“You have no idea where he’s living?” she asked.
“I don’t,” replied the surgeon. His mouth puckered around his pipe stem. Charlotte could almost hear the unhappy grinding of his molars. “If he returns, I’ll see what more I can learn. He sees me as a kindred soul, so that may loosen his tongue.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte knew how much the grudging agreement had cost him.
She rose, the pamphlet still in her hand. “May I take this for Wrexford? He needs to convince Griffin that Ashton’s murder was not a random attack by footpads.”
“Aye,” muttered Henning. “God grant that this sordid situation can be resolved without further bloodshed.” Puff, puff. “But as I’m a hard-bitten cynic, lassie, I doubt that will prove the case.”
CHAPTER 6
Wrexford set aside his book on Priestley’s theories, finding it impossible to concentrate on abstract mysteries of science when an all too real conundrum was tugging at his thoughts. A glance at the clock showed it would be hours and hours until Sheffield returned.
“Damnation,” he muttered under his breath. Patience was not among his virtues—the list of which would be a very short one.
The thought of lists drew his gaze to his desktop. Mrs. Ashton’s sheet of stationery lay next to the note that had drawn her husband to his death. Much as it seemed the lesser of the clues in solving the murder, he decided it would be wrong to make assumptions and ignore it.
Wrexford picked it up and reread it. Eight names. The brief notations on how each knew of the inventor’s work gave little insight into possible motivation. The widow would of course be able to elaborate . . .
He frowned, recalling her suggestion that Octavia Merton and Benedict Hillhouse—the top two names on the list—would be the ones to consult about any personal conflicts that might have turned violent. She had voiced nothing negative about the pair, but he sensed that beneath all her perfectly proper words there was much left unsaid about the Ashton household.
The inventor, a longtime bachelor, had appeared wedded to naught but his work. The decision to take a bride late in life might have sparked trouble. Scientific observation proved again and again that the introduction of a new ingredient into any mix could often have volatile results.
Taking up the list, Wrexford rose and called for his hat and overcoat.
A short while later, the butler of the widow’s borrowed townhouse escorted him into the drawing room and withdrew to inform Mrs. Ashton of his arrival.
It took only minutes for her to appear. “Lord Wrexford!”
He turned from the set of landscape engravings hung above the sideboard.
Isobel stepped into the drawing room and drew the door shut. Her hair was drawn back in a severe bun, its midnight hue combining with the black mourning gown to heighten the paleness of her face. “H-Have you news about Elihu?”
Silently cursing his thoughtlessness, Wrexford shook his head. “Forgive me, Mrs. Ashton. I should have sent word I was coming, rather than shocking you with an unexpected visit. However, I wanted to ask you a few questions about the names on your list.”
Isobel touched a hand to her bodice and summoned a smile. “Of course, of course. I didn’t mean to suggest that I expect miracles, milord.” A tentative wave indicated two facing sofas near the bank of diamond-paned windows. “Please have a seat.”
Given Sheffield’s surprising revelation about the lethal note, a miracle might be in hand, allowing them to quickly learn the truth about her husband’s murder. Wrexford hesitated for a moment, then said, “I may have a lead on the note written to your husband. A friend thinks he recognizes the handwriting. Tonight we are going to make the rounds of the gambling establishments in Southwark, where the fellow is known to play.”
Her eyes widened ever so slightly.
“Mind you, I don’t wish to raise false hopes. It could very well be a wild goose chase.”
“I understand.” She took a seat and motioned for him to do so as well. “May I offer you some tea?” A slight pause. “Or brandy?”
Wrexford wondered what she had heard about him. Clearly nothing good about his personal peccadillos.
“Thank you, but I’ve no need of refreshments.” He, too, allowed a moment of silence. “But please don’t let that stop you from ordering some sustenance.”
The widow laughed, its musical lightness at odds with her somber appearance. “Dear me, I’ve had so much tea pressed on me lately that I swear, it could float a twenty gun frigate. So I, too, shall forgo the usual social rituals, no matter that tea is considered a panacea for all ailments.”
Her sense of humor surprised him. Or perhaps intrigued was a better word. He sat up a little straighter.
“Forgive me if that sounds awfully blunt. But I sense that both of us prefer plain speaking,” went on Isobel, as if reading his mind.
“Plain speaking is a very polite way of referring to my interaction with people,” replied Wrexford. “I’m considered outspoken to the point of rudeness, and am said to have a vile temper.”
She arched a brow. “And is it true?”
“For the most part,” he replied. “I don’t suffer fools gladly.”
“Ah.” Rather than appear intimidated, Isobel seemed amused. “I shall have to take care not to appear a feather-brained goose.” Looking down at her lap, she smoothed at the folds of heavy bombazine fabric, and in an instant all trace of humor was wiped from her face.
“How can I help?” she said softly.
He took out her list and a pencil from his coat pocket. “I’d like to learn a little more about the people on your list . . .”
Wrexford asked a few questions about six of them, jotting some notes in the margin before circling back to the two names written at the top of the page.
“And now to Octavia Merton.” He looked up. “During our first meeting, you suggested that she and your husband’s laboratory assistant would know the most about who might wish Mr. Ashton ill.”
“Yes,” she replied. “They worked very closely with Elihu, so it seems a reasonable assumption.”
“So it does.” Wrexford hesitated. “You mentioned plain speaking just now, and so I feel beholden to ask you something before we consider any other questions. Do you consider either of them suspects?”
Her expression didn’t change, but a certain tension seemed to take hold of her, drawing the flesh taut over the delicate planes of her face. Her cheekbones looked sharp as razors. “If I gave you the impression that I think Octavia or Benedict to be guilty of any nefarious doings, then I am sorry,” she replied in a carefully controlled voice. “I did not mean to do so.”
“Your sense of noblesse does you credit,” he murmured. “But anything less than complete candor will make the very difficult task of finding your husband’s killer impossible.”
She gave a tiny nod. “I understand, Lord Wrexford.”
“Excellent.” He watched her for a moment longer, wondering if he had been too harsh. However she met his gaze with a calm composure.
A woman who doesn’t rattle easily. Which was all for the good, reflected Wrexford, seeing as he wasn’t very good at tempering his tongue.
“Then let’s start with Miss Merton. How did she come to be part of your husband’s household?”
“Her parents died in a carriage accident when she was fourteen, leaving her alone in the world. As her father was Elihu’s cousin, he offered her a place in his home,” answered the widow. “That was nine years ago.”
“Would you describe their relationship as cordial?”
“My husband was exceedingly fond of Octavia.” She drew in a barely perceptible breath. “And she appeared to feel the same way about him.”
“Appeared to?” repeated Wrexford. “You doubt the sincerity of her sentiment?”
Isobel considered the question for a long moment before answering. “I find it hard to discern Octavia’s true sentiments about most things. She behaves with perfect propriety, but my sense is, she
keeps her inner thoughts very . . . well guarded.”
Wrexford considered the answer. But before he could frame another question, she continued, “In fairness, I imagine it wasn’t easy for her when Elihu married me. She had run the household and served as his secretary for so long that it’s only natural she might feel resentment at the change.”
Change was a challenge for most people, reflected Wrexford.
“How would you describe your own relationship with Miss Merton?” he asked.
For an instant, a mirthless smile tugged at the widow’s lips. “Coolly correct.” Her fingers twined in the silk fringe of her black shawl. “I’ve tried to kindle a warmer rapport, but with no success.”
“And yet you tolerated her presence? I would have thought . . .” He let his words trail away.
“To Elihu she was family,” answered Isobel. “It would have been wrong of me to force him to make any painful choices.”
Wrexford hesitated. Further personal probing, he decided, would only be jabbing a needle into a raw nerve. The two women were not on friendly terms. How much that colored the widow’s assessment of Octavia Merton was hard to know.
“Just one last question for now. Can you think of any reason why Miss Merton would wish harm to come to your husband?”
“No.” Isobel hesitated. “But as I’ve said, I find it difficult to discern Octavia’s thoughts.” She shifted, setting off a faint rustling of fabric. “Perhaps it would be better if you spoke with her yourself. Shall I ring for her?”
“She’s here?” he asked in surprise.
“My husband was always hard at work on his projects, even when traveling. So yes, both Octavia and Benedict accompanied us to London.”
Wrexford edged forward on the sofa. “Yes, I’d very much like to have a word with her.”
Isobel summoned a footman. “Please ask Miss Merton to come to the drawing room.” Then leaning back against the cushions, she folded her hands in her lap and turned her gaze to the windows. Her expression was as inscrutable as stone.
He regarded her profile for a long moment and then on impulse asked one more question. “If I asked you to describe Miss Merton in a single word, what would it be?”
Her reply came with no hesitation.
“Secretive.” She exhaled a wry sigh. “But then, I suppose we are all guilty of having secrets.”
* * *
“Another visit te His Nibs?” Raven made a face at Charlotte’s request to take a second package to Wrexford’s townhouse. “Sending him billy-doos, m’lady?” he murmured, giving a credible pronunciation to the French term for love letters. Though where he had overheard that term was an unsettling thought.
She repressed a sigh. He was fast growing out of childhood into adolescence. Given his fierce independence, she had no illusions about the battles that lay ahead. The struggle over name-choosing would likely seem a mere ripple on calm water . . .
“Don’t be impertinent,” she said tartly.
“Wot’s billy-doos?” demanded Hawk.
“A silly jest that doesn’t merit a reply.” Charlotte finished knotting twine around the package for Wrexford. “Both of you are letting your speech—and your manners—slide into the muck. I know you can do better.”
Hawk hung his head in contrition. “I’m sorry, m’lady.”
Raven’s reaction was harder to gauge. He had always been far better at hiding his feelings than his younger brother. Turning into the shadows, he took a moment to pluck at a loose thread on his sleeve before meeting her gaze.
“Just let us know when your missive is ready, milady,” he said in perfect imitation of a proper little Etonian. “It would give us great pleasure to deliver it forthwith to the Earl of Wrexford’s townhouse.”
Charlotte couldn’t hold back a burble of laughter. “Be off with you, Weasels,” she said, using the earl’s sardonic name for the pair. “And do not pester His Lordship’s cook for sweets.”
A guilty flush colored Hawk’s face. “Yes, m’lady.”
As they hurried away, she turned and found herself confronted by the still-jumbled assortment of half-packed boxes stacked around the room. Yet another reminder that her whole life was turning topsy-turvy.
Change.
Taking a seat at her desk, Charlotte felt a sudden clench in the pit of her stomach.
Through Wrexford, she had learned the scientific laws of the universe seemed to indicate that everything was in constant flux. Time. Motion. Nothing was impervious to change—even a solid slab of granite eroded over the years, worn away by wind and rain.
But somehow such abstract concepts were of cold comfort. She picked up her pen, hoping its familiar feel would help calm her nebulous fears.
Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis—The times are changing, and we change with them. “I, of all people, ought not be intimidated by change,” she whispered.
The gravitas of Latin usually served to steady her emotions. And yet, despite the exhortation, a trickle of cold sweat started to slide down her spine.
Closing her eyes, she sought to banish the strange moment of weakness.
After all, her life had been shaped by tumultuous change—and not always for the better. But somehow she had always managed to draw strength from adversity. It was puzzling that a seemingly simple move from one physical space to another was setting off such a sense of trepidation.
Dipping her pen into the inkwell, Charlotte began sketching a series of random swirls on a blank piece of paper. Drawing always helped focus her thoughts, sharpen her insights.
It was, however, a good deal easier to see the faults in others. Still, she made an effort to look at her own situation with the same detached scrutiny she brought to the subjects of her social commentary.
For the past year, since secretly taking up A. J. Quill’s pen upon the death of her husband, she had worked in quiet solitude, earning accolades as London’s sharpest satirical artist. The peccadilloes of the rich and royal—their scandals over sex and money and politics—provided endless fodder for her drawings. Her popularity with the public had brought a modicum of financial stability . . .
But then had come the murder of the Right Reverend Josiah Holworthy, a rising religious fanatic, whose gruesome killing had captivated all of London. Lord Wrexford had been the prime suspect, and circumstances had brought them together as reluctant allies to uncover the truth about the crime.
Charlotte’s pen momentarily stilled as she recalled the dark secrets that had come to light—both about the reverend and her husband’s death.
Secrets which had forced her to face her own hidden past.
Wrexford was right. The truth was, there was no staying still. One made choices every day, both big and small.
Both right and wrong.
It did no good to fret. Whatever the consequences, she would find a way to deal with them.
“I am strong,” she reminded herself. As A. J. Quill, she had learned to be tough. Sardonic. Dispassionate.
It was, Charlotte supposed, one of the things that drew her and the earl together. Wrexford shared the same view of the world, though his sarcasm was far sharper than hers. He had no illusions that life was ruled by reason or fairness. And so he could laugh at the fickleness of Fate—even when it came perilously close to putting his own neck in a noose.
She would do well to copy his lead.
Looking down, Charlotte was surprised to see the paper bore a rough sketch of Wrexford’s face.
Wrexford. For an instant, an odd little flutter stirred inside her. Just as quickly it was gone. Expelling a sigh, she crumpled the sheet and set it aside.
Enough of maudlin whingings. Nihil boni sine labore—nothing is achieved without hard work. Taking a fresh sheet from the stack of watercolor paper, she set to roughing out a sketch for her next satirical print.
* * *
“Thank you for coming, Octavia,” said Isobel as the door clicked open and a young woman took a tentative step into the drawing room. �
�This is Lord Wrexford, a friend and colleague of Elihu. He wishes to ask you a few questions pertaining to my husband’s work.”
Wrexford wondered whether he was just imagining Miss Merton’s slight flinch at the word husband.
“I hope you will consent to speak with him,” went on Isobel. “It may help unravel the mystery of Elihu’s murder.”
Octavia’s eyes widened for an instant, then she quickly dropped her gaze to the carpet. “Y-Yes. Of course.”
Isobel rose and inclined a small nod his way. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Wrexford, there are some matters I must discuss with the housekeeper.”
It was a tactful way of giving them privacy, but the young woman looked wary as she took a seat on the sofa.
In contrast to the widow’s delicate form and dark coloring, Olivia Merton was tall and slender as a stalk of wheat. In the slanting sunlight, her hair reflected tones of honey and russet mixed in the strands of dull gold. She had none of Isobel’s fluid grace. Her movements were stiff and ungainly, as if some unseen force was holding her in thrall.
But then, he reminded himself, she had just lost a surrogate father to a vicious crime. The shock and grief of it must be profound.
Unless, of course, it was some other emotion.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” murmured Wrexford. A banal platitude, but nothing else came to mind.
“Thank you,” she answered in a toneless whisper.
“I understand you and Mr. Ashton were close,” he began, only to see the color drain from her face.
“Who told you that?” asked Octavia quickly.
It seemed an odd response. “Does it matter?” he countered. “That you held each other in high regard is nothing of which to be ashamed.”
“No—of course not. It’s just that . . .” She drew a shaky breath. “Forgive me, sir. I-I’m finding it hard to absorb the fact that he is gone.”
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