“That’s wonderful,” she replied.
Moretti had always possessed a very sharp mind, as well as the ambition to make a name for himself. A frustrating combination, when one was poor as a church mouse. But unlike her late husband, Moretti had possessed the grit and resilience to pursue his passion, despite all the obstacles.
“Might I inquire—”
“No, no.” Exaggerating a grimace, her friend held up his hands and waved off any further words. “It’s bad luck to say anything more until the agreement is finalized.”
“Very well. But allow me to wish you good luck—and good fortune.”
“Sì,that is acceptable.”
Hearing Wrexford’s voice resonate in one of the outer rooms, Charlotte placed a hand on Moretti’s sleeve. “The earl has arrived. Let us go greet him.”
“If you don’t mind, I prefer to remain here and continue my search for a certain book,” he replied.
She had forgotten that a prickly pride had been a volatile part of Moretti’s temperament. It had always rubbed him a little raw that the students who possessed wealth and social status, rather than talent, waltzed through doors that were closed to him.
“As you wish.” Perhaps she could convince Wrexford to go out of his way to be pleasant at the next symposium gathering . . .
The sound of footsteps was coming closer.
“Ciao,Marco,” she murmured, and then slipped out of the alcove.
CHAPTER 9
“Ah, there you are.” Wrexford glanced at the shadowed opening between the shelves, a tiny frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “McClellan said you were looking for a certain book. Have you found it?”
“I believe I have.” Charlotte had spotted a portfolio of botanical illustrations by Merian just before Moretti’s greeting had distracted her. Backing up a few steps, she turned and plucked it from the shelf, then hurried to join him.
The earl offered his arm.
Smiling, Charlotte set her hand on his sleeve, only to find it was rigid as steel. But as she looked up in question, his lashes flicked in a warning to hold her tongue.
“It’s a pleasant day,” he remarked. “If you’ve finished your shopping, I thought we might take a stroll in Green Park.”
“Of course.”
They made their way out to Piccadilly Street, McClellan trailing along behind them to maintain the rules of propriety.
“Was that Moretti with whom you were speaking?” he asked as they turned into the park and started down one of the side footpaths.
“It was,” she answered, a little nettled by his tone. “Why do you ask?”
Gravel crunched underfoot as Wrexford walked on in silence, the brim of his hat casting just enough shadow to muddle the top half of his profile.
Crunch, crunch.His pace slowed as the path led through a small copse of trees. “Because he worries me,” he finally answered.
Marco?It seemed so absurd that she almost laughed. However, his expression stilled her mirth. “Good Lord, surely you’re not jealous.”
“I have many faults,” he replied. “That is not one of them.” Catching her frown, he added, “Both Kit and I sense something self-serving about him. Which makes us question whether he can be trusted.”
“You judge him on a fleeting few minutes? That’s terribly unfair—and unlike you, Wrexford.”
“Nonetheless, that’s my impression,” he responded. “You’ve been urging me to trust my intuition.”
“Marco has an inner strength—an ambition to excel, if you will—that perhaps strikes you as aggressive. But to me . . .”
How to explain?
