“As you see, Ihavecome,” announced Wrexford.
Stoughton spun around, his face spasming in shock. Emitting a low groan, he sagged back against the chair.
The earl shifted his aim to St. Aubin. “Drop whatever weapon you have hidden in your pocket.”
St. Aubin hesitated.
The rasp of metal against metal sounded as Sheffield drew back the hammer of his pistol. “Now.”
Bullies, observed Wrexford, were quick to lose all their bluster when the odds were not heavily stacked in their favor. Another furtive glance, and then with an ugly smile of surrender, St. Aubin drew a double-barreled pocket pistol from his coat and let it fall to the carpet.
“Now both of you step over to the sofa and take a seat,” commanded Wrexford. “I am looking for answers and am tired of finding only lies.”
* * *
Charlotte had often wondered what emotions she would experience if she ever encountered her husband’s tormentors.Rage? Hate?Her fingers tightened around the weapon in her pocket, its smooth steel blessedly cool against her flushed skin.The uncontrollable urge to take a life for a life?
She expected fire, but felt only ice. A strange alchemy. Perhaps time tampered with the elemental chemistry of revenge. In watching the two men take a wary perch on the sofa, she was suddenly, viscerally aware of only one sentiment—
“The pair of you have two choices,” announced Wrexford, wrenching her out of her own thoughts. “You may either tell us all about your smarmy schemes now, or you have us march you to Bow Street and let the magistrates squeeze it out of you.”
“And if we do tell you,” countered St. Aubin, “what do we get in return?”
“That depends on what your information is worth to us,” answered the earl coolly. “You had best hope it’s of considerable value.”
The reply sparked a feral glint in St. Aubin’s eyes, as he quickly tried to gauge how to manipulate the situation to his own advantage. Stoughton, however, was on the verge of panic.
She had always sensed he was the less clever of the pair. St. Aubin had taken care to hover in the background, allowing his partner in crime to do the actual filthy work.
“W-Wrexford, you must believe me,” stammered Stoughton. “I had nothing to do with any murders.” He wet his lips. “We came up with a plan involving the copying of a few paintings—a harmless one that hurt no one.”
Charlotte shifted her stance, willing the pulsing rush of boiling blood to recede.
Whether or not Wrexford heard the whisper-soft brush of her boots, his shoulders gave a menacing twitch. “I doubt Anthony Sloane would agree with that.”
Stoughton’s features went slack with fear. “H-How did—”
“Keep your gob shut,” snarled St. Aubin. To Wrexford he said, “What have you heard?”
The earl laughed.
“Sloane readily agreed to be part of it,” blurted out Stoughton. “We all were going to get what we wanted. It wasn’t our fault that he became unbalanced.”
“What was he going to get for his efforts?” asked the earl. “And what were you?”
“Don’t be a fool, Stoughton,” St. Aubin said through his teeth. “They know nothing—they can’t.”
“Canaday was more forthcoming than you,” said Wrexford. “I want to know the details of the art forgeries. And then we’ll discuss the matter of Holworthy and stolen books.”
For an instant, St. Aubin’s mouth pinched in uncertainty, but he quickly recovered his equilibrium. “If you want information from us, you will have to buy it at a fair price.”
Fair.The word was an obscenity coming from St. Aubin’s foul mouth.
“Which is?” queried Wrexford.
“We tell you what we know, and in return, you agree that we need not face the authorities. As Stoughton said, we know nothing about any murders. The art forgeries harmed no one. Sloane’s demise was because of his own weakness. He was a deranged dreamer whose wits were addled by laudanum.”
“No, they were deranged by the lies and false promises you fed him,” said the earl softly. “And I wonder what other poisons?”
