His palms felt blessedly warm against her flesh.
“You’re cold as ice. What’s wrong?”
“DeVere,” she said through chattering teeth.
“DeVere?”
“He’s here,” Charlotte explained, Wrexford’s presence allowing her to shake off the last lingering bit of panic. “He sailed over from New York with Quincy. Apparently, he headed to America when he left England.” She repressed a shiver on recalling his words. “He told Sir Robert that he had been drawn to the country by its reputation as a land of opportunity.”
The earl muttered a low oath. “I wondered where he was. I assumed he had returned to India.”
“Would that he was half a world away,” she whispered.
Wrexford caressed her cheek and let his fingertips linger. “He can’t hurt us, my love. The authorities know his dirty little secret, and that in itself will keep him on his best behavior. I doubt he wants to reopen Pandora’s box, given that all the evils shoved into its darkest crevasses are tied to him.”
Perhaps not, but I think he’s willing to risk it.
Charlotte looked up. “He threatened Hawk.”
The warmth of Wrexford’s touch disappeared when for an instant his hand clenched into a fist. He forced it to relax, but the look in his eye would have spooked the Devil himself.
“Not in so many words,” she added. “He’s far more insidious than that. He suggested that we put the past behind us, acting, of course, like a perfectly reasonable gentleman. But we both know he’s not.”
The earl’s expression hardened. “Two can play at cat and mouse, my love. There are ways of exerting pressure that will cause him to think twice about attempting to hurt our family.”
She wished she could believe that. But . . .
“Wrexford, he’s mad. Not in a way that is obvious to others. Which makes him all the more dangerous. It’s a question of obsession. He wants to go down in history among the great minds of science. And he’ll do anything—anything—to achieve his goal.”
She paused as he drew in a measured breath, then hurried on before he could respond. “To him, murder is no obstacle to obtaining what he wants. Given his friendship with Quincy, it seems he’s found a new idea of how to grab the fame and glory for which he so desperately yearns.”
“That’s a logical assumption,” replied Wrexford. “But actual evidence often proves it’s dangerous to leap to conclusions. Griffin will be thorough in investigating Becton’s murder. We must trust him—”
“Of course I trust him,” interrupted Charlotte. “But you can’t think that I can turn away from this now, and leave it to others to solve the murder.”
He looked away for a moment, the muddled gloom making it impossible to read his expression.
“I can’t turn away,” she said simply. “This is no longer a crime that doesn’t touch us. DeVere has made it personal.”
“We don’t know that for sure yet. But regardless, I promise you that he won’t harm those we love.” He twined his hand with hers. “We need to return to the soiree. Given our absence from the festivities at the Royal Botanic Gardens, it’s best not to stir further speculation.”
Stirring speculation was not to be wished for. But its threat paled in comparison to having a poisonous serpent once again slithering through their world.
CHAPTER 8
“Hell’s bells.” Sheffield took a gulp of wine after Charlotte finished giving an account of her encounter with DeVere, and then blew out his breath.
Wrexford had found his friend with Cordelia, and together with Charlotte, the four of them had moved to a secluded spot in the small portrait gallery off the King’s Drawing Room. Under the guise of admiring the paintings, they were able to have a private conversation.
“That’s bloody awful news,” added Sheffield, after another quick swallow of his drink.
Cordelia nodded in grim agreement, her face creasing in concern as she looked at Charlotte. “I can’t believe he’s returned to London out of sentimental yearning. He’s here for only one reason—to gain something he wants very badly.”
Revenge.That was Wrexford’s immediate thought. Like Charlotte, he had no illusions as to DeVere’s true character. The so-called gentleman’s polished veneer—courtly manners, elegant parties, immense wealth, and taste, which he used as a generous patron of the arts and sciences—hid a dark rot that had eaten away at his soul.
There was a certain irony to the evening, decided Wrexford, as he took in the stately surroundings. The graceful melody of the string quartet . . . the sparkle of the bubbling champagne . . . the sonorous tones of conversation . . . the sumptuous art . . . the distinguished guests . . .
And among them was a cunning killer.
