For all the ghoulishness of the killer’s mutilation, it sounded as if he had performed the task with a certain civility, removing the trophy with surgical precision. No other damage or disfiguration had occurred.
From what Charlotte had heard about the previous deaths, it was the same modus operandi. Though, she reminded herself as she finished jotting her notes, that didn’t necessarily mean it was the same killer. Over the years, she had learned that criminals could be diabolically cunning. Someone might be mimicking the Bloody Butcher to cover his own personal reasons for wanting the victim dead.
Whatever the motive—assuming a madman could be said to have rational thoughts—Charlotte had a feeling this was going to be a horribly difficult murder to solve.
That the victim was from the highest circle of Society could soon have the investigators caught up in a vortex of secrets and lies. Beneath their gilded smiles and polished manners, the wealthy hid a multitude of sins.
“What a coil,” muttered Charlotte as she rose and went to pour tea for him before it turned cold.
“Indeed,” agreed Wrexford. “Though you will likely make a fortune, given the rather sensational nature of his injuries.” He pulled a face. “Thank God I can’t be accused of having any connection to the fellow. I hadn’t yet made his acquaintance.”
She began adding sugar to his cup. “Is the identity of the victim known?”
“Yes. He’s a young gentleman from the North by the name of Lord Chittenden.”
The spoon slipped, sloshing hot tea over her fingers.
“A baron from the Lake District,” the earl went on. “Apparently, he had only recently come into the title . . .”
A strange buzzing rose in Charlotte’s ears, drowning out the rest of his words.
And then suddenly the room began to spin.
CHAPTER 2
“Allow me to congratulate you, Mrs. Sloane,” drawled the earl as Charlotte’s eyes fluttered open. “For the first time in our acquaintance, you’ve finally reacted like a normal, flighty female who swoons into a dead faint at the mention of an indelicate subject.”
She tried to sit up, only to choke back a retch and sink back down against the sofa pillows. Her ghostly pale face was now shaded with a faint tinge of bilious green.
Wrexford realized with a start that he had never seen her look so shaken. Refraining from any further jesting, he rose and fetched the bottle of brandy that he knew was kept in one of the cabinets.
“Drink,” he commanded, splashing a measure into the empty teacup and bringing it to her lips.
Charlotte gagged at the first sip, but managed to down a weak swallow.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered, so softly that he barely could make out the words. “This changes everything.”
A cryptic announcement, which could mean any number of things. Given the secrets within secrets in which she had swathed her true self, it wasn’t surprising.
She had recently revealed her real identity to him. It had come as a bit of a shock to learn the fiercely independent young widow, who through hard work and unshakable strength had created a profitable business for herself, was, in fact, an aristocrat. The daughter of an earl, who had tossed away a life of privilege and comfort to elope with her drawing master . . .
Shaking off his momentary musing, Wrexford asked, “Would you care to elucidate on that statement?”
But before Charlotte could reply, McClellan hurried in with the reviving compress he had called for.
“Permit me to be of assistance, Mrs. Sloane.” With her usual show of brisk efficiency, McClellan took a seat on the edge of the sofa and applied a wet cloth to Charlotte’s brow.
“A whiff of vinaigrette might also be advisable,” murmured the earl. Charlotte was still looking as pale as death.
Both women reacted with a very unladylike reply.
“Nor do we need to burn a feather under my nose,” added Charlotte. “Or any other of the damnably stupid remedies you men deem essential for the weaker sex.”
Wrexford was somewhat reassured by her show of sarcasm. “Yes, I can see that you’re well on the way to recovery.”
She chuffed a snort.
“M-M’lady’s not . . . going to die, is she?”
He turned to see the two boys hovering in the shadows of the doorway, their faces clouded with uncertainty. Growing up in the stews of London, they had no illusions about how swiftly the Grim Reaper’s scythe could strike.
“No, lads,” he answered quietly. “It was just a passing megrim. These things happen.”
“Not to m’lady.” Fists clenched, Raven edged into the room, belligerence not quite covering the flicker of fear in his eyes. The boy had assumed the role of protector to his younger brother and Charlotte—a heavy weight for such young shoulders. “Ye must have done something to upset her.”
“Not intentionally. But if you feel compelled to bloody my beak, we can step out to the garden and settle the matter like gentlemen.”
“Good God, let’s not add any further violence to the morning,” rasped Charlotte. To Raven, she added, “Be assured, His Lordship was no more annoying than usual.”
A grudging grin tugged at the boy’s mouth. “Oiy, well, in that case, I won’t have to thrash him to a pulp.”
“If you wish to be truly useful with your fives,” interjected McClellan, “you and your brother could fly to the greengrocer and fetch me more gingerroot for an herbal tisane.”
As their steps peltered down in the corridor, Charlotte pushed herself into a sitting position. Her gaze, noted Wrexford, avoided meeting his.
“I fear I must have eaten something that disagreed with me,” she muttered. “I’m still feeling rather nauseous.”
She looked ill, but the earl was sure it was not on account of any tainted food.
“Milord, if you would excuse us, I think it best for Mrs. Sloane to retire to her bedchamber,” suggested McClellan.
Charlotte’s eyes remained averted. No question she was hiding something.
“Of course.” He rose without argument. “I’ll see myself out.”
On reaching the street, he climbed into his carriage and leaned back against the squabs as the coachman cracked the whip.
Questions, questions.
Closing his eyes, Wrexford pondered the strange scene that had just taken place. No one—no one!—of his acquaintance possessed the same core of unshakable strength as Charlotte Sophia Anna Mallory Sloane. Not only had she calmly faced terrible revelations about her late husband, which would have crushed a lesser woman, she had also endured death threats to her beloved urchins . . . and charged into danger, time and time again, with no thought to her own safety. Not to speak of her profession, where she had not let the harsh realities of life corrupt her idealism or her commitment to justice and social reform.
Her courage, both moral and physical, was frightening—which made her reaction to the Kensington Palace murder all the more disturbing.
There seemed to be only one logical answer. Lord Chittenden was not a stranger.
A past lover, perhaps?
The idea was more unsettling than he cared to admit. Granted, as a widow, she was allowed more freedom in her personal life than other women. Or ladies, he corrected himself. Charlotte was a highborn lady, which allowed her even more leeway . . .