“I’ll take charge of the chemicals.” The earl quickly scribbled out a few lines on a piece of paper. “I want you to gather all the information you can on this gentleman. I’ve suggested a few lines of inquiry to pursue.” Likely, he would think of more.
As his valet read over the note, a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I thought you said the Bloody Butcher murders had had nothing to do with you.”
Wrexford set aside the pen. “I’ve changed my mind.”
* * *
The sweet-sharp scent of ginger tickled at her nostrils as a gossamer plume of steam floated up from the mug. “Thank you,” murmured Charlotte, accepting the fresh-brewed tisane.
McClellan smoothed a crease from the coverlet. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No. A bit of sleep is all I need to put me right.” She forced a smile. “My apologies. My digestion is not usually so delicate.”
McClellan fixed her with an unblinking stare. “No, I don’t imagine it is.” A flick of her fingers banished another wrinkle. “Do you wish to talk about it?”
“About what I ate?” asked Charlotte. “In all honesty, I’ve no idea what it could have been.”
The reply earned a tiny frown and a stony silence as McClellan reordered her tray and prepared to leave.
It deserved worse, thought Charlotte guiltily. She disliked being less than forthright with her friends, but she needed to think.
Think.
If only my thoughts would stop spinning and screaming like wild whirling dervishes inside my skull.
“The lads went out to get you flowers from Covent Garden. I’ll make sure they wait until you’ve woken before presenting them.”
“Thank you,” repeated Charlotte, hating the prim hollowness of her words. She despised the everyday deceptions and manipulations that passed for politeness in the beau monde. The self-serving little lies, the puffed-up conceit.
She took pride in being unflinchingly honest, and yet, like Achilles, she had one elemental vulnerability. Whether it would prove mortal to her present existence remained to be seen.
Aside from Wrexford, she hadn’t revealed her true identity to anyone else yet. She had told him she needed time to consider all the ramifications of such a momentous decision.
One that would irrevocably change her life.
Throwing off the covers, Charlotte rose and moved to the mullioned window overlooking the tiny back garden. A chill prickled against her skin as she pressed her forehead against one of the panes. Her breath fogged the glass, and in the blink of an eye, the familiar tree was blurred beyond recognition.
Vita et praebebit spem fallacem—life is but an illusion.
She had always known, deep down inside, that this day would come. Even before Wrexford had known the truth, he had been challenging, cajoling . . .
Daring her to confront the life she had so painstakingly constructed out of smoke and sleight of hand.
Charlotte stepped back and pressed her palms to her eyes, feeling the hot sting of tears.
“Cedric,” she whispered, finally allowing her grief to well up in a shuddering sob. Cedric was dead. Never again would she see the golden glint of his hair dancing in the wind as they rode neck and leather through the rolling fields. Never again would they help each other translate a particularly difficult passage of Ovid from Latin into English. Never again would they steal apple tarts and gorge themselves out by the lake.
They had been little fiends.Cedric, Nicky, Charley—a trio bent on devil-may-care mischief in those long-ago carefree summers.
Her throat tightened. Dear God—what of Nicky? Did heknow yet? The two of them had been the closest of friends—twins in spirit, as well as looks. He would be devastated by the news.
Murder, as she had come to know all too well, always had more than one victim.
Pushing aside raw emotion, Charlotte forced herself to regather her wits and think rationally.Chittenden, Chittenden . . .She paid little heed to the social gossip of the beau monde, but she seemed to recall reading that Lord Chittenden had recently taken up residence in London. She had assumed it was Cedric’s father and had thought nothing more of it.
She had long ago made the decision to cut off any contact with people from her previous life. But if Nicky was in Town, the instinct for self-preservation must yield to the bonds of love. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—remain aloof from the two stalwart friends of her youth.
Murder . . .
