“There may have been two assailants,” said Tyler, already moving slowly around the room, looking for any clues.
Wrexford, however, remained standing where he was, trying to make sense of these grisly murders. And yet, they seemed to defy all logic.
Damnation—what am I missing?Had hubris led him to force the pieces of the puzzle together in order to fit the pattern he wished to see?
A grunt from Tyler drew him back to the moment. “There’s a drop of blood here—it’s still damp.” He looked around. “And there’s another.”
Following the trail brought him to an archway leading to a different section of the conservatory.
“Redraw your pistol,” murmured Wrexford as he joined the valet, “and let’s see where it leads. The murderer may still be here.”
Easing into the murky darkness, he moved over the flagging as silently as he could. He was back in a specimen gallery, this one filled with potted palms in a variety of shapes and sizes.
The fluttery, knifelike greenery was thick and drooping . . .
Covering a multitude of sins?
Holding his breath, Wrexford stopped to listen.
A small rustling caught his ear, just a little louder than the whispers stirred by the drafts snaking in through the mullioned glass.
He crept closer to the alcove, where a half-dozen squat date palms were arranged in a circle, the lush, fan-shaped fronds curtaining the interior space. For a long moment, all was still.
Then the rustling came again.
Kicking over one of the trees—it toppled with a crackling thud—the earl lunged into the tangle of branches. A scream shattered the silence. A fist smacked flesh. Another tree went flying.
Tyler raced closer, pistol ready as he danced around the thrashing greenery, trying to discern friend from foe.
The sound of running steps pounded over the walkway as Sheffield shot through the archway, Hosack right at his heels.
The struggling suddenly ceased as Wrexford landed a hard right cross that stunned his adversary. The man went limp, allowing the earl to haul him free of the trees and slam him up against one of the interior walls. A bruise was purpling the blackguard’s cheek and blood was trickling from his nose.
Wrexford shook him again, like a mastiff toying with a bone. “You bloody, two-faced monster!” Rage bubbled up inside him, hot as acid, on recalling the man’s charming little flirtations with Charlotte. His murderous hands had dared to touch her—
“Wrex!” Sheffield grabbed his arm before he could slam his fist into his captive’s bleeding nose. “Enough, Wrex! Enough.”
The blackguard’s eyelids flew open, fear dilating his pupils.
His friend’s words cleared the haze of fury from the earl’s head. Lowering his clenched hand, he drew a measured breath. “Count yourself lucky. Unlike your victims, you’re still alive. But I shall take great pleasure in watching you dance the hangman’s jig, once we turn you over to the authorities for the murder of Josiah Becton, as well as the two just now . . .”
Wrexford couldn’t refrain from giving the man another teeth-rattling shake.
“So, tell me, how did you learn about Becton’s discovery, and when did you begin plotting this diabolical crime, Mr. Moretti?”
CHAPTER 16
“Oh,Dio del cielo!” Beneath his bruises, Moretti had turned white as a ghost. “I—I—I haven’t killed anyone—I swear it, milord!” He was trembling so badly that his knees would have collapsed if the earl hadn’t kept him pinned to the wall.
“Then what the devil are you doing here?” demanded Wrexford, giving him another shake.
“I was asked to come!” replied Moretti in a strangled voice.
“Why?” asked Sheffield. “And, Wrex, do take your hand off his throat so that he might give us a coherent answer.”
It was, decided Wrexford, a reasonable request. He released his hold, but balled his hand into a fist. “Go on, Moretti. However, you had better tell the truth or I’ll knock your lovely pearly teeth down your gullet.”
Hosack looked a little rattled. “Would His Lordship really do such a thing?” he whispered to Tyler.
