A soft splash, and then a winking of tawny sparks skittered across the plaster wall as the earl swirled the spirits.
Oh, surely, he wasn’t thinking . . .
“I should have told Bethany that I wasn’t free to assist with an unfortunate incident in the conservatory. I saw you were about to seek me out, and yet I went with him.” Wrexford drew in a measured breath. “That was a mistake.”
“A mistake to follow your conscience?” she asked.
Finally a twitch of his lips. “I don’t have a conscience. I tend to act on ill-tempered impulses.”
“Bollocks,” she uttered. “You spoke earlier of a moral true north. Your heart is unerringly drawn to that same point on the compass.”
“There are times when one should temper idealism with pragmatism in order to protect—”
“Protectme?” Charlotte sighed. Ah, now they had come to the crux of the problem. “Lud, Wrexford, our relationship has never been ruled by conventional strictures or expectations. I think we both might expire from boredom—or frustration—if we tried to stifle who we are.” A pause. “Don’t pretend my impulses don’t drive you to distraction.”
That drew a chuckle. “What a pair we make.”
“A well-matched pair,” she murmured.
“Like two finely crafted dueling pistols?” he quipped.
Thank heaven his sense of humor is back.“You have to admit, we are always primed to shoot off sparks.”
“True.” He took a swallow of whisky. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t take care to avoid being singed by every challenge that rears its ugly head. Let us leave this to Griffin.” They had met the Bow Street Runner when Wrexford was the prime suspect in a grisly murder. Antagonism had turned to respect—and then to friendship. Griffin’s taciturn demeanor hid a clever, methodical mind and he proved to be a valuable ally in their subsequent investigations. “If the higher authorities look to be ignoring what he turns up,” continued Wrexford, “A. J. Quill can always stir public sentiment in order to keep pressure on them to solve the crime. But I don’t see any reason to allow ourselves to be personally drawn into the conundrum of Becton’s murder.”
That made perfect sense. And yet, as Charlotte rose in response to the boiling kettle, she couldn’t shake off a niggling feeling that reason might be overpowered by other forces.
* * *
His face grey with fatigue, Henning ran a hand over his unshaven jaw and blew out a harried breath, then paused in the doorway to stomp the mud off his boots before entering the room.
“Bless you, Lady Charlotte,” he rasped as she handed him a steaming cup of tea, well fortified with brandy.
Hosack flashed a grateful smile as he, too, watched her splash some spirits into his cup. “Thank you.” In response to her gesture, he took a seat on the sofa. “Once again, allow me to express my sincere regrets for having turned your evening plans topsy-turvy.”
“Please don’t give it a thought, sir,” replied Charlotte. “You’ve far more important things on your mind than whether I sat down to a fancy supper.”
Tyler smiled. “I told you there was no need to fret.”
“Indeed, let us put aside politeness,” said Wrexford, “and get down to brass tacks, as it were.” Henning’s face had been easy enough to read. “I take it that the examination has confirmed that Becton was murdered?”
“Aye, laddie, I’ve no doubt about it,” said the surgeon. “Hosack soaked up a spill of the champagne with his handkerchief. The three of us examined the crystals from the cloth, as well as those from the glass, under my microscope and concur that the concentration was lethal.”
“The question,” mused Wrexford, “now becomes how you will identify the culprit and prove the crime.” He looked to Charlotte, who nodded for him to go on. “We can offer one small clue, yet I can’t say whether it will be ultimately of any use.” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “A witness saw the gentleman who tossed the glass into the greenery of a gallery near the scene of the crime—”
Hosack put down his cup with a clatter.
“But alas, it was dark and the person only caught a momentary glance. It was impossible to make out any distinguishing details, save for the fact that he was about my height.”
“Who was the witness?” demanded the doctor. “Perhaps if we press the fellow, he’ll recall more—”
“I’m quite satisfied that he won’t,” cut in Wrexford.
“His Lordship was involved in military intelligence during the Peninsular War,” explained Tyler to Hosack. “He’s very skilled at extracting information, so I think we can take his word on that.”
Hosack’s face fell, but he nodded in understanding. “Still, it tells us something . . .”
Us.Wrexford intended to nipthatthought in the bud. But he decided to allow the American to finish.
