“You’re acquainted with Wrexford?”
“I am,” said Charlotte, but chose not to elaborate.
Cordelia opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it and made a show of patting back a tiny yawn. “If you’ll excuse, I’m feeling a trifle fatigued, so I think I shall seek out our hostess and take my leave.”
From somewhere in the room came the sharpcawk-cawkof Lady Thirkell’s pet parrot.
“Enjoy your parlor games,” added Cordelia, spearing another look at Julianna’s gifts. “Who knows? Perhaps you’ll discover something interesting.”
CHAPTER 22
The earl held his breath as Thornton passed by the stairwell. For an instant, the candle flame flitted over his rain-spattered face, catching the wild light in his eyes as he darted a nervous glance over his shoulder.
And then his visage was once again swallowed by the darkness.
Picking up his pace, the marquess continued down the corridor, the flapping of his coat adding to the blur of light and dark patterns skittering through the gloom. To Wrexford’s surprise, he didn’t stop at the entrance to his own laboratory, but kept going and darted into the adjoining corridor.
“What’s happening?” whispered Sheffield as the sound of the steps faded away.
“It’s Thornton,” replied the earl. “He’s heading to the back of the building.” He eased the door open. “Whatever mischief he’s up to, let us catch him in the act. Stay close.”
Drawing the pistol from his pocket, Wrexford set off in pursuit.
Hugging close to the wall, they followed Thornton into theside corridor. The darkness seemed to squeeze the air from the narrow space. The earl shallowed his breathing, the thud of his heart sounding unnaturally loud in the stifling silence.
Another turn and he spotted a flare of light up ahead. He halted and felt Sheffield brush up against his back. Thornton had set his candle down on the floor and was crouched down by a door, working with a steel probe to open the lock.
Wrexford took a moment to gauge the distance, then gave a quick tap to Sheffield’s sleeve. They covered the distance swiftly, and reached their quarry just as a softsnicksounded and the door released.
Thornton picked up the light and placed a palm on the paneled wood—
Grabbing the marquess’s collar, Wrexford shoved him inside as Sheffield drew the door closed behind them.
“W-What the devil,” sputtered Thornton, then fell silent as the snout of the pistol jammed up against his throat. The candle had gone out, leaving them shrouded in blackness.
“Devilis an apt word,” muttered Wrexford as he swung his prisoner around and pushed him up against the near wall. “Find a lamp and light it, Kit. And then let us have Lord Thornton explain to us why he just broke into Justinian DeVere’s laboratory.”
Glass rattled against metal, flint struck steel, igniting a soft hiss as a wick burst into flame.
The oily glow illuminated Thornton’s face. It was pale as death.
“Go to hell,” said the marquess through clenched teeth. “I’ve got nothing to say to you, Wrexford.” He inhaled through his nose. “Save for the fact that I’m surprised at your perfidy. I would have thought you possessed more honor and more intelligence than to be conspiring with a madman on such despicable experiments.”
Wrexford frowned in consternation . . . and then chuffed aquick laugh. “A clever ploy to play the innocent—but, clearly, you’re a diabolically clever fellow. However, I know what evil you’re up to, so don’t bother trying to gammon us.”
Sheffield picked up a scalpel from the work counter and waggled it to punctuate the warning. “The only words we want to hear from you are a confession as to why you murdered Lord Chittenden and Benjamin Westmorly.”
It was Thornton’s turn to look nonplussed. “I?A murderer?” He lifted his chin, unflinching as the pistol’s barrel dug deeper into his flesh.
Wrexford could feel the jumpy pulsing of the fellow’s blood against the steel.
“It’s you who are mad,” continued the marquess. “Let us not waste our breath in whatever word games you are playing. Go ahead—pull the trigger and be done with it. I may have failed to bring you miscreants to justice, but someone eventually will.”
“Another eloquent avowal. However . . .” Wrexford reached out slowly and took the hat from Thornton’s head. “You made a crucial mistake by wearing such a distinctive head covering to the scenes of the Bloody Butcher murders. We’ve found witnesses who have described it.” As he angled the hat to the lamp, light winked off the silver button on the band.
“Bloody hell—that isn’t my hat!” sputtered Thornton. “I hung my hat and my coat in the private cloakroom of my corridor earlier today. When I went to fetch them this evening, someone had taken mine—by mistake, I assumed, as this one was hung on the peg. But as it was raining, I took it.”
A grimace spasmed over his face. “The damnable thing doesn’t even fit—it’s too small!”
