The edge of wry humor was now unmistakable. Charlotte decided there was little harm in giving him a halfway truthful answer.
“It’s not nearly as nefarious as you might think. The notion that a secret can remain sacred is, for the most part, a delusion. We may think we hide them away in the deepest, darkest private places, where they will remain safe.” She curled a rueful grimace. “But secrets have a way of slipping out. I merely pay attention to their whispers.”
His expression remained inscrutable. “How?”
A smile crept to her lips. “I see no reason to divulge that secret so easily to you. If you wish to discover the answer, you are welcome to try.”
He gingerly shifted his stance, and Charlotte suddenly remembered the nasty ripping sound of expensive fabric. That quality of wool would likely cost her a fortnight’s earnings.
“Do you require a bandage for your wound, sir?”
“No. It’s just a scratch. I’ll survive.” He took a moment to examine the gash. “Alas, the same cannot be said for my trousers.”
“My apologies,” she said stiffly. “Raven and Hawk have no nest of their own. I suppose the fact that I allow them to shelter here whenever they wish and feed them when I can makes them feel protective of me.”
Wrexford seemed surprised. “They aren’t yours?”
“No.”
He waited, as if expecting her to add a further explanation. When she didn’t, he shrugged. “Loyalty is an admirable trait, m’lady. But given the lad’s current size and strength, he needs to be more careful. Not everyone will be as tolerant as I am.”
“I have endeavored to explain that to him.”
“Try again.” Lapsing into silence, he moved to her desk and regarded the drawing of the Prince Regent for an uncomfortably long interlude before settling himself on one of the stools. “Why do the lads call you ‘m’lady’?” he asked abruptly.
The question wasn’t entirely unexpected. Charlotte had long ago come up with a facile explanation. “My late husband called me that as . . . as a silly endearment. The boys simply mimicked him.”
His gaze darted back to her desk. She wasn’t sure why.
“Was your loss recent?”
Charlotte hesitated, wondering why he was probing.
“Perhaps eight months ago?” he added.
The room suddenly began to sway. She sat, praying the lightheadedness would quickly pass. It was imperative to keep all her wits about her. The earl struck her as a man who would give no quarter. And she still did not know why he was here.
“W-Why do you ask?” she countered.
Another glance at her desk. She felt a trickle of sweat slide down her spine. Had she left some telltale clue exposed?
“Because,” Wrexford finally said, “now that I think of it, A. J. Quill’s style changed right around then. The drawing became surer, the satire sharper.”
The earl was far more perceptive than she imagined. Which made him exceedingly dangerous.
“My guess is, your late husband was the original artist, and you continued his business when he stuck his spoon in the wall.”
Deciding it was pointless to deny it, Charlotte gave a confirming nod. “It seemed the pragmatic thing to do. It earns more than scrubbing floors for the likes of you and your privileged peers.”
Wrexford steepled his fingers. “Oh, I think it’s more than pragmatism. Art is passion, not a practicality, Missus . . .”
“You know nothing about me,” she replied coldly.
“Not even your name,” he quipped.
Charlotte was tiring of the cat-and-mouse games. “Let us cut to the chase, sir. Why are you here?”
* * *
