“Aren’t we all?” muttered the maid.
“Yes, well, misery may make welcome company,” replied Charlotte wryly. “However, that doesn’t help to solve one’s problems.”
“Perhaps Wrexford will have some ideas.”
“Let us hope so,” Charlotte replied. “For I fear that Raven will take it awfully hard if Lady Cordelia is caught up in some trouble.”
* * *
Darkness had settled over the city by the time Wrexford arrived at Charlotte’s residence.Just as well, he thought as he mounted the steps and rapped on the door. As a widow, Charlotte was allowed a good deal of leeway regarding the strictures of Society, especially as word had been discreetly passed to the neighbors that McClellan was a maiden relative, which allowed a gentleman to visit without stirring scandal.
Still, given her reintroduction to the beau monde, he didn’t wish to provide the tabbies with grist for gossip by being too overt about his visits. That they could count on not being skewered by A. J. Quill helped quash any speculation. Given that Charlotte had attacked him before, the other satirical artists would assume that she would be the first to know of any indiscretion.
McClellan answered his knock and took his hat and coat.
“Halloo, Mac,” he said. “The Weasels seemed rather blue deviled when they brought Lady Charlotte’s message. Have you cut off their jam tarts for some misbehavior?” A pause. “If it has to do with some noxious odor, the fault lies with Tyler and me.”
“I wish it were that simple, milord,” replied the maid, a worried expression on her normally stoic face. “But I’ll leave it for Lady Charlotte to explain.”
He glanced at the parlor. An ominous silence hung heavy in the air, despite the cheery glow of lamplight spilling out through the half-open door.
“She’s waiting for you,” said McClellan. “Shall I bring you some tea?”
“It sounds like I may need a good Scottish malt instead.”
“Aye,” came the terse reply. “I put the bottle on the sideboard.”
Not a good omen.
The maid retreated toward the kitchen, leaving him to enter the parlor on his own.
Charlotte looked up. “Thank you for coming so swiftly, Wrexford,” she said, closing the notebook in her lap and setting it aside. “I’m very grateful.”
He moved around the armchair, choosing instead to sit on the sofa beside her. “How can I help?”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure where to begin. I had intended to ask your advice on a personal matter. But on returning home from a meeting with Aunt Alison, I learned of an unsettling turn of events that’s even more pressing.”
“Go on,” he encouraged, sensing her uncertainty.
“Lady Cordelia—and her brother—appear to have gone missing . . .” She explained about her friend’s abrupt departure from the previous lesson and her failure to show up for the afternoon appointment.
“It’s odd, but not overly alarming,” responded Wrexford after taking a moment to think over what she had told him. Seeing she was about to speak, he quickly added, “Though what you saw and heard the night of the ball does add an element of concern.”
“I wonder where they’ve gone,” she murmured.
“They could very well be at their country estate. It’s expensive to keep up the trappings of an earldom,” he pointed out. “Wine merchants, tailors, bootmakers, carriages, servants . . . If Woodbridge is in financial straits, he may have decided to escape for a bit from the dunning of his creditors. And leaving the knocker up doesn’t give away his flight.”
“I suppose that makes some sense,” said Charlotte. “And Lady Cordelia may have felt compelled to go with him, both as a measure of support and to counsel him on the dangers in . . .” Her mouth tightened for an instant. “In whatever havey-cavey business is going on.”
“Let’s be careful not to jump to conclusions.” Speculations had their own inherent dangers. “In my scientific experiments I’ve learned that one must follow the empirical evidence, rather than assume the result before it’s happened.”
“I—”
Charlotte’s reply was interrupted by McClellan, whose brusque knock was followed by the click of the door latch. “Forgive me for interrupting, but Mr. Sheffield is here and asking to see you. He says it’s urgent.”
“Merciful heavens!” Charlotte rose, her look of alarm mirroring his own misgivings. Sheffield, for all his exaggerated quips, rarely indulged in true melodrama.
“Please have him come in,” she went on.
