“Nor do we need to burn a feather under my nose,” added Charlotte. “Or any other of the damnably stupid remedies you men deem essential for the weaker sex.”
Wrexford was somewhat reassured by her show of sarcasm. “Yes, I can see that you’re well on the way to recovery.”
She chuffed a snort.
“M-M’lady’s not . . . going to die, is she?”
He turned to see the two boys hovering in the shadows of the doorway, their faces clouded with uncertainty. Growing up in the stews of London, they had no illusions about how swiftly the Grim Reaper’s scythe could strike.
“No, lads,” he answered quietly. “It was just a passing megrim. These things happen.”
“Not to m’lady.” Fists clenched, Raven edged into the room, belligerence not quite covering the flicker of fear in his eyes. The boy had assumed the role of protector to his youngerbrother and Charlotte—a heavy weight for such young shoulders. “Ye must have done something to upset her.”
“Not intentionally. But if you feel compelled to bloody my beak, we can step out to the garden and settle the matter like gentlemen.”
“Good God, let’s not add any further violence to the morning,” rasped Charlotte. To Raven, she added, “Be assured, His Lordship was no more annoying than usual.”
A grudging grin tugged at the boy’s mouth. “Oiy, well, in that case, I won’t have to thrash him to a pulp.”
“If you wish to be truly useful with your fives,” interjected McClellan, “you and your brother could fly to the greengrocer and fetch me more gingerroot for an herbal tisane.”
As their steps peltered down in the corridor, Charlotte pushed herself into a sitting position. Her gaze, noted Wrexford, avoided meeting his.
“I fear I must have eaten something that disagreed with me,” she muttered. “I’m still feeling rather nauseous.”
She looked ill, but the earl was sure it was not on account of any tainted food.
“Milord, if you would excuse us, I think it best for Mrs. Sloane to retire to her bedchamber,” suggested McClellan.
Charlotte’s eyes remained averted. No question she was hiding something.
“Of course.” He rose without argument. “I’ll see myself out.”
On reaching the street, he climbed into his carriage and leaned back against the squabs as the coachman cracked the whip.
Questions, questions.
Closing his eyes, Wrexford pondered the strange scene that had just taken place. No one—no one!—of his acquaintance possessed the same core of unshakable strength as Charlotte Sophia Anna Mallory Sloane. Not only had she calmly faced terrible revelations about her late husband, which would havecrushed a lesser woman, she had also endured death threats to her beloved urchins . . . and charged into danger, time and time again, with no thought to her own safety. Not to speak of her profession, where she had not let the harsh realities of life corrupt her idealism or her commitment to justice and social reform.
Her courage, both moral and physical, was frightening—which made her reaction to the Kensington Palace murder all the more disturbing.
There seemed to be only one logical answer. Lord Chittenden was not a stranger.
A past lover, perhaps?
The idea was more unsettling than he cared to admit. Granted, as a widow, she was allowed more freedom in her personal life than other women. Or ladies, he corrected himself. Charlottewasa highborn lady, which allowed her even more leeway . . .
Pushing such thoughts aside, Wrexford concentrated on the practical question—what was her connection to the murdered baron? For the rest of the ride home, he pondered the possibilities.
“Tyler!” he barked, striding into his workroom without pausing to hand over his topcoat and high-crown beaver hat to the trailing footman.
“Milord?” His valet looked up from the various cauldrons suspended over several flaming spirit lamps. Steam had plastered his red-gold hair to his angular brow. In the glow of the fires, his eyes had a demon-like glow, giving him the look of Vulcan’s apprentice.
“Might I finish adjusting the temperatures before you go on?” added Tyler with an aggrieved sniff. “The process, as you well know, requires precise concentration.”
Wrexford perched a hip on his desk and folded his arms.
After several minutes, Tyler straightened, and wiped his hands on his shirtfront, leaving a gunpowder grey streak on the whitelinen. “I shall need to cool the liquids in a quarter hour. In the meantime, is there some other task you wish done?”
