Murder at Queen's Landing Read online

  A snort sounded in answer. “What fustian, sir.” Alison waggled her cane. “However, at my age, the prattle of a charming rogue, fustian or not, is rather welcome.”

  “Me, charming?” Wrexford arched his dark brows. “God forbid.”

  Charlotte shifted as he greeted Nicholas and Jeremy . . . and then went very still as he turned to her.

  “Lady Charlotte.”

  It took her an instant to realize he was reaching out to perform the usual ritual of bestowing a kiss upon her hand.

  She hastily fumbled to place her palm atop his knuckles.

  “You look . . .”

  Charlotte waited for one of his usual sarcastic witticisms.

  “Lovely,” he finished.

  Her jaw went slack.

  “The color suits you,” he added. “It’s . . . elusive.”

  Madame Françoise, London’s most exclusive modiste—and also part of Charlotte’s extensive network of sharp-eyed informants who kept her apprised of all the hidden secrets and scandals of the ton—had chosen a smoky slate-blue hue for Charlotte’s gown, and the watered silk had an intriguing aura of mystery as it subtly shifted shades depending on how it caught the light.

  “Elusive,” repeated Charlotte dryly, quickly composing her emotions. “I daresay I’m the only lady here who’ll receive that word as a compliment.” A pause. “Assuming it was one.”

  “Surely by now you know better than to expect platitudes from me.”

  “I do.” She tugged at her glove, feeling oddly jumpy, and then quaffed another sip of her champagne. “As a man of science, you’re dedicated to searching for truths through logic and empirical evidence, rather than emotion or wishful thinking. So, of course you recognize that no matter how costly or alluring the fabric, one can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

  Wrexford took her arm and drew her away from the others to a more secluded spot by the doorway leading to the side salons. The musicians, she realized, had left off playing a stately concerto and were tuning their instruments for the start of the dancing.

  A spurt of panic rose in her gorge.

  “Relax, Lady Charlotte,” counseled the earl. The steadiness of his hand seemed to still her churning innards. He watched as the Royal Duke of Cumberland and several of his cronies strolled past them. “Remember, you know all the deepest, darkest foibles and scandals of everyone in the room. It is they who should be feeling on the verge of puking.”

  “How very reassuring, Wrexford,” she drawled. “You certainly know how to calm a lady’s delicate nerves.”

  A chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Would you rather I appeal to your mercenary side? Just think of all the juicy little details you’ll gather firsthand for your satirical drawings now that you have entrée into the inner sanctum of the aristocracy.”

  The earl had a point. For her, this wasn’t about flirting and frivolities. Yes, her job put food on the table and allowed an independence few ladies of her class ever achieved. But she did it because she had a passion for fighting hypocrisy and the misuse of power and privilege.

  Good versus evil. She knew Wrexford thought her pitifully naïve to believe that light could vanquish darkness....

  A none-too-gentle tug roused her from her reverie as he plucked the glass from her hand and set it aside. “Stop woolgathering. They’re striking up the first waltz.”

  Charlotte didn’t need to look around to know all eyes were upon her. It felt as if dagger points were dancing over every inch of exposed skin.

  “Just imagine they’re all naked,” he murmured.

  “Must I?” She let out a ragged exhale, and the knot in her belly suddenly loosened. Leave it to Wrexford to say something so spectacularly outrageous that she couldn’t help but smile. “Now I’m not nervous. I’m merely ill.”

  He laughed. And then, as the first notes of the lilting melody began, he swept her into a twirling turn and all rational thoughts went spinning away.

  * * *

  A sow’s ear? Pulling Charlotte a touch closer, Wrexford guided her through another intricate figure of the waltz. Is that how she sees herself? To him, she possessed the quicksilver grace of a forest wood sprite, a beguiling mix of dark and light dipping and darting through the shadows, eluding all attempts to cage her spirit.

  She confounded him. Challenged him. And yes, infuriated him when she charged into places where angels should fear to tread.

  His breath caught in his throat at the memory of their recent investigation. He had never been so frightened in his life as when he had opened the door to a secret chamber, uncertain of whether he would find her dead or alive.

  “You’re scowling,” murmured Charlotte.

  He shook off his dark thoughts.

  “You’re supposed to be helping me make a good impression on the beau monde, and instead they’ll think I’m an ungainly oaf who is squashing your toes.”

  “I’m notorious for scowling.” Her silken gown, as ethereal and changeable as a puff of smoke, fluttered around her slender hips as they moved as one in harmony to the music. “And for being a dangerous, mercurial fellow with a hair-trigger temper.”

  Her lips twitched. “Your bark is far worse than your bite. But be that as it may, you could be Satan Incarnate, but the fact that you’re an earl adds luster to my first dance in Polite Society.” A pause. “So do try to appear as though I’m not driving you to distraction.”

  Wrexford couldn’t hold back a smile. “There. Is that better?”

  She nodded uncertainly and looked away. They spun through the next few turns in silence.

  “Forgive me if my sharp tongue has caused offense,” he finally said. “As you well know, I see the world through a rather cynical prism.”

  “Oh, it’s not you, Wrexford. I’ve become quite comfortable with your sarcasm.” Charlotte sighed. “The trouble lies with me. I . . .” She stepped through a turn with unconscious grace. “I never imagined I’d be here. And I suppose I’m still trying to come to grips with how my life has changed.”

  “Change is an immutable part of life,” he said. “We grow, we evolve, and we learn to look at things from new perspective. And we come to feel differently about things than we did in the past.”

  His words seemed to surprise her. “When we first met, you claimed you didn’t have any feelings.”

  “Perhaps I’ve changed.”

  Charlotte met his gaze. A current was swirling in the depths of her eyes, but he couldn’t quite fathom its meaning. “I think we’ve both changed.”

  Wrexford held his breath and waited for her to go on.

  “But . . .” She allowed a rueful grimace. “I couldn’t begin to say how.” Another spin, another twirl. “Or why.”

  “Some things defy words,” he agreed.

  “And yet—”

  Whatever she was going to say was cut short by the music ending.

  All around them, the fluttering blaze of colors stilled as the other couples began to leave the dance floor. Wrexford released his hold on her and stepped back. “I see Sheffield and Lady Cordelia have arrived and are with Lady Peake and the others. Shall we join them?”

  * * *

  “Lady Charlotte!” Sheffield greeted her with an appreciative smile and placed his hand on his heart. “On with the dancing! Let joy be unconfin’d—”

  “I beg you, Kit,” interrupted the earl. “If you’re going to misquote poetry, at least choose someone other than that arse Lord Byron.”

  “You don’t find the baron’s poetry romantic, Lord Wrexford?” asked Lady Cordelia Mansfield, the corners of her mouth giving a telltale twitch. Like the earl, she didn’t suffer fools gladly.

  He looked down his long nose at her. “I find any excess unpalatable—to wit, add a cup of sugar to your tea rather than a spoonful, and it will make you gag.”

  “I take my tea unsugared, so I quite agree with you,” replied Cordelia.

  “I thought all ladies swooned over Byron,” protested Sheffield, though he, t
oo, looked to be biting back a grin. “What about you, Lady Charlotte?” he queried, turning to her.

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m afraid my sentiments are the same.”

  “Thank heavens.” Sheffield expelled a theatrical sigh. “Now I don’t feel quite so intimidated in offering my humble self for the next set.” A mischievous twinkle danced in his eyes. “You see, I could never pen a poem. It takes too much thinking—and thinking makes my head hurt.”

  Charlotte laughed and happily accepted his hand. Sheffield had come to be a close friend, and although he was considered a charming fribble by most of Society, Charlotte was well aware that his seemingly reckless behavior masked a sharp intelligence and steadfast loyalty.

  “I shall try to make sure that dancing doesn’t make your toes hurt,” she replied. “But I can’t promise.”

  “Stop your gabbling and move your feet, Mr. Sheffield,” chided Alison. “The music is starting.”

  * * *

  Spinning, spinning, spinning. The laughter, the music, the colors—aswirl in the bright blaze of candlelight, the ballroom was beginning to blur. Charlotte blinked as she capered through the steps of a lively country gavotte, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the noise and the crush of the crowd.

  It felt as if she had been dancing for hours—after Sheffield and her cousin had come the Duke of Roxleigh and Lord Winchester, two of the most august aristocrats in London, followed by a dizzying procession of more prominent gentlemen....

  “Thank, you, sir,” she murmured a little breathlessly as at last the dance came to an end.

  Her partner smiled and offered his arm. “Would you care for some champagne before the next set begins?”

  Desperately in need of a quiet respite, Charlotte replied with a fib. “Alas, I’ve a tiny tear in my hem, so I’m afraid I must forgo the pleasure of another dance in order to withdraw and have one of the maids help repair the stitching.”

  “But of course.” He inclined a gentlemanly bow and escorted her to the side doorway leading out of the ballroom.

  After thanking him again, she slipped into the corridor and headed for the rear of the mansion. But instead of turning right for the withdrawing room, Charlotte darted down the darkened passageway to her left, intent on finding a deserted room where she might sit quietly and collect her thoughts.

  Spotting a half-open door, she ducked inside and found herself in an unlit foyer. Straight ahead was an archway leading into an alcove. From the faint glow of light illuminating the framed prints on the wall, there appeared to be a main room around the corner.

  A game room, perhaps?

  Drawn by a flutter of a cool evening breeze—a window seemed to be open—and the thought of a comfortable armchair offering a safe haven from the glare of the ballroom, Charlotte took a few quick steps, her silk dancing slippers moving noiselessly over the Oriental runner. She was about to turn when a sudden muttered huff warned that she wasn’t alone.

  “What the devil do you mean by showing up here in such a state and sending a footman to summon me here?”

  A lady’s voice.

  Ye heavens. Surely it wasn’t . . .

  “I-I’m sorry,” a man’s voice answered, sounding slurred and disoriented. “I know I shouldn’t have come here, but . . .” He let out a ragged sigh. “But I’ve had a bit of shock.”

  “You look like hell. Sit and pull yourself together while I pour you a glass of brandy.”

  Charlotte shrank back against the wall, not daring to move, and held her breath as the rustle of skirts was followed by the clink of glass against glass.

  “Here. Drink.” A gasp. “Good Lord, your hand is badly scraped and bleeding.”

  “I can explain—”

  “Shhhh! Not so loud!” warned the lady. “The last thing we want is for someone to see you in this condition.”

  Their voices dropped to an urgent but indistinct murmur, punctuated by the sound of ripping fabric.

  “Stop squirming. I need to bandage your palm.”

  Charlotte ventured a quick peek and felt her heart hit up against her ribs. It was Cordelia, and the smoky light of the small oil lamp showed that the man with her was her brother, Jameson Mansfield, the new Earl of Woodbridge since his father’s recent death.

  However, at the moment, he looked more like a vagrant wastrel. His boots were filthy, and his disheveled coat and breeches were streaked with muck. As for his face, he looked like he had been in a fight.

  She ducked back into the shadows as Woodbridge scrubbed a hand over his bruised jaw and shifted in his seat.

  “What happened?” asked Cordelia in a tight voice. The clink of glass seemed to indicate she was pouring her brother another measure of brandy.

  “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I—I ventured somewhere I shouldn’t have gone . . .” His voice trailed off as he paused to draw a labored breath, and when he spoke again, it was in an agitated whisper.

  It was well known that footpads prowled through Hyde Park and its adjoining streets, looking for drunken gentlemen whose fuzzed wits made them easy prey, thought Charlotte. It appeared Woodbridge had been careless and had paid the price.

  “The devil take it, Jamie. How could you have been so stupid?” muttered Cordelia.

  Charlotte didn’t blame her friend for sounding exasperated. She had met Jameson Mansfield, and he had struck her as less pragmatic and perceptive than his sister. The encounter had also revealed that the late earl’s profligate spending had left the two siblings with mounting financial pressures.

  Woodbridge cleared his throat. “Hear me out, Cordy—”

  “Not now,” cut in Cordelia. “Leave by the same way you came in, and go home. I’ll return to the ballroom and take my leave.” Skirts rustled. “And pray that no one notices that part of my petticoat is missing.”

  Charlotte didn’t wait to hear any more. Embarrassed at having accidentally witnessed such a painfully private family matter, she quickly retreated and hurried through the shadowed turns of the corridor until she reached the aureole of light spilling out from the side doorway of the ballroom.

  Pausing for a moment, she smoothed her skirts and steeled her spine as the sinuous lilt of music and laughter spun through the perfumed air.

  Elegance and glamor. Gaiety and revelries. But she, of all people, knew that beneath its glitter, the world of the beau monde was not quite as perfect as it seemed.

  Cordelia and her brother occupied the very highest rung of Society and, by all appearances, lived a gilded life. And yet their elegant tailoring and fine silks apparently hid family financial troubles.

  Just how dangerous were they?

  London offered a multitude of sins. Had the need for money driven Woodbridge to one of the gaming hells in the stews? Or . . .

  Charlotte felt a frisson of unease. Since she was an artist who made a living uncovering secrets, her senses were attuned to noticing the smallest details. So she couldn’t help but wonder why the air in the game room had held a whiff of brine, and the mud on Woodbridge’s boots had been speckled with bits of oyster shells.

  CHAPTER 3

  Wincing as a dappling of cheery sunlight danced through the windowpanes, warming the sheaf of blank watercolor paper on the blotter, Charlotte gingerly took a seat at her work desk.

  “Mmph.” The movement, though slight, drew another grumble of protest from her lurching stomach. “It seems that I engaged in one too many gavottes with a sparkling glass of champagne last night.”

  Pleasure had its penance. No matter that she wished to crawl back under the bedcovers, she had a drawing due today.

  Steepling her fingers, Charlotte contemplated the top sheet, its pristine white hue seeming to stare back at her with a taunting challenge flickering up from its rough-grained surface.

  “Right,” she murmured. “The city has been unnaturally peaceful of late. Why, even the Prince Regent has stirred no new scandals. So . . .” A sigh. “What other foibles are there to skewer?”

  Her gaze
strayed over to the recent editions of Ackermann’s Repository stacked on the side table. The journal’s on-dits on Polite Society were often useful for sparking an idea, but they, too, had been awfully tame of late.

  “Oh, come.” A sigh. “Surely I can think of something to ridicule. Scandal and secrets are my bread and butter.”

  Alas, her mind, like the paper, remained blank.

  She tried to concentrate. Her thoughts were usually well focused, sharpened, no doubt, by the fact that peace and quiet put no pennies in her purse. But this morning they kept waltzing to their own tune, spinning and twirling like the dust motes dancing in the gold-flecked light.

  Dancing. The word stirred a different sort of flutter in her belly.

  Waltzing with Wrexford, she mused, had been oddly wonderful. . . though, of course, those two words made no sense together.

  “But then, neither do the two of us,” murmured Charlotte, then reminded herself that work must take precedence over personal lollygagging. She reached for her quill and penknife and began shaping a sharp point.

  And yet her damnable wayward brain seemed to have another idea in mind.

  Wrexford. His name—like his physical presence when he sauntered into her pleasant little parlor—seemed to shove all else from her thoughts. She wasn’t precisely sure how that had come to be. At first blush, he wasn’t a gentleman to make a girlish heart flutter.

  Irascible. Arrogant. Sarcastic. His scientific mind valued cold-blooded logic over tender sentiment.

  Putting aside her newly sharpened pen, Charlotte picked up a pencil and began to doodle. But as with most things in life, such a starkly simple first impression had given way to a far more nuanced portrait. She stared down at her caricature, with its sinuous curls of too-long hair—the earl was always in need of a barber—and subtle shading that softened the hard line of his jaw. Strange how comfortable she had become with the austere planes of his face. Rather than just the starkly chiseled edges, she now saw all the subtle contours and vulnerabilities that made him . . .