on Sheffield’s face, he, too, was aware of her reputation.
“Perhaps we should all be seated,” said Cordelia, after her brother finished stammering through the formal introductions. “There’s no reason to be uncomfortable when one is conducting an interrogation.”
The earl noted the glint of sardonic amusement in the lady’s eyes. His first impression was that she was a far more formidable opponent than her brother . . . assuming she meant to cross swords with him. As he took his place in one of the overstuffed armchairs, he found himself rather hoping she would.
Sheffield sat in the matching chair, while the two siblings moved to the facing sofa.
“Shall I ring for tea?” Again he heard the edge of mockery in her voice.
