“I consulted with a friend.” It was not precisely a lie. Though that would depend on to what degree one was permitted to parse the English language.
Wrexford, however, accepted her answer without further fuss. “Very well, let’s assume you are right about the library marking.” He lapsed into thought. “Canaday admitted to lending Holworthy three rare books on poetry, which the reverend refused to return. But I can’t see him being murdered over a collection of verses, however valuable.”
“I agree. There seems no rhyme or reason for it,” she said dryly.
He gave no sign that he had heard her. She watched as his dark brows drew together.
“Unless . . .”
“Unless,” murmured Charlotte, “Canaday was not forthcoming about any other books Holworthy borrowed.”
“True. Though what I was about to add was that it might depend on how valuable the rare books were. You see, I’ve learned that both Canaday and Holworthy belonged to an exclusive club that caters to gentlemen with a love of literature and art. Collectors can be passionate about possessing certain works. Perhaps enough so to commit murder.”
“Ah, yes. The Ancients,” replied Charlotte.
Light sparked on his lashes as he started at her mention of the name. His eyes narrowed.
“As to that other bit of information I mentioned earlier,” she went on quickly, “it concerns The Ancients.”
* * *
Revelation. It was, thought Wrexford, a rather apt word to have pop to mind, considering the Reverend Holworthy and his grand biblical orations on Good versus Evil. Charlotte was, by her own admission, loath to share information. She hoarded each sordid nugget like a precious gemstone, selling them only when the price was right.
They were certainly not given away for free.
So that begged the question, What did she want in return?
Whatever it was, she was on edge about it. He had been surreptitiously watching her face, her gestures—as she had been doing of him. Oh yes, he had been aware of her scrutiny. The low light and shifting shadows obscured much, but he had been aware of her scrutiny. Her gaze was like the flicker of a candle flame, a soft, yet unmistakable whisper of heat.
The stool scraped over the floor as he shifted to face her head-on.
Charlotte jumped at the sound and seemed to withdraw into herself.
He waited. If she had something momentous to say, she would do it on her own terms.
“I am telling you this because through my own sources, I have learned that Holworthy was involved in The Ancients, which may in turn mean the club is somehow connected to the murder,” Charlotte finally said. “And as you seem intent on discovering who is responsible for the crime—”
“Two crimes,” he corrected. “And yes, I would prefer to protect my own neck. So my intent can be termed purely pragmatic.”
“As is mine. There is something very corrupt about The Ancients. A darkness that swirls beneath the polished manners, the self-proclaimed appreciation of art. I think they are responsible for . . . for evil acts, and I would like to see them destroyed.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
Her features pinched. “I can’t give you specific facts, sir, if that is what you mean. I am basing the statement on . . . feelings. Or rather, suspicions.” Her chin rose a notch, a wordless challenge. “I am aware that men think those of my sex are flighty creatures, incapable of rational thought and objective observation. But they are wrong.”
“Mrs. Sloane, you strike me as the least hysterical person I know. Whatever the reasons are that have made you suspicious of The Ancients, I should very much like to hear them.”
She let out a shuddering sigh. “I first met Lord Percival Stoughton a little over two years ago. My husband and I were living in Rome, where Anthony was pursuing his painting and studying classical art. To earn additional money, he served as a guide to wealthy Englishmen doing the traditional Grand Tour, showing them the antiquities and serving as a purchasing agent with the local art dealers.”
The Grand Tour was an English rite of passage that developed during the early eighteenth century. Young men of good breeding and wealth embarked on a journey through Paris, the south of France, and on to Rome, usually accompanied by a private tutor. It was expected that they returned home as polished, educated gentlemen of the world—bringing with them a collection of classical art for their country homes, with which to impress their neighbors.
Stoughton. Wrexford thought hard to place the man. “Viscount Stoughton, heir to the Earl of Northfield?”
She nodded. “You know him?”
“Merely by name,” he answered.
Her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.
