“Swallow your sarcasm, milord.” He took another bite of cheese. “Have you reason to believe Locke is innocent?”
“I’m not sure,” answered the earl. “Let’s just say I’ve had a conversation which indicates the possibility exists.”
Griffin set his elbows on the table. “What sort of conversation?”
“A private one.” The earl held up his hand to forestall the Runner’s retort. “That’s all I can say right now. I’ve no evidence to indicate that you’ve arrested the wrong man, merely the assertion from a friend of Locke that he couldn’t be guilty of such a heinous crime. The brothers have apparently always been close.”
“Greed and envy have a way of poisoning brotherly love,” observed Griffin. “Chittenden had only recently inherited the title. That could have changed everything.”
“True,” agreed the earl. “It seems the most logical explanation. And I’m a great believer in logic . . .” He leaned back and watched Griffin dig into the just-delivered platter of beef and boiled potatoes.
“And yet?” said the Runner after swallowing a bite.
“And yet, I don’t see the harm in my having a talk with the young man. He might be more forthcoming with me than an officer of the law.”
Griffin took several long, drawn-out moments to consider the earl’s suggestion.
He was, thought Wrexford wryly, far quicker with his fork than with his words.
“Very well.” Finally a muffled murmur came as the Runner finished with the beef and turned his attention to the wedge of apple tart. “I’ll make the arrangements. But it goes without saying that in return, you’ll inform me of any facts I ought to know.”
“Agreed.” The earl rose, hiding a smile. Clever as Griffin was, he had left his demand wide open to interpretation. “Thank you. And now, I’ll leave you to finish your supper in uninterrupted bliss.”
The Runner wiped a bit of custard from his chin. “Doing business with you is always a pleasure, milord.”
Wrexford made his way out to the narrow street, and wound his way down through the byways to the Strand, where he managed to flag down a passing hackney. Even though the rain had turned to a fine mizzle, he was chilled to the bone when he arrived home. Tossing his damp overcoat and hat aside, he moved to the sideboard of his workroom and, ignoring the rumbled protests of his empty stomach, poured himself a whisky instead of ringing for a late supper.
After stirring the coals to life in the hearth, he took a seat by the fire and sipped at the dark amber malt, feeling its heat slowly seep through his body. Still, much as he tried to relax, the muscles in his shoulders refused to unknot.
Secrets tangling with conundrums. Whatever the ties that bound Charlotte to the two brothers, the murder had shaken her to the core.
“Bloody hell.” An exasperated sigh fogged the glass as he held it up to the flames. Damn her for not having enough faith in their friendship to confide in him as to why. They had tested each other’s mettle in ways that should have forged a stronger bond of trust. And there had been that brief interlude when both of them had lowered their defenses enough to say . . .
But perhaps the words and the brief, ethereal kiss had been sparked by the impulsive elation of having dodged death.
Lapsing into a dark mood, he swallowed the rest of the whisky in one quick gulp and then rose to pour himself another.
As he set the decanter back on its silver tray, the door flung open and Tyler hurried in. From the look of his dripping garments, it appeared the rain had come back with a vengeance.
“I trust you’ll offer me a dram as well.” After stripping off his coat and hat, his valet moved to warm his hands by the fire. “In fact, you ought to hand over the key to the wine cellar for the coming week,” he added a little smugly. “I richly deserve it.”
Wrexford wordlessly poured a healthy measure of whisky and handed it over.
Tyler took an appreciative gulp and held it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Ah, lovely. The nuanced flavors of a Speyside malt always warm the cockles.”
“When you’ve finished your theatrics,” muttered the earl impatiently, “might you consent to share with me what you’ve discovered?”
With a martyred sigh, the valet carefully pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket. “I think I’ve found the answers you’re looking for.”
Wrexford stared at the notes, watching the red-gold firelight flit across the creases and curling corners.
“It seems that Mrs. Sloane—” Seeing the earl’s brusque wave, Tyler fell silent.
“Just hand them over, if you please,” he muttered.
Sensing the earl’s unsettled mood, the valet refrained from further comment and did as he was asked.
The notes gave a whispery crackle, the night-chilled smoothness of the paper setting off sparks against his palms. Strangely enough, with Charlotte’s secrets now at his mercy, Wrexford found himself hesitating.
Tyler tactfully turned away and began to fuss with hanging up their wet overcoats.
Tit for tat, he told himself. Charlotte would have no right to complain of his methods, given how she made her living. Uncovering the intimate foibles of others was fair game . . .
Turning abruptly, the papers still unfolded, Wrexford crossed to the hearth and dropped them atop the burning coals.
Flames shot up.
Perhaps I’m a bloody fool, he thought, watching the papers blacken and then dissolve to ghostly white ash. But friendship, however exasperating, was friendship. It seemed elementally wrong to steal Charlotte’s personal secrets through subterfuge. When she was ready to tell him, she would.
And if she decided he couldn’t be trusted, then bloody hell, they weren’t really worth knowing.
* * *
Charlotte awoke from a fitful sleep and lay still as the grey, watery dawn light seeped in through her bedchamber window and spread over her coverlet. Her body ached from tossing and turning all night. If only the previous day had been just a bad dream.
“Yes, and if wishes were unicorns, then I could fly to the moon in a spun-sugar carriage,” she whispered.
The thought was absurdly appealing.
Throwing off such longings, along with the bedcovers, she rose and padded down to the kitchen to riddle the stove and put on the kettle. Perhaps tea—pip, pip, the English panacea for any ailment—would help settle the queasy churning in her stomach.
The boys had learned nothing from their inquiries. None of their usual sources reported seeing any suspicious activity around the Palace on the night of the murder.
Which begged the question . . .
Is Nicky guilty or innocent? Charlotte was dreading the coming meeting. It was, in a sense, a two-edged sword. Either way it swung would cut her to the bone.
The hiss of the water coming to boil echoed her own conflicted feelings.
“You’re up early.” McClellan entered the kitchen and quietly set to measuring out tea from the canister and preparing the pot.
Charlotte shifted in her chair.
“Do you wish to talk about whatever is plaguing your thoughts?” murmured the maid as she carried the tea tray to the table and poured a cup for each of them.
The swirl of fragrant steam seemed to release some of the tension from her overwrought nerves. “Not really.” A hesitation. “I simply fear I’m going to have to make a very difficult decision. One that will leave me no choice as to what I must do.”