“Ye gods, Charlotte’s stubborn insistence on trusting intuition must be rubbing off on me,” he muttered.
Mention of Charlotte made his mood turn even darker.
Wrexford rose and began to pace around the room. It worried him that circumstances were forcing her to make such a momentous decision. What if she hated the change? He didn’t doubt that she would make good on her threat to disappear. It was, of course, none of his business how she chose to live her life. And yet, she was a friend.
Friend.He felt another twist in his gut. Sheffield had lapsed into a moody silence on leaving the siblings. It was unlike his friend to brood, and as Wrexford paused to stare into the fire, he couldn’t help wondering if his own irascible temper had made him blind to the feelings or needs of those around him.
He was always so bloody quick with his sarcasm. Sheffield deserved more than that.
Thechinkof glass against glass drew him out of his thoughts. Tyler pushed through the door, a tray of just-washed beakers and slides in his arms.
“I’ve laid out the books on Boyle’s experiments,” announced his valet. “Do you wish to begin—”
“Stubble Boyle,” grumbled the earl. He pursed his lips. “Tell me, am I a self-absorbed prig?”
Tyler set down the tray and wiped his hands on the front of his coat. “Pray tell, what’s prompted this sudden bout of introspection? You don’t usually give a rat’s arse about what anyone thinks of you.”
The reply only exacerbated his misgivings. “Never mind,” he said through his teeth.
Tyler raised his brows. “I take it the investigation isn’t going well.”
A grunt was the only answer. Turning away from the taunting flames, Wrexford returned to his desk, determined to make another stab at using logic to organize the facts into some sort of coherent order.
Clink-clink.
He looked up to find his valet had poured a glass of spirits and placed it beside the inkwell.
“Slàinte,” murmured Tyler, lifting his own drink in salute.
“That,” said the earl, “was averyexpensive bottle of brandy.”
Tyler took an appreciative sip. “But of course, milord. Only the best for you.”
“Arse,” muttered Wrexford through a grudging laugh. The heat of the brandy helped dispel the chill in his belly. But before he could say more, a scuffing on the window ledge drew his attention.
The latch jiggled and released. A gust of damp air snaked into the room, followed by a wet boot.
“Kindly pour me a brandy, too, Mr. Tyler—assuming His Lordship can afford it.” Charlotte landed on the floor with a thump, sending up a spray of mud. “It’s raining, and colder than a witch’s tit out there.”
“An interesting metaphor,” observed Wrexford. “But one that’s best not repeated inside a Mayfair mansion.”
She accepted the brandy from Tyler and took a grateful swallow. “You need not remind me that I’ll need to keep my tongue under tight rein—as well as the rest of me.” Her mouth tightened. “I’ll have McClellan tie an extra knot in my corset strings to make sure I don’t come undone.”
It was said lightly, but Wrexford heard the edge in Charlotte’s voice.
“You can still change your mind.”
She looked away. The fall of her cap shadowed her eyes as she took another swallow. “Alea iacta est.”
“The die is cast,” translated the earl. “Nonsense—Fate is always in flux. As an experienced gamester, I assure you that one can always pick up the ivories and throw them again.”
Charlotte didn’t smile.
Tyler cleared his throat, and after gathering up the empty tray, he quietly left the room.
“Did the meeting with Lady Peake not go well?” inquired Wrexford, once the door clicked shut.
“On the contrary, it turns out she’s quite happy to help me. We are meeting tomorrow to begin planning a strategy.”
