“It’s not a matter of trust, Wrexford,” she replied. “It’s . . .” A sigh. “It’s just that I feel I burden you with enough of my problems as it is.”
“Friendship isn’t a burden.”
Their eyes met, entangling her in a connection she didn’t dare try to define.
“If you’re wrestling with two conundrums,” he added, “chances are you won’t deal with either of them very well.”
“Ever practical and logical,” she murmured.
A flicker of amusement lit in his gaze. “Yes, well, you know me—my outlook on life is blessedly unclouded by feelings.”
“Impossible man,” she muttered.
Which made him laugh.
The rumbled sound somehow seemed to loosen the tightness in her chest.
“If you must know,” conceded Charlotte, “Alison informed me this afternoon that my brother Hartley, the present Earl of Wolcott, now that my father and his first heir have shuffled off their mortal coils, reached out to her and would like to meet with me.”
Pursing his lips, Wrexford considered the news. She didn’t need to explain any further—he was well aware that her stiff-rumped family had disowned her years ago, when she had eloped with her drawing master.
“And you don’t wish to do so?”
“The thought terrifies me,” she admitted. “I’ve no idea what he’ll think of me.”
“Of course it terrifies you. The unknown is always frightening,” he replied. “But you’re no longer a green girl of seventeen. You’ve experienced life and conquered adversity, which has given you strength and courage, as well as the confidence to determine your own life.”
Charlotte felt her a lump rise in her throat.
“He has no hold over you or what makes you happy,” said Wrexford. “If he’s unpleasant in any way, you can simply spit in his eye.”
All at once, the conundrum seemed to unknot itself. “I can, can’t I?” She considered the thought. “But Hartley was always kinder to me than my father or eldest brother.”
He shrugged. “That wasn’t so difficult. As I said, problems often untangle themselves when you attack them en masse.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Yet again.”
“As I’ve said before, we’re not keeping a ledger,” replied Wrexford. “Though if it makes you feel any better, I would welcome your advice on what to do about Kit.”
So he, too, had realized their earlier silence with Sheffield was fraught with profound consequences.
“We’ve kept him in the dark about what you witnessed between Lady Cordelia and her brother. And then there’s the murder at Queen’s Landing . . .” His brows rose in question.
“You must tell him about Lady Cordelia,” she said without hesitation. “Otherwise he will see it as an elemental betrayal of your friendship—and the damage to your bond might not ever be repaired.”
He gave a reluctant nod. “I know you’re right.”
“If it’s any solace, I think we can in good conscience make no mention of the murder. It’s likely nothing to do with her brother, so until there’s any evidence to the contrary, there’s no reason to say anything.”
“Still, I fear Kit is liable to go off half-cocked and get into trouble. He hasn’t our experience in how to conduct a discreet investigation.” Wool rustled as he turned in profile, casting his features in shadow. “It’s likely that the disappearance of Lady Cordelia and her brother is due to personal family travails. But if, perchance, it’s part of a greater web of intrigue, then he could find himself ensnared in danger.”
“I worry, too,” answered Charlotte. “And yet he wouldn’t thank us for trying to shield him from danger. So we’ll just have to do our best to keep him from coming to grief.”
* * *
“Pssst.”
Sheffield whirled around and peered into the silvery swirls of mist ghosting through the deserted street. Too agitated to sit still in a hackney, he had decided to walk back to Mayfair from Charlotte’s residence. But perhaps it hadn’t been the wisest of ideas.
