Ah, youthful hubris. Fledgling men spouting pompous platitudes, their intellectual assumptions untempered by actual experience. Charlotte didn’t bother looking at the earl, knowing the mocking cynicism she would see curled on the corners of his mouth.
“Go on,” she encouraged.
Nicholas looked confused. “I—I don’t really know what to add. Granted, we disagreed among ourselves over scientific method or abstract ideas on the nature of government, but that’s not the sort of thing to spark a heinous murder.”
“There were no personal animosities?” asked Wrexford.
Nicholas looked about to shake his head, then hesitated. “A few small sparks, but nothing that mattered.”
Charlotte itched to slap some sense into him. “Nicky, for God’s sake, your bloody life hangs in the balance! Everything matters.”
“Very well . . .” Staring down at his hands, he knotted his fingers together. “If you must know, Cedric and Sir Kelvin Hollister were vying for the attention of the same young lady. A mutual animosity seemed to be developing between them, and they exchanged some heated barbs at the last few meetings, but . . .”
“But it’s definitely a thread worth following,” said Charlotte decisively. She drew a small notebook and pencil from her pocket and wrote down Hollister’s name. “And the young lady?”
“Lady Julianna Aldrich.”
The name meant nothing to her. But she paid little attention to the flock of dewy-eyed young chits who came onto the marriage mart each season. “A casual flirtation may have sparked—”
“There was nothing casual about it for Cedric.” For an instant, a ripple of emotion darkened Nicholas’s eyes. “He found her . . . mesmerizing.”
“Anyone else?” asked Wrexford before she could follow up on the statement.
Nicolas ran a hand through his tangled hair. “There was some friction with Benjamin Westmorly.” He drew in a ragged breath. “It had to do with gaming debts. Cedric mentioned Westmorly owed him a hefty sum of money and was being difficult over its repayment.”
“So we have two leads,” said Charlotte, making herself sound more hopeful than she felt. In truth, it all seemed nothing more than the usual friction between young men who thought themselves wise in the ways of the world. Hardly cause for a macabre murder.
“And motives for both of them,” pointed out Wrexford. “Love and money have been the cause of countless murders since time immemorial.”
“So has jealousy and lust for power.” Nicholas shot them an anguished look. “Which means I’ll probably swing for Cedric’s murder.”
“Not if we can help it,” said Charlotte, gazing around the filthy, crypt-dark cell. But he was right—at the moment, things didn’t look overly bright.
The minutes were slipping away. She made herself think. “We’ve looked at Cedric, but what about you, Nicky? The Runner said you had no alibi for the night of the murder,” said Charlotte. “Is there really no one who saw you, even for a fleeting moment?”
Nicholas averted his eyes. “I was walking the streets for several hours after leaving the Palace. It wasn’t until much later in the night that I have someone who could attest to my whereabouts. So it doesn’t matter.”
“We don’t know that,” replied Charlotte. “Who was it?”
“I . . .” He scrubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw, setting off a flickering of golden sparks. “I was with a woman.” A half-hysterical laugh slipped from his lips. “But I didn’t bother mentioning it because Bow Street won’t consider her a credible witness.”
“I take it you were at a brothel?” said Wrexford.
After darting a baleful look at Charlotte, Nicholas didn’t answer.
“Bloody hell, answer him,” she muttered in exasperation. “I’m not a dewy-eyed virgin who’ll fall into a faint at the mention of sex.”
That brought the blood back to Nicholas’s face. His cheeks turned scarlet as he gave a small nod.
“Give me the name of the establishment,” demanded the earl. “And that of the girl.”
Nicholas hesitated, then mumbled an answer.
Charlotte added the information to the other names in her notebook.
The metallic clang of the lock releasing and the gaoler’s growled order to hurry forestalled any further questions.
It was precious little to go on. Assuming, of course, that Nicky wasn’t lying through his teeth. She rose quickly and darted one last look at his shadowed profile before hurrying to quit the cell. Whether it would lead them anywhere but in a roundabout circle back to the gallows remained to be seen.
* * *
“Yer Nibs!”
Charlotte had already climbed into the carriage. Turning around, Wrexford paused, his foot on the iron rung, as a sentry hurried over and passed him a note.
“The devil take it,” he muttered, crumpling the paper and stuffing it in his pocket after giving it a quick glance. “The warden is demanding that I meet him at one of the nearby taverns to work out the terms of future visits to your friend. If we are to have any hope of proving Locke innocent, we’ll need access to him. So I’d better go.”
She slid over the seat and caught hold of the door latch. “I’m sorry to have drawn you into this damnable coil. If Jeremy were here—”
“He isn’t, and you can’t very well handle things on your own. So whether you like it or not, you need my help.”
Charlotte looked up through her lashes, the jagged shadows making it impossible to read her eyes. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
He blew out his breath. This wasn’t the time or place to delve into the tangled complexities of their relationship. She had enough worries preying on her mind.
“However,” he went on, using sarcasm to hide his uncertainties, “I do hope your friend is innocent. It would pain me deeply—not as deeply as poor Cedric, of course—to be throwing away a fortune on the sort of miscreant who would slice off his brother’s bollock.”
“That’s not amusing,” she muttered.
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“I mean to reimburse you for your expenses,” she said haltingly.
“Don’t be daft. I shall send the bill to the prisoner’s bankers. The new Lord Chittenden can well afford to pay for his own upkeep.”
Charlotte repressed a shiver, but not quite quickly enough to escape his notice.
With all the emotions roiling around inside her head, Wrexford imagined the practical ramifications of Cedric’s death had not yet fully penetrated her consciousness. When he spoke again, he softened the edge of his words. “Forgive me. As you know, my sardonic view of life is often offensive.”
“I’m used to it,” she murmured.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “We are, I suppose, well-acquainted with each other’s eccentricities and have learned to put up with them.”
“True.” She shifted closer to the carriage door. “Which is why you won’t bother brangling when I take my leave and make my way home on foot.”
Damnation. He had let down his guard for an instant, only to find himself hoisted on his own petard. A reminder that Charlotte’s steel was just as sharp as his own.