Stoughton flinched. His brow was beaded in sweat. “I had nothing to do with—”
St. Aubin grabbed hold of his arm, causing him to fall silent. Wrenching him closer, he whispered something, and then Stoughton, biting his lip, sunk back against the cushions.
“Speculate all you like, Wrexford,” said St. Aubin, looking up at the earl with a smug smile. “The spineless slug is in the grave, and not a soul mourns his passing. As for you, you’ve naught but wild guesses to present to Bow Street.”
Charlotte drew a shaky breath. He was right.
“So, if you wish for information—though God knows why you think it will help you evade the gallows—you’ll have to agree to our terms.”
“I think not.”
To Charlotte’s surprise, he shifted again and cast a sidelong look at her. The wavering light caught the narrowing of his eyes. A wink of smoke-dark green seemed to flash a warning.
Her finger found the crescent curve of the trigger. Would that her nerves would match its steel.
“You see, Sloane is not unmourned. He has a son,” went on Wrexford.
“No!That can’t be!”
It took all of Charlotte’s self-control to mask her own shock.
Stoughton looked at her as if he were seeing a ghost. “S-Sloane had no son. I spent time with him and his wife in Italy, so I am sure of it.”
“An indiscretion, from before he was married, but no less kin.”
St. Aubin was looking at her, too, but his was a reptilian stare. The cold, opaque flatness of his eyes reminded her of a snake. No remorse within that primitive, predatory brain, merely an instinct to eat.
Keeping the brim of her hat angled downward, Charlotte forced her eyes elsewhere. The muted pattern of the Turkey carpet, the graceful gilt-edged legs of the escritoire, the exquisite fragments of classical sculpture on the fluted marble pediments—beautiful but soulless within the confines of this god-benighted mausoleum to greed and power run amok.
A draft stirred the unlit chandelier overhead, setting the crystal baubles to a brittle clinking against each other. Like the rattle of long-dead bones.
The sound stirred a faint echo of Anthony’s agonies. Whatever the earl had in mind, she would try to play her part.
Wrexford’s voice rose again to silence her own inner whispers. “Here’s what I think, lad. One should never bargain with blackguards. Draw your pistol and shove it up against the skull of one of these miserable muckworms. Start with Stoughton.”
A wordless cry of pure, primal fear.
“We’ll give him to the count of three to start talking or go ahead and spatter his brains over the bust of Aristotle.”
“I’ve a better idea.” Keeping his pistol aimed at St. Aubin’s heart, Sheffield edged around the fancy furniture to pick up the double-barreled pistol from the carpet. “Use this one. It will save the bother of reloading. And the authorities will simply assume that they came to blows over some personal matter.” A flash of teeth—not meant to be a smile. “Not a soul will mourn their passing.”
“You won’t—you can’t!” blustered St. Aubin.
In answer, Sheffield moved and handed the weapon to her. “Have at it, lad. I rather hope they keep their jaws locked.”
Charlotte thumbed back one of the hammers. The click sounded unnaturally loud in the dead silence. No doubt it was evil of her, but she felt a spurt of savage satisfaction as she shoved the short metal snout up against Stoughton’s temple.
His eyes were closed, and his body was trembling uncontrollably.
“One,” intoned Wrexford.
“They’re bluffing!” cried St. Aubin.
“Two.”
“Wait! Please!” Tears were now streaming down Stoughton’s ashen face. A pitiable sight, though Charlotte could muster no compassion. “I’ll tell you everything!”
“Go on,” ordered the earl. “But if I scent a whiff of a lie, I shall counsel the lad to be done with listening.”
