“That’s one plausible scenario,” said Charlotte. “But it doesn’t feel quite right.” A chill seemed to shiver through the cut glass in her hand. “If only Carrick would make an appearance.”
Cordelia shifted, her shoulders sagging as the weight of the silence grew heavier. She looked down, hiding her face, and the sag turned into a quiver.
Sheffield put down his drink and moved without a word to draw her up from her chair and into his arms.
All the fear and worry that was pent up inside her broke free in a muffled sob. Sheffield held her close and stroked her hair, allowing her sorrow to run its course.
“Ye heavens, I never cry!” Cordelia finally looked up in consternation, tears pearled on her lashes. “It’s just that I can think of only two possible explanations as to why Oliver hasn’t shown his face.” She swallowed hard, trying to steady her emotions. “He must be dead . . . Or he must be guilty.”
Anguish rippled through her watery eyes. “A-And I’m not sure which one I want to be true.”
Charlotte felt a clench in her chest, knowing full well that murder destroyed far more than a single life.Trust, loyalty, love—all the truths that one took for granted could crumble into dust in the space of a heartbeat.
“Let us not lose faith,” she counseled. “We ought not jump to any conclusions until we have gathered all the facts.”
“Speaking of which, did you two learn anything from Mademoiselle Benoit?” asked Wrexford.
“Alison contrived to get us alone with her,” replied Charlotte. “She seemed agitated, and after assuring her that we only wished to help her if she was in trouble, she seemed on the verge of confiding in us—”
“But Montaigne rushed over and demanded that she come with him,” interjected Cordelia.
“However, Alison managed to get a private word with Mademoiselle Benoit later in the evening,” added Charlotte, and explained about arranging a possible rendezvous with the Frenchwoman.
“Perhaps she will come,” said Sheffield, “but in all honesty, I don’t think it likely. She’s involved too deeply in a very sordid scheme involving theft and murder—and she knows it.”
“Still, I’m willing to give her a chance,” said Charlotte. “I say we go to Green Park tomorrow.”
Cordelia gave a wordless nod.
“Fair enough,” said Sheffield. He then gave Cordelia another quick hug and drew her to her feet. “Come, my love. I think we’ve done all we can for tonight. Let us take our leave and return home.”
Charlotte waited until the sound of their steps died away before rising and moving to the earl’s desk to retrieve her notebook. Wrexford was standing at the windows, his back turned to her as he stared out at the dark-on-dark gardens. She recognized the set of his shoulders all too well—he was deep in thought, and she didn’t wish to break his concentration.
Instead, she returned to her seat and, after flicking to a fresh page in the notebook, began to draw random doodles. Sometimes the visual images that appeared when she gave her mind free rein sparked unexpected insights, though she couldn’t begin to explain why.
Whoosh, whoosh. . . on instinct, her hand moved over the page, rapidly filling it with lines and squiggles. Turning the page, she began anew. Perhaps the whisper of the soft graphite point dancing over the paper was a calming sound . . .
She looked up to find Wrexford had moved closer and was peering over her shoulder at the image.
“An apt metaphor,” he remarked after studying her drawing of a bridge crossing a dark and impossibly long chasm.
“I suppose it is.” She sighed. “Alas, it’s unclear whether the design or construction materials are strong enough to bear our weight as we attempt to cross it.”
“We are moving slowly and carefully,” he replied.
She was usually more optimistic than Wrexford, but the sight of the black chasm she had sketched suddenly shook her own self-confidence. “Yes, but it could crumble at any moment.”
“Fortes fortuna juvat,” he murmured.
Fortune favors the brave.His use of a Latin aphorism to lift her spirits made her smile in spite of her fears.
“There are risks in any endeavor, my love.” He added after leaning down to brush a kiss against the nape of her neck. “And you have to admit, whatever the dangers we stumble over, we always seem to land on our feet.”
CHAPTER 18
The following day proved disappointing. As Sheffield predicted, Mademoiselle Benoit failed to appear at the appointed rendezvous spot. As Wrexford watched a dispirited Charlotte and Cordelia trudge into the drawing room after lingering for more than an hour near the gate of Green Park, he offered encouragement.
“Don’t look so blue-deviled. There are a great many reasons as to why mademoiselle couldn’t join you,” counseled the earl. “She may be afraid of her co-conspirators, she may be committed to attend one of the conference panels, she may—”
