Miss Mather appeared mortified as he muttered a barely civil good-bye to the group and stalked off. “Please forgive David’s rudeness,” she apologized. “He’s been quite overset by the recent death of our cousin.”
“My condolences,” said Miss Greeley. “I wasn’t aware of your loss.”
“O-our families aren’t close,” stammered Miss Mather. “But David had formed a friendship with our cousin, and he’s taken it hard.”
Charlotte understood her reluctance to elaborate. Murder was something that touched the lower classes. It wasn’t a subject to sully the sensibilities of the beau monde.
“I’m so sorry. Was it sudden?” inquired Miss Greenfield politely.
“Quite,” answered Miss Mather, averting her gaze.
Silk rustled, the group’s comfortable camaraderie broken by the ugly incident. Someone coughed.
Darting a look at the far end of the room, Miss Mather gathered her skirts. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go pay my respects to the dowager Duchess of Wooster.”
Her departure couldn’t quite dispel the lingering pall of embarrassment, and after a few stilted pleasantries, the group drifted apart.
“One can’t help but wonder what provoked such an ungentlemanly outburst,” murmured Alison once they were alone. “Aside from grief.”
Charlotte merely nodded.Fear.She hadn’t missed the flash of fear in David Mather’s eyes at the mention of the dark-haired gentleman.
The question was why.
“Now that I’ve played my part as a polished and proper lady of the ton, might we take our leave?” she asked.
There was yet another role to play before the night was over.
* * *
“I fear that I possess precious little patience.” Sheffield paused as a guilty grimace tugged at his mouth. “And even less common sense.”
Wrexford had closed his eyes, allowing the warmth of the whisky to mellow his mood. With great reluctance, he raised a lid. “We’re all idiots, Kit.”Especially when it comes to love.
His friend forced a wan smile. “Yes, but some of us are more so than others.” He rose—a trifle unsteadily—and went to stand by the hearth. After staring for a long moment at the unlit coals, Sheffield turned and braced one arm on the mantel.
“I owe you an apology, Wrex. I let a recent promise take precedent over a longtime friendship. It was wrong—”
“Kit—” began the earl.
“No. Let me finish.”
Wrexford’s grudging sigh signaled him to go on.
“You trusted me, and I let you down,” said Sheffield. “You deserved my loyalty, and my honesty.” He shifted his stance. “I won’t make the mistake of prevaricating again.”
The mention of prevaricating caused Wrexford to feel a spasm of guilt. Keeping secrets, however well intentioned, was fraught with peril. Omissions tangled with misunderstandings, and suddenly trust, an oh-so-fragile bond to begin with, snapped.
“I owe you the truth, and if Lady Cordelia doesn’t agree, then, well . . .” Sheffield squared his shoulders. “So be it.”
“Since we are baring our souls,” interjected the earl. “I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with you, either.” Charlotte would likely tease him for allowing emotion to overrule reason. But in this case, he would gladly be hoisted with his own petard.
“So,” he added, “you may save your breath when it comes to explaining the business arrangements you’ve made with Lady Cordelia. I know about the account at Hoare’s bank. Griffin learned about it during the course of investigating the murder at Queen’s Landing and came to ask me some questions about it.”
Sheffield appeared stunned. “But I . . . I can’t imagine how the two things have anything—anything!—to do with each other.”
In for a farthing, in for a guinea.
“Allow me to explain . . .” Wrexford gave a terse account of the murder victim’s relationship to Woodbridge’s banker, David Mather.
