Stepping back, Sheffield quickly turned the key and allowed Raven to barrel into the room, followed by two women and a man. Charlotte recognized Mademoiselle Benoit despite the hooded cloak that concealed half of her face. As for the other two . . .
Cordelia let out a strangled shriek and darted forward to seize the man in a fierce hug.
Oh, surely not ...
Charlotte shot a questioning look at Raven, who gave her an inscrutable smile. But before she could ask any questions, Cordelia released her embrace, and her tears of joy gave way to righteous fury. Grabbing the man’s lapels, she shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth.
“You bloody idiot! Of all the cork-brained, ass-witted behavior! Howdareyou frighten me half to death?”
Oliver Carrick—at least Charlotte assumed the dazed-looking fellow was Cordelia’s missing cousin—opened his mouth to speak, but Cordelia cut him off with another verbal salvo.
“What were you thinking!” she demanded. “Didn’t it occur to you that hiding made you look guilty as sin?” She thumped a fist to his chest. “Speaking of guilty, we just discovered—”
“First things first, Cordelia,” interrupted Wrexford. “Let us hear what Carrick and his friends have to say before we speak of anything else.”
Cordelia hitched in a breath but gave a grim nod of understanding.
“I—” began Carrick.
“As for you two, what the devil is going on?” Cordelia couldn’t keep from directing her ire at Mademoiselle Benoit and the other woman. “The three of you have a great deal of explaining to do!”
“Perhaps,” counseled Sheffield, “if you stop ringing a peal over your cousin’s head, we can begin to make some sense of what is going on.”
“An excellent suggestion. I’ll fetch some tea.” McClellan rose and, on catching Charlotte’s gaze, gave a subtle signal to Raven.
“A very interesting young man.” The older woman with Mademoiselle Benoit—based on Hawk and Peregrine’s report, Charlotte knew exactly who she was—raised her brows at Charlotte as Raven followed the maid into the corridor. “I take it he works for you?”
“In a manner of speaking,” she replied coolly, wary of revealing any information about her family to a woman as sharp as Sarah Guppy. “But we have more important things to discuss—and you’ve saved us the trouble of traveling out to Fulham to interrogate you.”
Charlotte took a moment to study the woman’s unremarkable face, but her expression was a cipher. “To begin with, why have you and Mademoiselle Benoit been conspiring to keep Oliver Carrick in hiding?”
A flicker of amusement lit in the woman’s eyes as she moved to join Charlotte by the earl’s desk.
“You must be Lady Wrexford.” On receiving a nod of acknowledgment, Mrs. Guppy added, “I have heard a great deal about you from a friend who attends Lady Thirkell’s salon for intellectually minded ladies.” She didn’t elaborate. “Are you interested in science, milady?”
“I occasionally attend Lady Thirkell’s Bluestocking soirees because I enjoy intelligent conversation on a great many subjects,” replied Charlotte, carefully parrying the woman’s probing.
“Your husband has the reputation of being a brilliant chemist.”
“Among other things,” she said softly.
“Ah, yes . . . his hair-trigger temper.” Mrs. Guppy tapped a finger to her chin. “Should I be worried?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” asked Mrs. Guppy.
“On whether he believes that you’re a cold-blooded killer.”
A smile. “I’ll take my chances, for I have heard that along with a fearsome temper, he also possesses an analytical mind, razor-sharp logic, and a conscience that values the truth.”
Charlotte gave the woman credit for her show of unflappable calm. Indeed, her nerves appeared forged out of steel.
Whether that was good or bad remained to be seen.
“My husband and I both value the truth. So why don’t you begin explaining why we should believe that you and your two companions are not guilty of a heinous crime?”
“That promises to be a rather long conversation. Might we wait for our tea?” Mrs. Guppy glanced at the sideboard. “Or perhaps pour ourselves a stronger libation before we get down to business.”
