It was, mused Wrexford, no secret that opium brought blessed oblivion from earthly suffering.
Charlotte stiffened her spine, as if steeling herself for his skepticism. “I did not tell you all this to elicit your pity, sir. And perhaps you think I am seeing demons when the real culprit was my husband’s hopeless naïveté. Nonetheless, I wanted you to know that I believe The Ancients are the nest of vipers for whom you are searching. And I want you to cut off their heads before they sink their fangs into other people and poison more lives.”
“Be assured, I take your beliefs very seriously, Mrs. Sloane.”
The tightly wound tension in her body loosened a notch, and a ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Thank you. For not considering me a delusional peagoose.”
“I wouldn’t dare. Your pen is too sharp.” His eyes strayed to the counter by the sink. “As is your chopping knife.”
“If I’m tempted to cut anyone’s throat, it won’t be yours.”
He let out a gruff laugh. “The hangman will be relieved to hear that. He has first claim on it.”
Amusement momentarily chased the look of troubled uncertainty from her eyes.
“Be that as it may, I’m as anxious as you are to uncover what evil may be lurking within The Ancients,” he went on. “Think hard, Mrs. Sloane. Can you recall any other details that could help indicate what your husband was involved in?”
“Trust me, sir, I have wracked my brain trying to think of what it might have been.” In a fleeting gesture that was nearly lost in the flutter of shadows, Charlotte pressed her palms to her brow, a here-and-gone moment that left her looking very vulnerable.
It was the first real slip of her mask. And Wrexford guessed she would not thank him for seeing it. Quickly dropping his gaze, he carefully smoothed a crease from his shirt cuff. She deserved privacy for her pain.
“You mentioned your suspicions before. Were there any specific things that sparked them?” he pressed.
Charlotte slumped back in her chair. “Yes, there were two small things that struck me as odd,” she said slowly. “Though you may think me mad, or merely a victim of an overfebrile imagination.”
“We should not dismiss any evidence, no matter how odd it may seem. You are a very astute observer, Mrs. Sloane. I doubt you are prone to fits of melodramatic fantasy.”
“I am beginning to wonder.... Recent events feel like they have stepped off the pages of a horrid novel.”
“No dungeons, clanking chains, or moaning ghosts have made an appearance,” he quipped. “Yet.”
Charlotte made a face. “If you are trying to be reassuring, you are making a hash of it.” However, the moment of humor seemed to dispel some of the tautness in her features.
“I’m simply stating the facts.” Wrexford let the words sink in. “As should you.”
“Very well, since you insist,” she said, after stilling the twitch of her lips. “The first thing was, Anthony often came home with paint smudges on his hands. He was very fastidious about his appearance when going to the club—he wished to fit in with the gentlemen—and I am quite sure he never left our lodgings in a less than pristine state.”
“Odd, but not inexplicable,” he mused. “Your description of your spouse has painted the picture of a man passionate about his art. I’ve known artists who carried a small box of pigments and a sketchbook in their pockets for when inspiration struck.”
“Lord Wrexford, I know the difference between watercolors and oil paints,” answered Charlotte.
He nodded. “Point taken.”
She tugged again at her shawl, knotting the fringes round and round her fingers. “At the end, there was something even more disturbing about his hands. I . . . I had thought it was another symptom of his nervous disorder, as his physical condition was fast deteriorating.” The deepening shadows beneath her eyes were now dark as bruises. “But now that you’ve pressed me to look at things through the lens of Reverend Holworthy’s murder, I think it may have a more menacing explanation.”
A shrill whistle from outside pierced the stillness of the room. Someone shouted a curse as a heavily laden cart clattered over the rutted lane.
The muscles of her throat contracted as she swallowed hard. “When he returned from his last visit to The Ancients, there were small burn-like discolorations on his fingers. And the pattern resembled splashes of liquid.”
CHAPTER 11
The ensuing silence seemed to amplify all the tiny sounds in the room. The scrabbling of mouse feet behind the walls, the faint creaking of the rafters, the ragged hitch of her breathing . . .
He thinks me mad, thought Charlotte.And perhaps he’s right.Her usual dispassionate sense of detachment had been knocked to flinders on hearing Jeremy mention The Ancients.
Such a tastefully civilized name, and yet the very whisper of it had sent a chill coursing through her veins.
“I make no pretense of being objective, milord,” she announced, her voice sounding brittle as broken glass to her ears. “My reaction is very personal—some might call it primitive, based as it is on visceral emotion. I don’t like or trust them, and so I am primed to see evil lurking behind their actions.”
