“Given the timing, I think the killer had already decided to eliminate the fellow.” Wrexford was not at all sure of that. But beneath the cloak of cynicism, he sensed Charlotte still had a tender conscience. He didn’t wish for her to be plagued by guilt.
A current of air stirred the draperies over the kitchen window. The faded chintz whispered against the wooden moldings.
Releasing a pent-up breath, she said, “Sit down. We need to talk. I haven’t been completely forthcoming with you, Lord Wrexford.”
* * *
“You have my full attention.”
The earl sounded utterly calm. Bored, even. While Charlotte felt every tiny nerve in her body twitching with dread.
“Do go on.” The lordly drawl might well have been ordering a servant to pour tea.
Somehow that helped dispel her fear. “Shall I put on a kettle to boil?” she shot back. “And serve a plate of ginger biscuits?”
“I prefer almond.” The earl sat with a careless grace. Despite the stool—it was, she knew, hideously uncomfortable—he looked completely at ease. “Dare I hope that is what’s in the box? I recognize the markings as those of Gunter’s Tea Shop in Berkeley Square. Their pastries are the best in all of London.”
“Impossible man,” said Charlotte through gritted teeth, and yet she couldn’t keep the corners of her mouth from tweaking up. “Do you take nothing seriously?”
Wrexford flicked a mote of dust from his cuff. “The world begs to be seen as absurd. And don’t try to deny it—that simple truth is your bread and butter.”
“There is nothing simple about the truth,” she replied. “As Lord Byron said, it is but a lie in masquerade.”
“Actually, he said it the other way around.” He smiled. “But I like your version better. The punch is aimed more squarely at one’s vitals.”
Once again, Charlotte was reminded of how dangerous he was. In ways she couldn’t begin to define.
“You have something to tell me, Mrs. Sloane,” Wrexford murmured after several moments of uneasy silence had rippled between them. “Shall we call a truce and refrain from further verbal sparring? I am not the enemy.”
Would that she could believe that. But trust was also a weapon, all the more lethal for how swiftly and silently it struck.
“A truce,” agreed Charlotte, wishing she didn’t find his face so interesting. There was arrogance plainly writ in every pore, and yet indefinable nuances that hinted at hidden facets. “We are both pragmatic, sir, and it seems we are in a position to help each other.”
He waited.
She wouldn’t have guessed patience was one of the earl’s virtues, given that he was known for possessing a hair-trigger temper. But once again he was surprising her.
“It’s difficult to know where to begin,” she went on. “Perhaps it’s best to start with the murder of Holworthy. As I told you at our first meeting, I saw the body right after the crime was committed. I depicted the wounds and the burns to his skin with great accuracy in my drawing.” A pause. “What I didn’t include were two other details.”
Wrexford recrossed his legs.
“The first was a faint footprint I had spotted in the transept. It was fresh, and I suspect it was made by the killer.”
“What makes you say that?” he interrupted.
“Two reasons. The church is very old and riddled with drafts. An imprint in dust would not lie undisturbed for very long,” replied Charlotte. “And there was a side door there that was slightly ajar.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“Did not the Runner mention that as evidence?” She had been stewing over the question.
“No. According to him there was no evidence left at the scene to point to a culprit.”
“I may be the unwitting cause of that,” she admitted. “In our haste to leave before the authorities arrived, Raven and I must have scuffed it out.”
“Or Griffin is not as observant as you are.”
“His reputation is one of a man who is good at what he does.” Having committed to a certain degree of honesty, Charlotte made herself go on. “So I owe you an apology, sir. Had he seen it, he would have had good reason to dismiss you as a suspect.”
