Wrexford was a little wary of the direction the conversation was taking. As he had noted, von Stockhausen appeared very observant—no surprise, of course, for a man who studied the nuances of flora, but an unwelcome complication to a very delicate subject.
“I have heard my colleagues discussing the latest drawing by one of London’s popular artists,” said the Prussian once they had moved closer. “Apparently, it hinted at the possibility that Becton was the victim of foul play.”
Lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “You don’t think . . .”
Wrexford gave a dismissive laugh, intent on nipping the Prussian’s suspicion in the bud. “Good heavens, sir—if you were more familiar with the scurrilous scribblers of this city, you would understand that it’s their bread and butter to indulge in lurid speculations and stir up titillating gossip.” Another curt chuckle. “Pray, don’t allow your imagination to run wild. My understanding is that Becton had been suffering from a weak heart for some time.”
“That’s true,” murmured Hosack. “His health appeared strong enough for him to make the journey, but . . .” The doctor lifted his shoulders in dismay. “But alas, Nature takes its own course.”
Von Stockhausen made a wry grimace. “Ja,come to think of it, he demurred from drinking any wine or brandy at supper, saying his physician had warned him against having any strong spirits.” A mournful sigh sounded. “Forgive me for indulging in childish fantasies. It’s just that it seems like . . . like such a cruel twist of fate for the Grim Reaper to strike at this, of all moments.”
“Life is often unfair,” said Wrexford. “We men of science like to think that we live in an orderly, clockwork universe, where immutable laws govern the workings of the forces of nature. But there are many mysteries of life that defy rational rules. Death is one of them.”
The Prussian responded with a solemn nod.
“And besides,” added Hosack abruptly, “who would wish Becton harm? He was a gentle soul, and though a trifle eccentric, he was admired and respected by his peers. I can’t think of anyone—can you?”
“Nein.”Von Stockhausen looked abashed. “As I said, I reacted foolishly, wishing to find a reason other than bad luck.”
“Understandably so,” said Wrexford. The Prussian had given them some useful answers, and he didn’t wish to encourage further speculation. Nor did he wish for their tête-à-tête to draw attention . . .
Sensing scrutiny, he shifted slightly and caught the hawklike gaze of Captain Daggett, who was watching them, before the American quickly turned away.
“Come, let us go mingle with the other guests, and talk of happier subjects than death.”
CHAPTER 12
The much-anticipated day was finally here. The previous evening, a note had arrived from the dowager informing Charlotte that her brother would be arriving in London by early afternoon. As her family had long ago sold their townhouse in London—both her father and grandfather were country gentlemen who disliked the crowds and filth of the city—Alison had insisted that Wolcott stay with her, rather than take up residence at his club, in order to have a private place for the first meeting.
An intimate family supper for just the four of them was planned . . .
Charlotte wasn’t sure whether to feel elated or terrified.
No wonder her stomach had been roiling like a bubbling cauldron. She had managed to down no more than a few crusts of bread throughout the day, despite several tart rebukes from McClellan.
“Sit still,” commanded the maid, after expelling an exasperated oath. “Unless you wish to greet your brother with hairpins rather than sapphire earbobs hooked through your lobes.”
She forced herself to stop fidgeting. Somehow the hours had slid by and it was now time to ready herself for the occasion. “Are you sure I shouldn’t wear the garnet-colored gown rather than the slate blue?” A glance in the looking glass showed that her face was pale as bleached muslin. “It might help reflect a touch of color to my cheeks.”
Before McClellan could answer, Charlotte huffed a sigh. “No, no—the color red, however muted, might bring to mind a fallen woman.” She bit her lip. “And I suppose a pastel hue would be far too virginal. He’s all too aware that I’m no innocent schoolgirl.”
McClellan slapped down the hairbrush and set a fist on her hip. “You are wearing the blue. If your face is white as a ghost, you have only yourself to blame. Flesh and blood requires hearty nourishment—”
“Before riding into battle,” finished Charlotte. “Forget food. Perhaps I’ll have a wee nip of brandy.”
“Aye, that will bring some color to your face—as you fall flat on your arse.”
Charlotte couldn’t conjure up a clever quip. Her sense of humor was fast giving way to dread. Afraid to look at her own reflection, she averted her eyes and forced herself to breathe.
“Don’t fret. I’ll not send you to meet your brother looking like death warmed over,” assured McClellan, her tone softening in sympathy. A few deft twists and hidden pins created a graceful topknot. After loosening a few curls to frame Charlotte’s face, the maid threaded a slender silk ribbon through the upswept tresses.
“Now turn here and let me smudge a bit of kohl on your lids. A hint of shadow adds an air of mystery.”
She submitted to the maid’s ministrations, then ventured a peek. To her surprise, the glass didn’t crack into a thousand shards.
“You look lovely,” murmured McClellan. “Not that your brother will be looking for glitter or glamour. From what Lady Peake says, he’s as anxious as you are to repair the rift in the family.”
“Yes, but . . .” Charlotte’s heart gave a tiny lurch. “What if he’s disappointed? Or takes a dislike to me?”
