Again, he waited calmly, betraying no signs of impatience.
“The size of the print,” she explained. “It was made by a small foot—smaller than yours.”
“Could it have been made by a woman?”
She shut her eyes for a moment, recalling the memory. “My impression is no. The tread of the heel and the width of the foot all indicated it was a man’s boot.”
“Interesting.” Wrexford tapped his fingertips together. “Though at the moment we have no way of knowing if it will prove useful. I daresay there are a great many small-footed men in London.”
“Yes. But there was a distinctive mark on the heel—a star with the letterBcentered in it was imprinted in the leather.”
He thought about the information for a moment. “That sounds like the bootmaker’s mark of Burdock. He’s one of the second-tier craftsmen. Good, but catering to a clientele who can’t quite afford Hoby.” Pursing his lips, he added, “It’s interesting, but I’m not sure it’s of any real use. That the killer is a member of the beau monde is not really a surprise. The fact that he’s small-footed doesn’t help narrow the possible suspects—after all, small is a relative term.”
Charlotte flushed, realizing how silly the detail must have sounded. “That’s not all. Far more important than the footprint, I found a scrap of paper stuck in Holworthy’s shirt cuff. I didn’t intend to take it—but we had to flee when the authorities arrived and somehow I did.”
At that, the earl straightened, his gaze sharpening in interest. “What was written on it?”
“A symbol, and below it, a string of numbers.”Alea iacta est,she thought to herself—the die is cast. Now was the moment when she must decide whether to throw caution to the wind. There would be no going back.
Without hesitation, Wrexford went right to the heart of the question. “Do you know what they mean?”
“I had no idea at the time,” answered Charlotte. “But in my work, I’ve learned to seize small things that may matter.” She met his gaze with a spark of defiance. “You may think it wrong, but survival tends to blur the fine lines of morality. For that I make no apology.”
She paused for breath. “But I am sorry that my impulse may have resulted in the Runner seizing on you as a suspect, rather than someone else. However, after I thought more clearly about the implications of taking evidence from a murder scene, I saw no way to turn it over to Bow Street without it being dismissed as a hoax, or risking being implicated in the crime.”
“As you have taken pains to point out, I have no right to be holier than thou.”
Their eyes remained locked. A test of wills? Charlotte had stood firm in the face of far more threatening men. She didn’t flinch.
Wrexford seemed amused by the moment. He deliberately shifted, and took a peek in the pastry box. “Gunter’s makes an excellent apple tart. Alas, I assume you are saving these for the imps.” He cocked his head. “Or is the one with the missing bite fair game?”
Charlotte rose and wordlessly fetched a plate.
“Bring a knife as well,” he murmured. “It seems only fair that we split it.”
In her experience, gentlemen rarely did what was fair regarding their dealings with women, she reflected. But the earl scrupulously divided the pastry into two equal portions.
“Forgive me if I eat like a savage,” he said, picking up one of the pieces with his fingers. “I’m famished.”
“I’m used to savages,” she quipped, and did the same. “There is bread and cheese if you wish additional sustenance.”
“Thank you, but I shall survive.” He popped the remaining pastry into his mouth. Unlike the boys, he waited until he had swallowed before speaking again. “I take it from your earlier statement that you now know the meaning of the paper you took from Holworthy.”
“I know what it is,” corrected Charlotte. “As to its meaning, I have no clue.” It wasn’t that she meant to be melodramatic, but she found herself needing to draw a deep breath before she went on.
“It’s a book marking, one that indicated where a volume belongs in a private library. The numbers indicate a place on the shelf. And the symbol is the mark of the owner. . . .”
Wrexford had gone very still. Yet the air seemed to thrum with an unseen force. Powerful muscle and wolf-sleek strength, coiled to strike.
“And that gentleman is Lord Robert Canaday.”
“You are sure it’s a mark from Lord Canaday’s library?”
“Quite,” answered Charlotte firmly.
“I trust you will understand,” said Wrexford softly, “that I feel compelled to ask you to explain how.”
“And I trust you will understand,” she countered, “that I feel compelled to refuse to reveal the exact reasons. You will have to take my word that I am telling the truth.”
