“That’s horrible,” she whispered when he finished. “But surely it points the finger of guilt at Lord Thornton.”
He shook his head. “You know as well as I do that conjecture is merely spitting into the wind. To convince the authorities, we need proof, and so far, there’s not a scrap of evidence tying him to Chittenden’s death.”
In her heart, she knew he was right. Still, she couldn’t help but grasp at straws. “Surely, the hidden voltaic pile and grisly remains of that poor creature hint at nefarious doings.”
“Unfortunately, experiments on animals are not uncommon among the gentlemen who belong to the Royal Institution. Curiosity is a trait encouraged by science, and its members often explore ideas outside their own field of expertise. Thornton can simply claim he was interested in testing the principles of medical electricity for himself.”
“Then we must find the proof,” responded Charlotte. But even to her own ears, the assertion rang hollow.
Wrexford, to his credit, refrained from using his incisive logic to point out how daunting—nay, hopeless—a task it would be. Instead, he gave a small nod. “If the proof is there, we will uncover it.”
At that moment, Charlotte wanted to throw her arms around him and hold on very tightly. With her own emotions turning topsy-turvy, she needed his unshakable calm to steady her shaky spirits.
He was watching her intently, and as their eyes met, his expression turned inscrutable.
She quickly looked away, hoping to hide how vulnerable she felt.
Wrexford found her hand and twined his fingers with hers.
The coals crackled in the hearth, raindrops pattered against the window glass, a sheet of music fluttered in a stirring of the air . . . the small, ordinary sounds of everyday moments. And yet they were inexplicably calming.
The worst of her fears slowly subsided.
“Thank you, Wrexford.” His simple gesture and companionable silence had somehow been more eloquent than any words. “For not telling me I’m a bloody fool.”
A ghost of a smile. “I’ve too many faults of my own to think of flinging holier-than-thou pontifications at others.” He turned his head to stare into the fire. “Besides, there’s nothing foolish about trying to move heaven and earth to save a loved one.”
Charlotte curled her fingers more tightly around his, suddenly recalling that the earl’s younger brother had lost his life on some hardscrabble battlefield during the Peninsular War. He never spoke of the details, but she had a sense that he thought himself partly to blame.
She couldn’t imagine how, but it was a private pain, and she had always considered it too intimate to probe.
However, the strange current that had connected them earlier seemed to still be thrumming between them.
“Not a day goes by that I don’t think about Thomas, and how I failed to save him.” Wrexford shifted, his gaze coming to rest on their entwined hands. “He had been ordered by his regimental commander to lead a detachment of cavalry in reconnoitering a strategic mountain pass. I arrived at his camp from Wellesley’s headquarters barely an hour after they had ridden out—and was carrying an urgent dispatch countermanding the order. Our partisan spies had learned that the French had an ambush in place.”
He closed his eyes for an instant. “It should have been easy to press on and catch up with the regiment. But a fierce storm blewin from the mountains, with high winds and driving rain. Our party rode as hard as we could, but the guide lost his way . . .”
“Oh, Wrexford,” she whispered, pressing the palm of her other hand to his cheek.
“‘The best laid schemes of mice and men . . .’” A very Wrexford-like quip, coolly unemotional. And yet, the anguish in his eyes belied such cynicism.
Charlotte leaned closer, her lips feathering against his. She felt his breath catch and then—
“You had better come quickly if you wish some sweets!” Hawk burst into the room and skidded to a halt. “Raven is fast devouring all the tarts.”
The earl pulled back and brushed a crease from his trousers. “Thank you, but Lady Charlotte and I prefer brandy to pastries, Weasel.” He rose and moved to the sideboard. “We’ll join you in a moment.”
As the boy raced back to the kitchen, he filled two glasses and carried them back to the sofa.
“My brother is gone. Let us concentrate on keeping your cousin alive.” The chink in his armor had closed. She didn’t challenge it. “Tomorrow I shall continue making inquiries about Thornton, and see if I can contrive to meet with him.”
“And I,” replied Charlotte, “will do all I can to cultivate a friendship with Lady Julianna and Lady Cordelia at the evening soiree.”
The earl handed her a brandy. “Between the two of us, may a useful clue come to light.”
“A clue.” She suddenly straightened. “Thank God you reminded me of what Hawk discovered this afternoon . . .”
“A hat, and now a coat,” he mused when her explanation was done. “Assuming that memory and a momentary glance in the dark are accurate, it still doesn’t tell us much.”
