The pictures ranged from simple geometric shapes and complex symbols to elaborately detailed engravings, and the deeper she delved into the pages, the more mystified she became. Many of them appeared based on ancient mythological or biblical references, while other weirdly fantastical images had no point of reference in her scope of knowledge.
In some ways, the sheer scope of imagination was extraordinary. But Charlotte found she could not admire them. Some, in fact, were deeply disturbing. Their essence was all about seeking control and power.
Even if it meant making a Faustian pact with the Devil.
As she read, she stopped occasionally to make a rough copy of an image in her notebook and add a few notes on its meaning. With each new chapter, it felt as if another portal was opening, drawing her deeper and deeper into a strange and mystical world.
It took several loud raps on the front door to jar Charlotte into reality. Her nerves already unsettled by the images, she slipped a small pocket pistol out of her desk drawer before rising and moving quietly into the foyer.
“Bloody hell.” The oath, edged with exasperation, rumbled through the thick oak.
She slid back the bolt. “To what do I owe the honor of yet another visit? Is someone else dead?”
“Not that I know of,” answered Wrexford. “I wanted to ask you a question about . . .” He paused, his words pinched off by a quizzical frown.
“Yes?” she encouraged. “About what?”
“Might I come in?”
“That would be best.” Charlotte quickly stepped aside. “If you are going to make a habit of paying a visit, you might try to be a trifle less conspicuous.” She eyed his exquisitely tailored clothing and tasseled Hessian boots. “I live quietly and simply, milord, and do nothing that might draw attention to my home. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“My apologies. I will be more careful in the future,” he murmured. Her movement must have set off a glint of metal, for his gaze had dropped to her right hand. “I am glad to see that you heeded my earlier warning to take precautions for your safety.”
“I’m always careful, Lord Wrexford.” The hammer uncocked with a tinysnick. Loath to appear rag mannered, she added, “Alas, I can’t offer you pastries from Gunter’s Tea Shop, but would you care for a cup of tea?”
Wrexford followed her into the main room. “Thank you, but no need to trouble yourself. I’ve just come from imbibing ample refreshments.” He took a seat at the table, and crossed his legs. An odd sort of mood seemed to have hold of him.
But then, Charlotte reminded herself, she was hardly in a position to judge the nuances of his moods. Despite their recent conversations, most of what she knew about him was based on rumor and innuendo. And she knew all too well how those prisms could distort reality.
“A surfeit of champagne and lobster patties, no doubt,” she murmured as she returned to her desk.
“You appear to know a great deal about the extravagances of the beau monde parties.”
“Of course I do,” she replied. “Have you forgotten that I make my living by knowing all the gory details of how Polite Society amuses itself?”
“That would be rather difficult to forget.” A sardonic smile flashed for an instant. “By the by, this morning’s print of Drummond’s demise was particularly striking. The scene was rendered quite well, save for the details of the body. You made it appear terribly gruesome. I did mention there was very little blood from the wound, didn’t I?”
“Artistic license, milord. The public is not looking for subtlety.”
Another smile. “Is that why you insist on exaggerating the beakiness of my nose? Were I a sensitive soul, your pen would cut to the heart of my vanity.”
Charlotte couldn’t hold back a low laugh. “Word is, you don’t have a heart.”
He gave a mournful sigh. “True. Cut me and likely I would bleed claret, not blood. But it would be from an excellent vintage.”
“I shall keep that in mind for a cartoon on a day when scandal is quiet. I’m sure all of London would lap it up.” As she shifted, the open book on her blotter caught her eye, a reminder that she should be concentrating on more serious endeavors than trading clever quips with the earl.
“Now that we’re done with social pleasantries, sir, you said you had a question for me. What is it?”
Rather than reply right away, he turned away and let his gaze wander around the room.
You are wasting your time, Lord Wrexford. If the answers to life’s mysteries were hidden in the woodwork, I would have found them by now.
Charlotte, however, decided to let him speak first.
“Likely I’ve come on a fool’s errand,” he finally said. “I wanted to show you a sketch and see if it meant anything to you. Not that I expect it will.” His eyes shifted back to meet hers. “I suppose I simply wanted an excuse to discuss the investigation. Each clue along the way has been a Pandora’s box—lifting its lid for a closer look has released a whole new slew of conundrums instead of answers.” His dark brows pinched together. “There seems to be no rhyme or reason as to how they are all connected.”
On impulse, Charlotte reached for her sketchpad and a stick of charcoal. “And that troubles you?”
