“Then I shall not shilly-shally around my meaning, Mrs. Sloane,” he said. “This second murder has, shall we say, painted a whole new picture of things. Until I’ve discovered how and why they are tied together, you had best be on guard.”
“We,” she said coolly. “Untilwehave discovered how and why they are tied together.”
It took him an instant to absorb her meaning. “This isn’t your fight,” he said softly. “My neck may be in peril, but yours is not. Turn your quill on another subject, so you’re not drawn into further danger.”
The weak flicker of the lamplight caught the tightening of her jaw.
“And you need not fret. I will continue to honor our original bargain,” he took care to add. “You will be well compensated for the loss of income suffered by looking at some other scandal.”
Her smile only accentuated the ice in her eyes. “Gentlemanly honor demands that you protect the fairer sex?”
Her sarcasm was like a pinprick—shallow but painful, all the more so for being unexpected.
“You surprise me, Lord Wrexford,” she went on. “I took you for a man ruled by pragmatism, not sentiment.”
“Don’t take it personally,” he replied. “As of yet, I have no blood on my hands. I’d like to keep it that way.” He perched a hip on the edge of the table. “Too messy otherwise, and my valet abhors it when I get troublesome stains on my linen.”
“God forbid we upset your valet.”
“He’s a very useful fellow.”
Charlotte sighed, which seemed to trigger a retraction of her prickly hedgehog spines. “You need not try to shield me from unpleasantness. I know how to take care of myself.”
“I have the utmost respect for your survival skills, so don’t take it amiss when I point out that you’ve never faced a cutthroat killer who may decide you’re sticking your nose in places where it doesn’t belong.”
Her reaction was cleverly evasive. “I thought you were all afire to see the scrap of paper.”
“I am.” Wrexford held out his hand. “Consider me a slave to fusty old notions of manly traditions, but I would also like to ensure that you aren’t burned to a crisp.”
* * *
Charlotte placed the Canaday library marking on his palm. “I may also have another useful bit of information for you,” she said. “I shall explain once you are satisfied with my judgment about this clue.”
“A day of revelations. What has prompted it?” he asked.
“One thing at a time, sir.”
His mouth crooked, the left corner dropping a touch lower than the right. She was beginning to recognize his subtle quirks of expression—he was used to being in command and didn’t like having his questions ignored.
Deal with it, she thought, holding back a smile. Disappointment chiseled away the weak parts of one’s character.Tap-tap.Steel against stone, it shaped resolve.
Ignoring her silence, the earl was studying the symbol and numbers inked on the paper. His irritation was gone, replaced by a more pensive look. Charlotte tugged nervously at her skirts, though why she cared whether he believed her or not was a question she didn’t care to contemplate too closely. Instead she made herself study the planes of his profile, and found her fingers itching to pick up a pencil and sketchbook.
Light and shadow, hard and soft. His face was infinitely intriguing.A contradiction.Which made it a conundrum.
He was right—there were too many puzzles, too many missing pieces. The unknown was dangerous.
The brusque sound of Wrexford clearing his throat drew her back to the problem at hand.
“The letterCcould stand for a great many names. I’m not familiar with Canaday’s family crest, so I don’t know—”
“The Canaday family crest shows two wolfhounds rampant serving as supporters of the escutcheon,” she interrupted. “The library symbol is clearly a variation, twining the canines with theC. Consult your copy ofDebrett’s Peerage and Baronetageand you will see I am right.”
He fixed her with a searching stare. “How is it that you are familiar withDebrett’s?”
“I don’t live in the wilds of Siberia, though it may seem so to you, milord,” replied Charlotte. “Ye god, the book is no havey-cavey secret! It’s the bible of the beau monde, and is mentioned nearly every day in the drawing rooms of Mayfair. Of course I’m familiar with it.”
For an instant he looked a little nonplussed, but quickly seized the offensive. “That may be, but”—his gaze shot to her desk and back—“I see no copy of it among your books, so unless you have magical powers of memory, how is it you know the exact details of Canaday’s crest?”
