Pushing such thoughts aside, Wrexford concentrated on the practical question—what was her connection to the murdered baron? For the rest of the ride home, he pondered the possibilities.
“Tyler!” he barked, striding into his workroom without pausing to hand over his topcoat and high-crown beaver hat to the trailing footman.
“Milord?” His valet looked up from the various cauldrons suspended over several flaming spirit lamps. Steam had plastered his red-gold hair to his angular brow. In the glow of the fires, his eyes had a demon-like glow, giving him the look of Vulcan’s apprentice.
“Might I finish adjusting the temperatures before you go on?” added Tyler with an aggrieved sniff. “The process, as you well know, requires precise concentration.”
Wrexford perched a hip on his desk and folded his arms.
After several minutes, Tyler straightened, and wiped his hands on his shirtfront, leaving a gunpowder grey streak on the white linen. “I shall need to cool the liquids in a quarter hour. In the meantime, is there some other task you wish done?”
“I’ll take charge of the chemicals.” The earl quickly scribbled out a few lines on a piece of paper. “I want you to gather all the information you can on this gentleman. I’ve suggested a few lines of inquiry to pursue.” Likely, he would think of more.
As his valet read over the note, a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I thought you said the Bloody Butcher murders had had nothing to do with you.”
Wrexford set aside the pen. “I’ve changed my mind.”
* * *
The sweet-sharp scent of ginger tickled at her nostrils as a gossamer plume of steam floated up from the mug. “Thank you,” murmured Charlotte, accepting the fresh-brewed tisane.
McClellan smoothed a crease from the coverlet. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No. A bit of sleep is all I need to put me right.” She forced a smile. “My apologies. My digestion is not usually so delicate.”
McClellan fixed her with an unblinking stare. “No, I don’t imagine it is.” A flick of her fingers banished another wrinkle. “Do you wish to talk about it?”
“About what I ate?” asked Charlotte. “In all honesty, I’ve no idea what it could have been.”
The reply earned a tiny frown and a stony silence as McClellan reordered her tray and prepared to leave.
It deserved worse, thought Charlotte guiltily. She disliked being less than forthright with her friends, but she needed to think.
Think.
If only my thoughts would stop spinning and screaming like wild whirling dervishes inside my skull.
“The lads went out to get you flowers from Covent Garden. I’ll make sure they wait until you’ve woken before presenting them.”
“Thank you,” repeated Charlotte, hating the prim hollowness of her words. She despised the everyday deceptions and manipulations that passed for politeness in the beau monde. The self-serving little lies, the puffed-up conceit.
She took pride in being unflinchingly honest, and yet, like Achilles, she had one elemental vulnerability. Whether it would prove mortal to her present existence remained to be seen.
Aside from Wrexford, she hadn’t revealed her true identity to anyone else yet. She had told him she needed time to consider all the ramifications of such a momentous decision.
One that would irrevocably change her life.
Throwing off the covers, Charlotte rose and moved to the mullioned window overlooking the tiny back garden. A chill prickled against her skin as she pressed her forehead against one of the panes. Her breath fogged the glass, and in the blink of an eye, the familiar tree was blurred beyond recognition.
Vita et praebebit spem fallacem—life is but an illusion.
She had always known, deep down inside, that this day would come. Even before Wrexford had known the truth, he had been challenging, cajoling . . .
Daring her to confront the life she had so painstakingly constructed out of smoke and sleight of hand.
Charlotte stepped back and pressed her palms to her eyes, feeling the hot sting of tears.
“Cedric,” she whispered, finally allowing her grief to well up in a shuddering sob. Cedric was dead. Never again would she see the golden glint of his hair dancing in the wind as they rode neck and leather through the rolling fields. Never again would they help each other translate a particularly difficult passage of Ovid from Latin into English. Never again would they steal apple tarts and gorge themselves out by the lake.
They had been little fiends. Cedric, Nicky, Charley—a trio bent on devil-may-care mischief in those long-ago carefree summers.
Her throat tightened. Dear God—what of Nicky? Did he know yet? The two of them had been the closest of friends—twins in spirit, as well as looks. He would be devastated by the news.
Murder, as she had come to know all too well, always had more than one victim.
Pushing aside raw emotion, Charlotte forced herself to regather her wits and think rationally. Chittenden, Chittenden . . . She paid little heed to the social gossip of the beau monde, but she seemed to recall reading that Lord Chittenden had recently taken up residence in London. She had assumed it was Cedric’s father and had thought nothing more of it.
She had long ago made the decision to cut off any contact with people from her previous life. But if Nicky was in Town, the instinct for self-preservation must yield to the bonds of love. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—remain aloof from the two stalwart friends of her youth.
Murder . . .
“Murder,” she rasped, suddenly recalling that duty demanded she make a drawing of the Bloody Butcher’s latest victim.
For an instant, every fiber of her being rebelled against it. But she quickly silenced the protest. Rather than a betrayal, her art could be a powerful force in provoking the public to demand that the murderous madman be apprehended before he struck again.
After splashing some water on her face and pinching a bit of color back to her cheeks, Charlotte drew a deep breath and headed for her workroom.
Cedric had always been willing to think outside the boundaries of conventional wisdom. She felt sure he would applaud her decision.
* * *
Wrexford looked up from his laboratory ledger at the sound of fast-approaching footsteps in the corridor.
“Back so soon?” he remarked as his valet flung open the door and entered the workroom. “Your efficiency is always impressive, but in this case it seems unusually so.”
“The plot thickens,” said Tyler, punctuating the announcement by removing his hat and shaking off the raindrops. “I thought you would want to know right away.”
“Then kindly stubble the theatrics.” His valet had a penchant for drama. “What have your learned?”
“That Chittenden’s younger brother—younger by naught but a few minutes—has been taken into custody by the Runners and charged with the murder. Apparently, a bloody knife was found hidden in his quarters at the Albany Hotel, along with a silk handkerchief containing a gristly scrap of flesh.”
Good God. A depraved twist to an ugly crime. Wrexford pursed his lips, wondering how Charlotte would take the news.
“You are sure of this?” he demanded.
Tyler nodded. “Aye. On hearing whispers of it at the Royal Institution—where, by the by, both men had frequently been attending scientific lectures and discussions—I made a visit to Bow Street. Griffin had just returned from taking the prisoner to Newgate and confirmed all the details. It’s not yet been released to the public, but the Honorable Nicholas Locke stands accused of fratricide.”