The desk and storage drawers yielded no secrets, save for a few love notes from an amorous Lady Clothilde, written in French. He moved on to the cabinets. But after a meticulous examination, he was forced to concede defeat.Damnation.He had to be missing something. Logic dictated that Charlotte’s discovery was too compelling to be wrong.
Lowell was no more an innocent aficionado ofLepidopterathan the Man in the Moon was made of Stilton cheese....
A glint of iridescent blue caught in the lantern light. Wrexford blinked to clear his vision—and then slowly walked over to the fancy wood display cases. In each one of the four, the butterflies were pinned on a board covered in pristine white felt, with tiny labels neatly placed beneath each specimen. Crouching down, he studied the height of the ornately carved oak before carefully unfastening the brass latches on the first case and lifting the lid.
Using his pocketknife, Wrexford carefully worked the board free of its base and lifted it out. Beneath was naught but empty space. The lantern flickered, warning that little light was left. And the precious seconds were ticking away. He quickly replaced the board and relocked the case, then blew out his breath and forced himself to think.
Blues, reds, browns, yellows—his gaze skimmed over the cases. Lowell had chosen to display his collection by color rather than size or wing shape....
Yellows.He looked more closely at the specimens, noting that they ranged from pale buttery hues to deeper shades of gold.
“Oh, you clever devil,” muttered Wrexford as he slid the tip of his blade around the board and eased it up and out. But once again, the lantern beam revealed that the space was empty.
He stared in disbelief, refusing to accept what his eyes were telling him. Thinking of Charlotte’s urging to trust one’s instincts, he set the lantern down and ran his fingers over the fine-grained wooden bottom. Grit rubbed against his skin, and almost immediately he felt a burning sensation. Something had been stored here, and recently. There was still a bit of moisture in the substance.
Retrieving the light, he angled the beam around the perimeter of the box.
He would have missed it if he hadn’t been so stubbornly certain his reasoning was right. Lodged upright in the V created by the rear left corner block was a tiny glass vial, no more than an inch high and half the width of a pencil. Wrexford freed it with his knife tip and rolled it to the center of the space.
Its top was sealed with thick black wax, and beneath the covering a pale granular powder gleamed within the glass.
He took out his handkerchief and swathed the delicate vial in a roll of silk before tucking it inside his shirt.
Keeping rein on his impatience, the earl took the time to replace the specimen board and recheck that no sign of his search was evident. His gut feeling was that Lowell wouldn’t be returning here—whatever malevolent plan he was brewing, it was likely nearing completion.
Which meant that time in which to stop him was ticking away....
Wrexford blew out the candle and hurried to the door.
CHAPTER 20
Finding a small foothold in the brick, Charlotte scrambled to the top of the garden wall and dropped down on a patch of soft grass bordering a graveled path. A breeze ruffled through the well-tended ornamental plantings, stirring a swirl of mist fragrant with roses and the piney tang of yew.
The scent of money, she thought, taking an extra moment to fill her lungs with its sweet, clean perfume. Outside of bastions of privilege like Berkeley Square, the London air was always edged with far less salubrious smells. But the rich, they lived in their own world, swathed in luxury.
And their own insular arrogance. Which was, Charlotte reminded herself, why she was here.
Rising, she dusted the dirt from the knees of her breeches and followed the path to the stone terrace at the rear of the mansion. Even though it was illuminated in nothing but the muted moonlight, its classical lines and elegant simplicity were striking. Pale Portland stone cornices and moldings faced the deeper-hued blocks of limestone, giving the tall building an airy, graceful feel despite its solid bulk and steeply pitched slate roof.
A light shone through the dark draperies of the high mullioned double windows at the left corner. One of them was cracked open to the night air. She hesitated, but with her blood up, anger won out over prudence.
A man raised his head from the eyepiece of a large brass apparatus as her boots tapped down upon the polished wood floor. “And who,” he asked calmly, “might you be?”
“Where’s Wrexford?” she demanded. Was he a servant? His clothing said no. He was dressed casually, with his coat off and linen sleeves rolled up. A distinct brownish stain occupied the spot on his shirt where a cravat should have been.
“Out,” he replied. His face was too thin and bony to be considered handsome, but there was something arresting about the sharpness of his hazel eyes.
“So I suspected.” Charlotte moved to the large pear wood desk and took a seat in the very comfortable-looking chair. “I’ll wait.”
He seemed amused by the statement. “Would you care for some warm milk and biscuits while you do so? I imagine it’s way past your bedtime, lad.”
She was quite sure his basilisk stare had not failed to discern her sex. Had he learned from the earl that sardonic humor tended to intimidate people? Well, he was wasting his breath. In her current state of mind, nothing short of bodily force was going to remove her from the premises.
There were a number of open books piled atop each other on the desktop. Others, she noted, were spread out over the work counters. Ignoring his question, Charlotte picked up one of them and began to read.
That wiped the insouciant smile off his lips. “Put that down,” he said rather sharply. “It’s a rare edition andverydifficult to come by.”
A Scottish accent. Which explained his pale complexion and ginger-colored hair.
