“I wouldn’t know,” muttered Woodbridge. “I don’t make a habit of frequenting the gaming hells.”
Deciding there was no more to be learned, he rose. “I appreciate your time—and your candor. You may rest assured that what you’ve told us will be held in strict confidence.”
“I shall see you out.” Woodbridge was quick to get to his feet.
Sheffield, noted the earl, was a fraction slower to follow.
As they reached the door, Wrexford noted a carefully folded black overcoat sitting atop one of the bookshelves. Poking out from behind it was a curled brim.
He turned. “By the by, Lady Cordelia, what style of hat do you wear as your lucky talisman?”
She smiled. “From what I hear, milord, you have no need of such superstitious fiddle-faddle.”
“One never knows.”
The lady had a very musical laugh. “If you must know, it’s a Wellington.”
He felt himself stiffen. “A Wellington?”
“Yes,” replied Cordelia. “The crown is low enough not to look absurd on a lady’s head, and the jaunty curl of the brim adds a touch of whimsy.”
The flesh-and-blood Wellington wasn’t noted for his whimsy—for those who faced his armies on the Peninsula, he was known as a harbinger of death. But Wrexford kept such thoughts to himself.
“I see,” he murmured. “Well, let us hope that it continues to be a fortunate choice for you.”
* * *
Abandoning her half-finished drawing with a frustrated huff, Charlotte moved from her desk to the window and pressedher forehead to the mist-chilled glass. The last glimmers of dusk had given way to a black velvet sky threaded with ribbons of smoke-dark clouds.
Somewhere in the distance, a low rumbling warned that rain was imminent.
Her flesh suddenly felt cold as ice. The sound seemed to echo her inner turmoil—an irrational reaction, she knew, given that the meeting with her great-aunt had gone so well. And yet, the prospect of gaining entrée to the inner sanctums of the beau monde—the elegant drawing rooms, the glittering ballrooms—filled her with dread.
Polished flatteries, pasteboard smiles.A thin veneer of civility masking jealousy, greed, and the lust for power. All the things that had compelled her to flee in the first place.
“Iwon’tbecome one of them,” vowed Charlotte, her breath fogging the windowpane. “Iwon’t.” But the words failed to loosen the knot in her gut.
Turning away from the darkness, she went to warm her fingers over the lone candle burning on the side table. Tomorrow . . . tomorrow she would once again don silks and satin to spin through an intricate dance of lies.
“Lies,”she whispered, setting the flame to shivering. “Perhaps my life has been so entangled in lies that they’ve become woven into the fabric of who I am.”
Drawing a shaky breath, she blew out the light and hurried from the room. Sleep, she knew, would never come. Her own weak voice would never chase the demons from her head. For that, she needed a more sarcastic snap and snarl.
Be damned with ruffles and lace. Darting into her bedchamber, Charlotte quickly dressed in breeches and boots, then tiptoed down the stairs.
CHAPTER 17
“Bloody hell.”
Wrexford balled up the list he had been writing and tossed it into the fire. The paper emitted a sharp hiss and crackled into ash. As he watched the wisps of smoke tease against the brass fender, he muttered another oath.
His gaze moved to the neat rows of chemicals and glassware lining the shelves above the counter of his workroom. He liked order. Science appealed to him because it was based on reason. One could, through careful study and observation, make sense of random chaos, while people and their motivations were a damnable puzzle. Emotions rarely surrendered to common sense.
Frowning, Wrexford slouched back in his chair and steepled his fingers. Could Lady Cordelia Mansfield be a murderess? The Wellington hat was a chilling coincidence. And there was no question that she had the cleverness and the feisty courage for it. As for motive . . . perhaps Chittenden had threatened to expose her masquerade. She and her brother had admitted to financial pressures, and money was often at the root of evil.
And then, there was the very personal nature of the crime.A lady scorned and betrayed might be tempted to slice off a man’s . . .
No, he just couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Yes, Cordelia possessed a steely strength, but there was something about her laugh that didn’t resonate with murder.
