As the question hung in the unsettled air, Wrexford was acutely aware of a number of sensations. The sting of his lacerated flesh, the hardness of the stool, the chill of the room, the scrutiny of m’lady, whose stare was like a myriad of needles prickling against his eyeballs.
This meeting was not at all what he had expected. It had seemed a simple undertaking. His rank and influence would intimidate A. J. Quill into spilling his secrets. But the earl sensed there was nothing simple about m’lady. Bullying wouldn’t work. She had already shown herself to have a spine of steel, along with a quickness of wit in their thrust-and-parry battle of wills.
And here she was, unblinking.
“As I said,” he answered slowly, “I’m looking for information.”
“Look elsewhere,” she snapped. “Sharing isn’t good for business. I make my living knowing things that others don’t.”
“It’s not entirely out of idle curiosity, though I confess that how you do it intrigues me,” said the earl. Her eyes seemed to possess an unfathomable depth. Shadows spiraled beneath the surface, plunging down through shades of cerulean to indigo black. “My valet is urging me to gather the facts about the murder, as it may prove helpful in avoiding a hangman’s noose.” He stretched out his legs and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. “In case it matters to you, I’m innocent.”
“It doesn’t,” she said. “Matter, that is.” As she turned her head slightly, the lamplight caught the subtle Mars-red highlights in her hair. Cinnabar and auburn shades were woven through the mouse brown. Yet another reminder that nothing about her was as if first seemed.
“As I’ve told you, it’s simply a business, milord,” she went on. “I do what I have to do in order to survive.”
“Don’t we all?” he muttered.
Her face tightened in the uncertain candlelight. Slanted cheekbones, full mouth, both a bit too strong for her to be considered a conventional beauty. No doubt she frightened many men.
“Somehow I doubt that the fight for survival is an experience you confront every day,” she replied.
“As we only die once, the number of threats seems irrelevant.”
Perhaps it was merely a quirk of the flames, but it seemed that a smile flitted across her lips.
“You seem a shrewd woman. Surely we can come to some sort of bargain.”
She looked down, and several long moments passed as she considered his words.
Deciding on what sum she dared to demand? It would be a hefty one. She was no fool.
“Sorry, but I’m not interested in making a deal.”
“Is there a particular reason?”
“Whether you believed me or not, Iampragmatic. And you are worth a great deal to me as a murder suspect. Bow Street hounding you . . . a trial in the House of Lords . . . the gibbet going up at Tyburn. Why, the scandal could go on for months and months.”
Wrexford blew out a mournful sigh. “I had hoped to appeal to your better nature, m’lady—”
“Do stop calling me that,” she interrupted. “It’s a moniker reserved for my friends.”
“You’ve given me no other name,” he pointed out.
“Mrs. Sloane,” she said tersely.
“Very well.” A small bit of information about her. As were the row of leather-bound books at the back of her desk, whose titles included classic works of history and modern poetry. Mrs. Sloane was a far more educated woman than her present circumstances indicated. Whether that would prove useful remained to be seen.
“As I was saying,” he went on, “I would prefer not to resort to threats, but it seems you give me no choice.”
* * *
Charlotte waited, thethump-thumpof her heart against her rib cage making it hard for her to breathe.
“Your career as a satirist depends on anonymity. Were I to expose your identity, I doubt Fores would wish to keep you employed. A woman poking fun at the great men in Society?” He shook his head. “It wouldn’t fadge.”
Bile rose in her throat, hot as acid. “You would strip me of my livelihood?” She pitched her voice low, yet it was shaking with rage “Force me—and the lads—to become paupers to fend for ourselves on the streets? All because I am a woman who dares exercise her talents to survive?”
The earl’s face might well have been carved of granite. Not a muscle twitched. Shadows danced, dark on dark, through his long, curling hair. He appeared implacable, impervious to any appeal for mercy.
