“Within our group of artistic friends in Rome, he and I seemed to be the only ones who possessed a certain pragmatism—and resilience,” she said, choosing her words with care. “There were times when Anthony was bedeviled by inner demons . . . I would have felt very alone without Marco’s quiet support and sense of humor.”
She released a tight sigh. “We were friends, nothing more. But that friendship was important.”
“Perhaps I am wrong about him.” Wrexford’s gaze was on the nearby trees, whose leaves were darkening to shades of autumn and growing brittle around their edges. “But given the stakes, I would rather err on caution.”
“What—”
“Allow me to explain,” he interrupted, and then paused, taking a long moment to compose his thoughts. “Your cousin was foully murdered—and then, right around the same time, you reappeared in Society. Those two mysteries stirred a number of murmurs and questions, but they quickly died away, as you infrequently appeared in Society.”
He turned to face her. “A quiet, retiring widow makes for little sport—the tabbies prefer to chase after bigger game. But our upcoming nuptials have reignited interest in you.”
Jealousy. Shakespeare was right about it being a green-eyed monster,reflected Charlotte. Wrexford’s wealth and title made him one of the most eligible bachelors in all of Britain. Money and privilege had a way of blunting the sharp edges of his eccentricities and rapier-like tongue, and many highborn ladies with daughters to marry off did not like seeing him snatched up by a stranger to London Society.
“I’m of the opinion that we should do all we can to give them no grist for the gossip mill. Especially with Becton’s murder reminding people of old scandals,” continued the earl. “That’s why your friend Moretti’s presence is of great concern to me. His loose-lipped talk of knowing you in Rome raises questions about your past—ones that might turn awfully uncomfortable.”
He let his words sink in before pressing on. “You, of all people, know how gossip finds its way into every nook and cranny of the city. Imagine if Gillray gets wind of such titillating rumors. He might very well become curious about a mysterious countess-to-be and seek to uncover the secrets of her past.”
Charlotte wished she could deny it. But hadn’t the same thought just occurred to her and McClellan this past morning?
“Damnation,” she whispered. “I suppose I’ve turned a blind eye on both those dangers because I didn’t wish to see them.”
Wrexford remained silent, and that echoed louder than any reproach.
“Gillray has an even more caustic wit than I do,” admitted Charlotte, her throat suddenly feeling dry as old bones. “And he’s awfully good at sniffing out secrets. I . . . I shall take your warnings to heart.”
His face relaxed ever so slightly.
“But still,” she couldn’t help but add, “Marco is not the sort of fellow who would ever betray a friend.”
“Not knowingly perhaps,” replied Wrexford. “But a friendly stranger who remarks on his acquaintance with the future Countess of Wrexford would likely elicit any number of details about your life in Rome. Like the fact that your husband was an artist, and you, too, had talent. And that it was the offer of lucrative commissions that brought you back to London.”
She felt herself go pale. The thought was a terrifying one—and he was right to frighten her with it.A few strokes of Gillray’s pen, a splash of color, a cutting caption revealing A. J. Quill’s identity . . .her professional life would be over the moment the satirical drawing was hung in the window of Humphrey’s Print Shop.
“You often say that no secret is safe in London,” said the earl. “So it’s imperative to take every precaution. Once we’re married, the interest in us will die down again. But until then, I think it best to keep your distance from Moretti.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
A gust shivered through the trees, rattling the branches.
Drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders, Charlotte waited for him to offer his arm and resume their walk. But a small shuffling of his boots stirred a niggling suspicion.
When still he didn’t take a step, she looked up. “I take it Moretti isn’t the only subject you wish to discuss.”
“Correct.” The earl made a face. “There’s been more trouble.”
* * *
Charlotte waited for him to go on.
“Dr. Hosack’s rooms at the Albany Hotel were ransacked last night, along with the ones occupied by Becton,” explained Wrexford. “The doctor was out for the evening, and the porters claim they neither saw nor heard anything suspicious.”
“Which likely means—” she began.
“That the culprit was a fellow guest?” finished Wrexford. “Perhaps. But a clever fellow would have no difficulty finding his way into the premises. It’s hardly a fortress, and as many of the foreign scholars attending the symposium are staying there, I’m sure there is much coming and going through the main lobby.”
“I suppose we can guess what the intruder was after.” A tiny furrow creased her brow. “I take it he didn’t find what he was looking for?”
Charlotte being Charlotte, she had immediately focused upon the key question.
